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THE HAND BUT NOT THE HEART;

OR, THE LIFE-TRIALS OF JESSIE LORING.


BY

T. S. ARTHUR.



NEW YORK:

1858.






THE HAND BUT NOT THE HEART.




CHAPTER I.


"PAUL!" The young man started, and a delicate flush mantled his
handsome face, as he turned to the lady who had pronounced his name
in a tone slightly indicative of surprise.

"Ah! Mrs. Denison," was his simple response.

"You seem unusually absent-minded this evening," remarked the lady.

"Do I?"

"Yes."

"You have been observing me?"

"I could not help it; for every time my eyes have wandered in this
direction, they encountered you, standing in the same position, and
looking quite as much like a statue as a living man."

"How long is it since I first attracted your attention?" inquired
the person thus addressed, assuming an indifference of manner which
it was plain he did not feel.

"If I were to say half an hour, it would not be far wide of the
truth."

"Oh, no! It can't be five minutes since I came to this part of the
room," said the young man, whose name was Paul Hendrickson. He
seemed a little annoyed.

"Not a second less than twenty minutes," replied the lady. "Your
thoughts must have been very busy thus to have removed nearly all
ideas of time."

"They _were_ busy," was the simple reply. But the low tones were
full of meaning.

Mrs. Denison looked earnestly into her companion's face for several
moments before venturing to speak farther. She then said, in a
manner that showed her to be a privileged and warmly interested
friend--

"Busy on what subject, Paul?"

The young man offered Mrs. Denison his arm, remarking as he did so--

"The other parlor is less crowded."

Threading their course amid the groups standing in gay conversation,
or moving about the rooms, Paul Hendrickson and his almost maternal
friend sought a more retired position near a heavily curtained
window.

"You are hardly yourself to-night, Paul. How is it that your evenly
balanced mind has suffered a disturbance. There must be something
wrong within. You know my theory--that all disturbing causes are in
the heart."

"I am not much interested in mental theories to-night--am in no
philosophic mood. I feel too deeply for analysis."

"On what subject, Paul?"

A little while the young man sat with his eyes upon the floor; then
lifting them to the face of Mrs. Denison, he replied.

"You are not ignorant of the fact that Jessie Loring has interested
me more than any maiden I have yet seen?"

"I am not, for you have already confided to me your secret."

"The first time I met her, it seemed to me as if I had come into the
presence of one whose spirit claimed some hidden affinities with my
own. I have never felt so strangely in the presence of a woman as I
have felt and always feel in the presence of Miss Loring."

"She has a spirit of finer mould than most women," said Mrs.
Denison. "I do not know her very intimately; but I have seen enough
to give me a clue to her character. Her tastes are pure, her mind
evenly balanced, and her intellect well cultivated."

"But she is only a woman."

Mr. Hendrickson sighed as he spoke.

"_Only_ a woman! I scarcely understand you," said Mrs. Denison,
gravely. "_I_ am a woman."

"Yes, and a true woman! Forgive my words. They have only a
conventional meaning," replied the young man earnestly.

"You must explain that meaning, as referring to Jessie Loring."

"It is this, only. She can be deceived by appearances. Her eyes are
not penetrating enough to look through the tinsel and glitter with
which wealth conceals the worthlessness of the man."

"Ah! you are jealous. There is a rival."

"You, alone, can use those words, and not excite my anger," said
Hendrickson.

"Forgive me if they have fallen upon your ears unpleasantly."

"A rival, Mrs. Denison!" the young man spoke proudly. "That is
something _I_ will never have. The woman's heart that can warm under
the smile of another man, is nothing to me."

"You are somewhat romantic, Paul, in your notions about matrimony.
You forget that women are 'only' women."

"But I do _not_ forget, Mrs. Denison, that as you have so often said
to me, there are true marriages in which the parties are drawn
towards each other by sexual affinities peculiar to themselves; and
that a union in such cases, is the true union by which they become,
in the language of inspiration, 'one flesh.' I can enter into none
other. When I first met Jessie Loring, a spirit whispered to me--was
it a lying spirit?--a spirit whispered to me--'the beautiful
complement of your life!' I believed on the instant. In that I may
have been romantic."

"Perhaps not!" said Mrs. Denison.

Hendrickson looked into her face steadily for some moments, and then
said--

"It was an illusion."

"Why do you say this, Paul? Why are you so disturbed? Speak your
heart more freely."

"Leon Dexter is rich. I am--poor!"

"You are richer than Leon Dexter in the eyes of a true woman--richer
a thousandfold, though he counted his wealth by millions." There
were flashes of light in the eyes of Mrs. Denison.

Hendrickson bent his glance to the floor and did not reply.

"If Miss Loring prefers Dexter to you, let her move on in her way
without a thought. She is not worthy to disturb, by even the shadow
of her passing form, the placid current of your life. But I am by no
means certain that he _is_ preferred to you."

"He has been at her side all the evening," said the young man.

"That proves nothing. A forward, self-confident, agreeable young
gentleman has it in his power thus to monopolize almost any lady.
The really excellent, usually too modest, but superior young men,
often permit themselves to be elbowed into the shade by these
shallow, rippling, made up specimens of humanity, as you have
probably done to-night."

"I don't know how that may be, Mrs. Denison; but this I know. I had
gained a place by her side, early in the evening. She seemed
pleased, I thought, at our meeting; but was reserved in
conversation--too reserved it struck me. I tried to lead her out,
but she answered my remarks briefly, and with what I thought an
embarrassed manner. I could not hold her eyes--they fell beneath
mine whenever I looked into her face. She was evidently ill at ease.
Thus it was, when this self-confident Leon Dexter came sweeping up
to us with his grand air, and carried her off to the piano. If I
read her face and manner aright, she blessed her stars at getting
rid of me so opportunely."

"I doubt if you read them aright," said Mrs. Denison, as her young
friend paused. "You are too easily discouraged. If she is a prize,
she is worth striving for. Don't forget the old adage--'Faint heart
never won fair lady.'"

Paul shook his head.

"I am too proud to enter the lists in any such contest," he
answered. "Do you think I could beg for a lady's favorable regard?
No! I would hang myself first!"

"How is a lady to know that you have a preference for her, if you do
not manifest it in some way?" asked Mrs. Denison. "This is being a
little too proud, my friend. It is throwing rather too much upon the
lady, who must be wooed if she would be won."

"A lady has eyes," said Paul.

"Granted."

"And a lady's eyes can speak as well as her lips. If she likes the
man who approaches her, let her say so with her eyes. She will not
be misunderstood."

"You are a man," replied Mrs. Denison, a little impatiently; "and,
from the beginning, man has not been able to comprehend woman! If
you wait for a woman worth having to tell you, even with her eyes,
that she likes you, and this before you have given a sign, you will
wait until the day of doom. A true woman holds herself at a higher
price!"

There was silence between the parties for the space of nearly a
minute. Then Paul Hendrickson said--

"Few women can resist the attraction of gold. Creatures of
taste--lovers of the beautiful--fond of dress, equipage, elegance--I
do not wonder that we who have little beyond ourselves to offer
them, find simple manhood light in the balance."

And he sighed heavily.

"It is because true men are not true to themselves and the true
women Heaven wills to cross their paths in spring-time, that so many
of them fail to secure the best for life-companions!" answered Mrs.
Denison. "Worth is too retiring or too proud. Either diffidence or
self-esteem holds it back in shadow. I confess myself to be sorely
puzzled at times with the phenomenon. Why should the real man shrink
away, and let the meretricious <DW2> and the man 'made of money' win
the beautiful and the best? Women are not such fools as to prefer
tinsel to gold--the outside making up to the inner manhood! Neither
are they so dim-sighted that they cannot perceive who is the man and
who the 'fellow.' My word for it, if Miss Loring's mind was known,
you have a higher place therein than Dexter."

Just then the two persons of whom they were speaking passed near to
them, Miss Loring on the arm of Dexter, her face radiant with
smiles. He was saying something to which she was listening,
evidently pleased with his remarks. The sight chafed the mind of
Hendrickson, and he said, sarcastically--

"Like all the rest, Mrs. Denison! Gold is the magnet."

"You are in a strange humor to-night, Paul," answered his friend,
"and your humor makes you unjust. It is not fair to judge Miss
Loring in this superficial way. Because she is cheerful and social
in a company like this, are you to draw narrow conclusions touching
her heart-preferences?"

"Why was she not as cheerful and as social with me, as she is now
with that fellow?" said the young man, a measure of indignation in
the tones of his voice. "Answer me that, if you please."

"The true reason is, no doubt, wide of your conclusions," answered
Mrs. Denison. "Genuine love, when it first springs to life in a
maiden's heart, has in it a high degree of reverence. The object
rises into something of superiority, and she draws near to it with
repressed emotions, resting in its shadow, subdued, reserved, almost
shy, but happy. She is not as we saw Miss Loring just now, but more
like the maiden you describe as treating you not long ago with a
strange reserve, which you imagined coldness."

"Woman is an enigma," exclaimed Hendrickson, his thoughts thrown
into confusion.

"And you must study, if you would comprehend her," said Mrs.
Denison. "Of one thing let me again assure you, my young friend, if
you expect to get a wife worth having, you have got to show yourself
in earnest. Other men, not half so worthy as you may be, have eyes
quite as easily attracted by feminine loveliness, and they will
press forward and rob you of the prize unless you put in a claim. A
woman desires to be loved. Love is what her heart feeds upon, and
the man who appears to love her best, even if in all things he is
not her ideal of manhood, will be most apt to win her for his bride.
You can win Miss Loring if you will."

"It may be so," replied the young man, almost gloomily. "But, for
all you say, I must confess myself at fault. I look for a kind of
spontaneity in love. It seems to me, that hearts, created to become
one, should instinctively respond to each other. For this reason,
the idea of wooing, and contending, and all that, is painfully
repugnant."

"It may be," said Mrs. Dunham [Denison?], "that your pride is as much at
fault in the case, as your manhood. You cannot bend to solicit
love."

"I cannot--I will not!" The gesture that accompanied this was as
passionate as the surroundings would admit.

"It was pride that banished Lucifer from Heaven," said Mrs. Denison,
"and I am afraid it will keep you out of the heaven of a true
marriage here. Beware, my young friend! you are treading on
dangerous ground. And there is, moreover, a consideration beyond
your own case. The woman who can be happy in marriage with you,
cannot be happy with another man. Let us, just to make the thing
clear, suppose that Jessie Loring is the woman whose inner life is
most in harmony with yours. If your lives blend in a true marriage,
then will she find true happiness; but, if, through your failure to
woo and win, she be drawn aside into a marriage with one whose life
is inharmonious, to what a sad, weary, hopeless existence may she
not be doomed. Paul! Paul! There are two aspects in which this
question is to be viewed. I pray to Heaven that you may see it
right."

Further conversation was prevented by the near approach of others.

"Let me see you, and early, Paul," said Mrs. Denison. It was some
hours later, and the company were separating. "I must talk with you
again about Miss Loring."

Hendrickson promised to call in a day or two. As he turned from Mrs.
Denison, his eyes encountered those of the young lady whose name had
just been uttered. She was standing beside Mr. Dexter, who was
officiously attentive to her up to the last moment. He was holding
her shawl ready to throw it over her shoulders as she stepped from
the door to the carriage that awaited her. For a moment or two the
eyes of both were fixed, and neither had the power to move them.
Then, each with a slight confusion of manner, turned from the other.
Hendrickson retired into the nearly deserted parlors, while Miss
Loring, attended by Dexter, entered the carriage, and was driven
away.




CHAPTER II.


IT was past the hour of two, when Jessie Loring stepped from the
carriage and entered her home. A domestic admitted her.

"Aunt is not waiting for me?" she said in a tone of inquiry.

"No; she has been in bed some hours."

"It is late for you to be sitting up, Mary, and I am sorry to have
been the cause of it. But, you know, I couldn't leave earlier."

She spoke kindly, and the servant answered in a cheerful voice.

"I'll sit up for you, Miss Jessie, at any time. And why shouldn't I?
Sure, no one in the house is kinder or more considerate of us than
you; and it's quite as little as a body can do to wait up for you
once in a while, and you enjoying yourself."

"Thank you, Mary. And now get to bed as quickly as possible, for you
must be tired and very sleepy. Good-night."

"Good night, and God bless you!" responded the servant, warmly. "She
was the queen there, I know?" she added, proudly, speaking to
herself as she moved away.

It was a night in mid-October. A clear, cool, moon-lit radiant
night. From her window, Jessie could look far away over the
housetops to a dark mass of forest trees, just beyond the city, and
to the gleaming river that lay sleeping at their feet. The sky was
cloudless, save at the west, where a tall, craggy mountain of vapor
towered up to the very zenith. After loosening and laying off some
of her garments, Miss Loring, instead of retiring, sat down
by the window, and leaning her head upon her hand looked out upon
the entrancing scene. She did not remark upon its beauty, nor think
of its weird attractions; nor did her eyes, after the first glance,
convey any distinct image of external objects to her mind. Yet was
she affected by them. The hour, and the aspect of nature wrought
their own work upon her feelings.

She sat down and leaned her head upon her hand, while the scenes in
which she had been for the past few hours an actor, passed before
her in review with almost the vividness of reality. Were her
thoughts pleasant ones? We fear not; for every now and then a faint
sigh troubled her breast, and parted her too firmly closed lips. The
evening's entertainment had not satisfied her in something. There
was a pressure on her feelings that weighed them down heavily.

"There is more in one sentence of his than in a a page of the
other's wordy utterances." Her lips moved in the earnestness of her
inward-spoken thoughts. "How annoyed I was to be dragged from his
side by Mr. Dexter just as I had begun to feel a little at my ease,
and just as my voice had gained something of its true expression. It
is strange how his presence disturbs me; and how my eyes fall
beneath his gaze! He seems very cold and very distant; and proud I
should think. Proud! Ah! has he not cause for pride? I have not
looked upon his peer to-night. How that man did persecute me with
his attentions! He monopolized me wholly! Perhaps I should be
flattered by his attentions--and, perhaps, I was. I know that I was
envied. Ah, me! what a pressure there is on my heart! From the
moment I first looked into the face of Paul Hendrickson, I have been
an enigma to myself. Some great change is wrought in me--some new
capacities opened--some deeper yearnings quickened into life. I am
still Jessie Loring, though not the Jessie Loring of yesterday. Have
I completed a cycle of being? Am I entering upon another and higher
sphere of existence? How the questions bewilder me! Clouds and
darkness seem gathering around me, and my heart springs upward, half
in fear, and half in hope!"

An hour later, and Miss Loring still sat by the closed window, her
eyes upon the gleaming river and sombre woods beyond, yet seeing
them not. The tall mountain of vapor, which had arisen like a
pyramid of white marble, no longer retained its clear, bold outline,
but, yielding to aerial currents, had been rent from base to crown,
and now its scattered fragments lay in wild confusion along the
whole sweep of the western horizon. Down into these shapeless ruins
the moon had plunged, and her pure light was struggling to penetrate
their rifts, and pour its blessing upon the slumbering earth.

A rush of wind startled the maiden from her deep abstraction, and,
as it went moaning away among the eaves and angles of the
surrounding tenements, she arose, and putting off her garments, went
sighing to bed. Dreams visited her in sleep, and in every dream she
was in the presence of Paul Hendrickson. Very pleasant were they,
for in the sweet visions that came to her, Paul was by her side, his
voice filling her ears and echoing in her heart like tones of
delicious music. They walked through fragrant meadows, by the side
of glittering streams, and amid groves with singing birds on all the
blossomy branches. How tenderly he spoke to her!--how reverently he
touched with his manly lips her soft white hand, sending such
electric thrills of joy to her heart as waking maidens rarely know!
But, suddenly, after a long season of blessed intercourse, a stern
voice shocked her ears, and a heavy hand grasped roughly her arm.
She turned in fear, and Leon Dexter stood before her, a dark frown
upon his countenance. With a cry of terror she awoke.

Day had already come, but no bright sun shone down upon the earth,
for leaden clouds were in the sky, and nature was bathed in tears.
It was some time before the agitation that accompanied Miss Loring's
sudden awakening, had sufficiently subsided to leave her mind
composed enough to arise and join the family. When she did so, she
found her aunt, Mrs. Loring and her cousins Amanda and Dora, two not
over refined school girls, aged fourteen and sixteen, awaiting her
appearance.

"You are late this morning, Jessie," said Mrs. Loring. Then, before
her niece had time to reply, she spoke to her eldest daughter--"Amanda,
ring the bell, and order breakfast at once."

"I am sorry to have kept you waiting, aunt Phoebe," replied Jessie.
"I did not get to bed until very late, and slept too soundly for the
morning bell."

"You must have been as deeply buried in the arms of Morpheus as one
of the seven sleepers, not to have heard that bell! I thought Kitty
would never stop the intolerable din. The girl seems to have a
passion for bell-ringing. Her last place was, I fancy, a
boarding-house."

Mrs. Loring spoke with a slight shade of annoyance in her tones. Her
words and manner, it was plain from Jessie's countenance, were felt
as a rebuke. In a few moments the breakfast bell was heard, and the
family went down to the morning meal, which had been delayed full
half an hour beyond the usual time.

"Had you a pleasant time last evening?" inquired Mrs. Loring, after
they were seated at the table, and a taste of the fragrant coffee
and warm cakes had somewhat refreshed her body, and restored the
tranquillity of her feelings.

"Very," replied Jessie in an absent way.

"Who was there?"

"Oh! everybody. It was a very large company."

"Who in particular that I know?"

"Mrs. Compton and her daughter Agnes."

"Indeed! Was Agnes there?" said Mrs. Loring, in manifest surprise.

"Yes; and she looked beautiful."

"I didn't know that she had come out. Agnes must be very young--not
over seventeen. I am surprised at her mother! How did she behave
herself? Bold, forward and hoydenish enough, I suppose! I never
liked her."

"I did not observe any impropriety of conduct," said Jessie. "She
certainly was neither bold nor forward."

"Did she sing?"

"No."

"Probably no one asked her." Mrs. Loring was in a cynical mood.

"Yes; I heard her asked more than once to sing."

"And she refused?"

"Yes."

"Affectation! She wanted urging. She has had peculiar advantages,
and is said to possess fine musical ability. I have heard that she
is a splendid performer. No doubt she was dying to show off at the
piano."

"I think not," said Jessie, "for I heard her say to Mrs. Compton, in
an under tone, 'I can't, indeed, dear mother! The very thought of
playing before these people, makes my heart tremble. I can play very
well at home, when my mind is calm; but I should blunder in the
first bar here."

"Children should be left at home," said Mrs. Loring. "That is my
doctrine. This crowding of young girls into company, and crowding
out grown up people, is a great mistake; but, who else was there?
What gentlemen?"

"Mr. Florence."

Mrs. Loring curled her flexible lip.

"Mr. Dexter."

"Leon?"

"Yes."

The eyes of Jessie drooped as those of her aunt were directed in
close scrutiny to her face.

"He's a catch. Set your cap for him, Jessie, and you may ride in
your own carriage." There was a vulgar leer in Mrs. Loring's eye.
The color rose to Jessie's face, but she did not answer.

"Did he show you any attentions?" inquired the aunt.

"Yes. He was quite as attentive as I could desire."

"Indeed! And what does 'as you could desire,' mean?"

Jessie turned her face partly away to hide its crimson.

"Ah, well; I see how it is, dear. You needn't blush so. I only hope
you may get him. He was attentive, then, was he?"

"I have no reason to complain of his lack of attentions," said
Jessie, her voice cold and firm. "They would have been flattering to
most girls. But, I do not always give to compliments and 'company
manners,' the serious meanings that some attach to them."

"Jessie," Mrs. Loring spoke with sudden seriousness; "take my
advice, and encourage Leon Dexter. I am pleased to know that you
were so much an object of his attentions as your remarks lead me to
infer. I know that you will make him a good wife; one of whom he can
never be ashamed; and I know that a union with him will give you a
proud position."

"Will you waive the subject, at present, dear aunt?" said Jessie,
with a pleading look, at the same time glancing covertly towards her
cousins, who were drinking in every word with girlish eagerness.

"Oh, by all means," answered Mrs. Loring, "if it is in the least
annoying. I was forgetting myself in the interest felt for your
welfare."

"And so Mr. Dexter showed you marked attentions last evening?" said
Jessie's aunt, joining her in the sitting-room, after Amanda and
Dora had left for school.

"Did I say so, aunt?" inquired Jessie, looking into her relative's
face.

"You said enough to make the inference clear, my child."

"Well, Aunt Phoebe, he was attentive--more so, by a great deal, than
I desired!"

"Than you desired!" There was unfeigned surprise in the voice of
Mrs. Loring. "What do you mean, Jessie?"

"The man's position is all well enough; but the man himself is not
altogether to my liking."

"You must have grown remarkably fastidious all at once. Why, girl!
there isn't a handsomer man to be found anywhere. He is a noble
looking fellow! Where are your eyes?"

"The man that a wife has to deal with, is the man of the spirit,
Aunt Phoebe--the real man. The handsome outside is nothing, if the
inner man is not beautiful!" Jessie spoke with a sudden glow of
feeling.

"Stuff and nonsense, child!" said Mrs. Loring, impatiently. "Stuff
and nonsense!" she repeated, seeing that her niece looked steadily
into her face. "What do you know of the man of the spirit, as you
call it? And, moreover, what possesses you to infer that Mr.
Dexter's inner man is not as beautiful as the outer?"

"The soul looks forth from the eyes, and manifests its quality in
the tones of the voice," replied Jessie, a fine enthusiasm
illuminating her beautiful face. "No man can hide from us his real
character, unless we let self-love and self-interest draw an
obscuring veil."

"You are a strange girl, Jessie--a very strange girl!" Mrs. Loring
was fretted. "What can you mean? Here, a splendid fortune promises
to be poured into your lap, and you draw your garments aside,
hesitating and questioning as to whether the golden treasure is
worth receiving! I am half amazed at your conduct!"

"Are you weary of my presence here, Aunt Phoebe?" said Jessie, a
tremor in her low failing tones.

"Now give me patience with the foolish girl!" exclaimed Mrs. Loring,
assuming an angry aspect. "What has come over you, Jessie? Did I say
anything about being wearied with your presence? Because I manifest
an unusual degree of interest in your future welfare, am I to be
charged with a mean, selfish motive? I did not expect this of you."

"Dear aunt! forgive me!" said Jessie, giving way to tears. "My
feelings are unusually disturbed this morning. Late hours and the
excitement of company have made me nervous. As for Mr. Dexter, let
us pass him by for the present. He has not impressed me as favorably
as you seem to desire."

"But Jessie."

"Spare me, dear aunt! If you press the subject on me now, you will
only excite disgust where you hope to create a favorable impression.
I have had many opportunities of close observation, and failed not
to improve them. The result is--"

Jessie paused.

"What?" queried her aunt.

"That the more narrowly I scan him the less I like him. He is
superficial, vain and selfish."

"How do you know?"

"I cannot make manifest to your eyes the signs that were clear to
mine. But so I have read him."

"And read him with the page upside down, my, word for it, Miss
Jessie Loring!"

Jessie answered only with a sigh, and when her aunt still pressed
her on the subject, she begged to be spared, as she felt nervous and
excited. So, leaving the sitting room, she retired to her own
apartment, to gather up, and unravel, if possible, the tangled
thread of thought and feeling.




CHAPTER III.


"THERE is a gentleman in the parlor, Miss Jessie," said Mary, the
chambermaid, opening the door and presenting her plain, but pleasant
face. It was an hour after Miss Loring had left her aunt in the
sitting room.

"Who is it, Mary?"

The girl handed her a card.

On it was engraved, PAUL HENDRICKSON. The heart of Jessie Loring
gave a sudden leap, and the blood sprung reddening to her very
temples.

"Say that I will be with him in a few minutes."

The servant retired, and Jessie, who had arisen as she received the
card, sat down, so overcome by her feelings, that she felt all
bodily strength depart.

"Paul Hendrickson!" she said, whispering the name. "How little did I
expect a visit from him! After our first interview last evening, he
seemed studiously to avoid me."

Then she arose hastily, but in a tremor, and made some hurried
changes in her dress. She was about leaving her room, when Mary
again presented herself.

"Another gentleman has called," and she handed another card. Jessie
took it and read LEON DEXTER!

Could anything have been more inopportune! Jessie felt a double
embarrassment.

"The fates are against me I believe!" she murmured, as, after a few
moments of vigorous expression of feeling, she left her room, and
descended to the parlor, entering with a light but firm tread.
Dexter stepped quickly forward, giving his hand in the most assured
style, and putting both her and himself entirely at ease. She smiled
upon him blandly, because she felt the contagion of his manner.
Hendrickson was more formal and distant, and showed some
embarrassment. He was not at ease himself, and failed to put Jessie
at ease.

After all were seated, Dexter talked freely, while Hendrickson sat,
for the most part silent, but, as Jessie felt, closely observant.
Light and playful were the subjects introduced by Mr. Dexter, and
his remarks caused a perpetual ripple of smiles to sparkle over the
countenance of Miss Loring. But whenever Mr. Hendrickson spoke to
her, the smiles faded, and she turned upon him a face so changed in
expression that he felt a chill pervade his feelings. She did not
mean to look grave; she did not repress the smiles purposely; there
was neither coldness nor repulsion in her heart. But her sentiments
touching Mr. Hendrickson were so different from those entertained
for Mr. Dexter; and her estimation of his character so widely
variant that she could not possibly treat him with the smiling
familiarity shown towards the other. Yet all the while she was
painfully conscious of being misunderstood. If she had met Mr.
Hendrickson alone, she felt that it must have been different. A
degree of embarrassment might have existed, but she would not have
been forced to put on two opposite exteriors, as now, neither of
which, correctly interpreted her state of mind, or did justice to
her character.

"I did not see much of you last evening, Mr. Hendrickson. What were
you doing with yourself?" she remarked, trying to be more familiar,
and giving him a look that set his pulses to a quicker measure.
Before he could answer, Dexter said, gaily, yet with covert sarcasm.

"Oh, Mr. Hendrickson prefers the society of elderly ladies. He spent
the evening in sober confabulation with Mrs. Denison. I have no
doubt she was edified. _I_ prefer maid to matron, at any time. Old
women are my horror."

Too light and gay were the tones of Dexter to leave room for
offence. Hendrickson tried to rally himself, and retort with
pleasant speech. But his heart was too deeply interested,--and his
mood too serious for sport. His smile did not improve the aspect of
his countenance; and if he meant his words for witticisms, they were
perceived as sarcasms. Jessie was rather repelled than attracted--all
of which he saw.

Conscious that he was wholly misrepresenting himself in the young
lady's eyes, and feeling, moreover, that he was only spoiling
pleasant company, Hendrickson, after a brief call, left the field
clear to his rival. Jessie accompanied him to the door.

"I shall be pleased to see you again, Mr. Hendrickson," she said, in
a tone of voice that betrayed something of her interest in him.

He turned to look into her eyes. They sustained his penetrating gaze
only for a moment and then her long lashes lay upon her crimsoning
cheeks.

"Not if I show myself as stupid as I have been this morning," said
the young man.

"I have never thought you stupid, Mr. Hendrickson."

"I am dull at times," he said, hesitating, and slightly confused.
"Good morning!" he added, abruptly, and turned off without another
look into the eyes that were upon him; and in which he would have
read more than his heart had dared to hope for.

"What a boor!" exclaimed Dexter as Miss Loring returned to the
parlor.

"Oh, no, not a boor, sir. Far, very far from that," answered the
young lady promptly.

"Well, you don't call him a gentleman, do you?"

"I have seen nothing that would rob him of the title," said Miss
Loring.

"A true gentleman will put on a gentlemanly exterior; for he is
courteous by instinct--and especially when ladies are present. A
true gentleman, moreover, is always at his ease. Self-possession is
one of the signs of a well bred man. Hendrickson is not well bred.
Any one who has been at all in society, can perceive this at a
glance. Did you notice how he played with his watch chain; crossed
his legs in sitting; took out his pencil case, and moved the slide
noisily backwards and forwards; ran his fingers through his hair;
exhibited his pocket-handkerchief half-a-dozen times in as many
minutes, and went through sundry other performances of which no well
bred man is guilty? I marvel, that a young lady of your refinement
can offer a word of apology for such things. I see in it only
kindness of heart; and this shall be your excuse."

So gaily were the closing sentences uttered; yet with so manifest a
regard softening the final words, that Miss Loring's rising anger
against the young man, went down and was extinguished in a pleasing
consciousness of being an object of marked favor by one whose
external attractions, at least, were of the highest order.

"But the subject is not agreeable to either of us, Miss Loring,"
said Dexter in a voice pitched to a lower tone, and with a softer
modulation. "I did not expect to find a visitor here at so early an
hour; and I fear that I have permitted myself to experience just a
shade of annoyance. If I have seemed ill-natured, pardon me. It is
not my nature to find fault, or to criticise. I rather prefer
looking upon the bright side. Like Sir Joshua Reynolds, 'I am a wide
liker.' There are times, you know, in which we are all tempted to
act in a way that gives to others a false impression of our real
characters."

"No one is more conscious of that than I am," replied Miss Loring.
"Indeed, it seems often, as if I were made the sport of adverse
influences, and constrained to act and to appear wholly different
from what I desire to seem. There are some of life's phenomena, Mr.
Dexter, that puzzle at times my poor brain sorely."

"Don't puzzle over such things, Miss Loring," said Mr. Dexter; "I
never do. Leave mysteries to philosophers; there is quite enough of
enjoyment upon the surface of things without diving below, into the
dark caverns of doubt and vague speculation. I never liked the word
phenomenon."

"To me it has ever been an attraction. I always seem standing at
some closed door, hearkening to vague sounds within and longing to
enter. The outer life presents itself to me as moving figures in a
show, and I am all impatient, at times, to discover the hidden
machinery that gives such wonderful motion.

"Morbid; all morbid!" answered Dexter, in a lively manner. "Dreams
in the place of realities, Miss Loring. Don't philosophize; don't
speculate; don't think--at least not seriously. Your thinkers are
always miserable. Take life as it is--full of beauty, full of
pleasure. The sources of enjoyment are all around us. Let us drink
at them and be thankful."

"You are a philosopher, I perceive," said Miss Loring, with a smile,
"and must have been a thinker, in some degree, to have formed a
theory."

"I am a cheerful philosopher."

"Are you always cheerful, Mr. Dexter?" inquired Miss Loring.

"Always."

"Never feel the pressure of gloomy states? Have no transitions of
feeling--sudden, unaccountable; as if the shadow of a cloud had
fallen over your spirit?"

"Never."

"You are singularly fortunate."

"Am I, Miss Loring?" and the young man's voice grew tender as he
leaned nearer to the maiden.

"I am blessed with a cheerful temper," he added, "and I cultivate
the inheritance. It is a good gift--blessing both the inheritor and
his companions. Neither men nor women are long gloomy in my
presence."

"I have often noticed your smiling face and pleasant words," said
Jessie, "and wondered if you moved always in a sunny atmosphere."

"You are answered now," he replied.

A little while there was silence. Jessie did not feel the repulsion
which had at first made Dexter's presence annoying; and as he drew
his chair closer, and leaned still nearer, there was on her part no
instinctive receding.

"Yes," she murmured softly, almost dreamily, "I am answered."

"Jessie." The young man's breath was on her cheek--his hand touching
her hand. She remained sitting very still--still as an effigy.

"Jessie." How very low, and loving, and musical was the voice that
thrilled along the chords of feeling! "Jessie; forgive me if I have
mistaken the signs." His hand tightened upon hers. She felt
spell-bound. She wished to start up and flee. But she could not.
There was a strange, overshadowing, half paralyzing power in the
man's presence. Without a purpose to do so, she returned the
pressure of his hand. It was enough.

"Thanks, dear one!" he murmured. "I was sure I had not mistaken the
signs. The heart has language all its own."

Still the maiden's form was motionless; and her hand lay passive in
the hand that now held it with a strong clasp. Yet, how wildly did
her heart beat! How tumultuous were all her feelings! How delicious
the thrill that pervaded her being!

"I love you, Jessie! Dear one! Angel! And by this token you are
mine!" said Dexter, his voice full of passion's fine enthusiasm. And
he raised her hand to his lips, kissing it half-wildly as he did so.

"The gods have made this hour propitious!" he added, as he drew her
head down against his bosom, and laid his ardent lips to hers.
"Bless you, darling! Bless you!" he went on. "My life is crowned
this hour with its chiefest delight! Mine! mine!"

Yet, not a word had parted the maiden's lips, thus spirited away, as
it were, out of herself, and strangely betrayed into consenting
silence. She had neither given her yea nor her nay--and dared as
little to speak the one as the other.

Almost bereft of physical power, she sat with her face hidden
on the bosom of this impulsive lover, for many minutes. At last,
thought cleared itself a little, and, with a more distinct
self-consciousness, were restored individuality and strength. She
raised herself, moved back a little, and looked up into the face of
Mr. Dexter. The aspect of her own was not just what the young man
had expected to see. He did not look upon a countenance blushing in
sweet confusion; nor into eyes radiant with loving glances; but upon
a pale face, and eyes whose meanings were a mystery. Slowly, yet
persistently, did she withdraw her hand from his clasp, while slowly
her form arose, until it gained an erect position.

"You have taken me off my guard, Mr. Dexter," she said, a tremor
running through her voice.

"Say not a word, Jessie! say not a word! I am only too happy to have
taken your heart captive. You are none the less my own, whether the
means were force or stratagem."

"Speak not too confidently, sir. Have I"--

Mr. Dexter raised his hand quickly, and uttered a word of warning.
But were silent again. Then the young man said, his manner growing
deferential, and his voice falling to a low and subdued tone--

"Miss Loring, I here offer you heart and hand; and in making this
offer, do most solemnly affirm that you are precious to me as
life.--The highest boon I can crave from heaven is the gift of your
dear self."

As he spoke, he extended his hand towards her. But her own did not
stir from her lap, where it lay as still as if paralyzed.

"This is no light matter, Mr. Dexter," she said; still with the
huskiness and tremor which had before veiled her voice. "I cannot
decide on a thing of such infinite moment, in hot blood and on the
spur of a sudden occasion. You must give me time for reflection."

"The heart knows no time. It neither reasons nor deliberates; but
speaks out upon the instant, as yours has already done, Miss
Loring," replied Dexter, with reviving ardor.

"Time, Mr. Dexter, time! I must have time!" said Jessie, almost
imploringly.

But Dexter, who saw that time might turn the scale against him,
resolved to press his suit then to the final issue.

"I cannot accept delay," he answered, throwing the most winning
tenderness into his voice. "And why should you hesitate a moment?"

"My aunt"--murmured Jessie.

"Consult her with all maidenly formality. That is right--that is
prudent," he said, leaning again very near to her. "But, ere we
separate this morning, let me ask one question--I am not
disagreeable to you?"

"Oh, no, no, Mr. Dexter!" was the quick, earnest reply.

"Nor is your heart given to another?"

"No lips but yours have ever uttered such words as have sounded in
my ears this day."

"And no lips, speaking in your ears, can ever utter such words with
half the heart-warmth that were in mine, dear Jessie! True love is
ever ardent, and cannot wait. I must have a sign from you before I
leave. You need not speak; but lay your hand in mine," and he
reached his hand towards her.

It was a moment of strong trial. Again her thoughts fell into
confusion. Again a wild delicious thrill swept like a strain of
music through all her being. She was within the sphere of an
irresistible attraction. Her hand fluttered with a sudden impulse,
and then, moving towards the hand of Dexter, was seized and covered
with kisses.

"Thanks, dearest!" he murmured. "Thanks! By this token I know that I
am loved--by this token you are mine--mine forever! Happy, happy
day! It shall be the golden one in all the calendar of my life."

With the ardor of passion he drew her to his side again, and
clasping his arm around her, kissed her with all the fervor of an
entranced lover--kissed her over and over again, wildly.

All this was not mere acting on the part of Mr. Dexter. He did love
the sweet young girl as truly as men of his peculiar character are
capable of loving. He was deeply in earnest. There was a charm about
Jessie Loring which had captivated him in the beginning. She was
endowed with rich mental gifts, as well as personal beauty; and with
both, Dexter was charmed even to fascination. Superficial, vain of
his person, and self-satisfied from his position, he had not been
much troubled by doubts touching his ability to secure the hand of
Miss Loring, and by his very boldness and ardor, won his suit ere
she had sufficient warning of his purpose to throw a mail-clad
garment around her.

Dexter remained for only a short period after this ardent
declaration. He had penetration enough to see that Miss Loring was
profoundly disturbed, and that she desired to be alone. He saw with
concern that her countenance was losing its fine warmth, and that
the lustre of her eyes was failing. Her look was becoming more
inverted each moment. She was trying to read her heart, and
understand the writing inscribed thereon.

"I will see you this evening, Jessie," said Mr. Dexter, on rising to
depart. Their intercourse had already been touched with a shade of
embarrassment.

Miss Loring forced a smile and simply inclined her head. He bent
forward and kissed her. Passively--almost coldly was the salute
received. Then they parted. A film of ice had already formed itself
between them.




CHAPTER IV.


ON leaving Mr. Dexter, Jessie Loring almost flew to her room, like
one escaping from peril. Closing and locking the door, she crossed
the apartment, and falling forward against the bed, sunk down upon
her knees and buried her face in a pillow. She did not pray. There
was no power in her to lift a petition upwards. But weak, in
bewilderment of spirit and abandonment of will she bent in deep
prostration of soul and body.

It was nearly an hour before she arose. Very calm had her mind
become in this long interval--very calm and very clear. With the
plummet line of intense thought, quickened by keen perception, she
had sounded the depths of her heart. She found places
there--capacities for loving--intense yearnings--which had remained
hidden until now. The current of her life had hitherto run smoothly
in the sunshine, its surface gleaming and in breezy ripples. But the
stream had glided from the open meadows and the sunshine, and the
shadow of a great rock had fallen upon it. The surface was still as
glass; and now looking downward, she almost shuddered as sight
descended away, away into bewildering depths. She held her breath as
she gazed like one suspended in mid-air.

"Too late! too late!" she murmured, as she lifted herself up. "Too
late!"

Her countenance was pale, even haggard. There was no color in her
lips--her eyes were leaden--her aspect like one who had been shocked
with the news of a great calamity.

Mrs. Loring, Jessie's aunt, had been informed by the servant of whom
she made inquiry, as to the identity of the gentleman who had called
that morning to see her niece--or at least as to the identity of one
of them. She did not make out by the servant's description the
personality of Mr. Hendrickson, but that of Mr. Dexter was clear
enough. She was also informed that the one whose name she could not
guess, made only a brief visit, and that Mr. Dexter remained long,
and was for most of the time in earnest conversation with Jessie.
Her hopes gave her conclusions a wide latitude. She doubted not that
the elegant, wealthy suitor was pressing a claim for the hand of her
niece.

"Will she be such a little fool as to throw this splendid chance
away?" she questioned with herself. "No--no;" was the answer.
"Jessie will not dare to do it! She is a strange girl in some
things, and wonderfully like her mother; but she will never refuse
Leon Dexter, if so lucky as to get an offer."

Mrs. Loring heard Mr. Dexter leave the house, and with expectation
on tip-toe, waited for Jessie to join her in the sitting-room. But
while she yet listened for the sound of footsteps on the stairs
below, her ears caught the light rustle of Jessie's garment as she
glided along the passages and away to her own chamber.

"Something has taken place!" said Mrs. Loring to herself. "There's
been a proposal, I'll bet my life on't! Why didn't the girl come and
tell me at once? Ain't I her nearest relative--and haven't I always
been like an own mother to her? But she's so peculiar--just as Alice
used to be. I don't believe I shall ever understand her."

And Mrs. Loring fretted a little in her moderate way, not being
capable of any very profound emotion. Ten, fifteen, twenty
minutes--half an hour she waited for Jessie to appear. But there was
no movement in the neighborhood of her chamber.

"Didn't Jessie go to her room, after the gentleman went away?" asked
Mrs. Loring, speaking to a servant, who was passing down the stairs.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Is she there now?"

"I believe so ma'am. I haven't seen her anywhere about the house."

The servant passed on, and Mrs. Loring waited for full half an hour
longer. Then, unable to repress impatient curiosity, she went to
Jessie's room and knocked at the door. Twice she knocked before
there was a sound of life within. Then she heard footsteps--a bolt
was withdrawn, and the door opened.

"Jessie!" exclaimed Mrs. Loring, "how white you are! What has
happened?"

"Come in dear aunt!" said Jessie, "I have been wanting to see you;
but had not yet made up my mind to seek you in the sitting-room. I
am glad you are here."

Mrs. Loring passed in and Jessie closed the door.

"Take this seat aunt," and she pointed to an easy-chair: "I will sit
here," drawing a lower one close to that which Mrs. Loring had
taken.

"Now, dear, what has happened?" Mrs. Loring's curiosity had been so
long upon the stretch, that she could ill endure delay.

"Will you listen to me patiently, Aunt Phoebe?"

There was a calmness of manner about Jessie that seemed to Mrs.
Loring unnatural.

"Speak, dear--you will find me all attention."

"I am in a--strait. I must act; but cannot of my own reason,
determine what action is right," said Jessie, "you must think for
me, and help me to a just decision."

"Go on dear," urged Mrs. Loring.

Then as briefly and as clearly as possible, Jessie related all that
had passed in her excited interview with Mr. Dexter. On concluding,
she said with much earnestness of manner:

"And now, Aunt Phoebe, what I wish to know is this--will Mr. Dexter
be warranted in regarding either my words or my actions, as an
acceptance of his offer?"

"Certainly," was the unhesitating reply of Mrs. Loring.

"Aunt Phoebe!"

There was a tone of anguish in the voice of Jessie; and her pale
lips grew paler.

"Why, what can ail you, child?" said Mrs. Loring.

"I had hoped for a different decision. Mr. Dexter took me at
unawares. In a certain sense, I was mesmerized by the stronger
action of his mind, quickened by an ardent temperament.
Self-consciousness was for a time lost, and I moved and acted by the
power of his will. There was no consentation in the right meaning of
the word, Aunt Phoebe, and I cannot think I am bound."

"Bound, fully, in word and act Jessie," was Mrs. Loring's firmly
spoken answer. "And so every one will regard you. Mr. Dexter, I am
sure, will not admit your interpretation for an instant. He, it is
plain, looks upon you as affianced. So do I!"

"Oh, aunt! aunt!" cried Jessie, clasping her hands, "say not so! say
not so! Knowing, as you do, all that occurred, even to the utmost
particulars of my strange position in the interview, how can you
take part against me?"

"Take part against you, child! How strangely you talk! One who
did not know Mr. Dexter, might suppose him to be an Ogre, or second
Blue Beard. I think the events of this morning the most fortunate of
your life."

"While I fear they will prove most disastrous," said Jessie.

"Nonsense, child! you are excited and nervous. There is always
something novel and romantic to a young girl in an offer of
marriage. It is the great event of her life. I do not wonder
that you are disturbed--though I am surprised at the nature of this
disturbance. Time will subdue all this. You have a beautiful life
before you, darling! The cherished bride of Leon Dexter must tread a
path of roses."

A long sigh parted the lips of Miss Loring, and her face, to which
not even the faintest tinge of color had yet returned, bent itself
downward. She was silent.

"You leaned your face against him?" said Mrs. Loring.

"He drew my head down. I had no power of resistance, aunt. There was
a spell upon my senses."

"You did not reject his ardent kisses?"

"I could not."

"And when he extended his hand, and asked you to lay your own within
it, as a sign and a token of love, you gave him the sign and the
token. Your hands clasped in a covenant of the heart! So he regarded
the act. So do I; and so will all the world regard it. Jessie, the
die is cast. You cannot retreat without dishonor."

"Will you leave me, aunt?" said Jessie, after a long silence. Her
tones were sad. "I am very much excited. All this has unnerved me. I
would like to be alone again."

"Better come down into the sitting-room," replied Mrs. Loring.

"No, aunt. You must let me have my way."

"Willful, and like your mother," said Mrs. Loring, as she arose.

"Was my mother willful?" inquired Jessie, looking at her aunt.

"Sometimes."

"Was she happy?"

"No. I do not think she ever understood or rightly appreciated your
father. But, I should not have said this. She was a beautiful,
fascinating young creature, as I remember her, and your father was
crazy to get her. But I don't think they were very happy together.
Where the blame lay I never knew for certain, and I will make no
suggestions now."

"They were uncongenial in their tastes, perhaps," said Jessie.

"Dear knows what the reason was! But she died young, poor thing! and
your father was in a sad way about it. I thought, of course, he
would marry again. But he did not--living a widower until his
death."

"Is my mother's picture very much like her, Aunt Phoebe?"

"Very like her; but not so handsome."

"She was beautiful?"

"Oh, yes; and the reigning belle before her marriage."

Jessie questioned no farther. Her aunt's recollections of her mother
were all too external to satisfy the yearnings of her heart towards
that mother. Often had she sat gazing upon the picture which
represented to her eyes the form and face of a parent she had never
seen; and sought to comprehend some of the meanings in the blue orbs
that looked down upon her so calmly. But ever had she turned away
with vague, unquiet, restless feelings.

"If my mother had lived!" she would sometimes say to herself, "she
could comprehend me. Into her ears I could speak words that now
sleep on my lips in perpetual silence.

"Oh, if my mother were alive!" sobbed the unhappy girl, as the door
closed on the retiring form of worldly-minded Aunt Phoebe. "If my
mother were only alive!

"Affianced!" she said a little while after, as thought went back to
the interview between herself and Mrs. Loring which had just closed.
"Affianced! Yes, that was the word. 'He regards you as affianced,
and so do I!' How completely has this web invested me! Is there no
way of escape?" A slight shudder went through her frame. "Ah, well,
well!"--low and mournfully--"It may be that my woman's ideal has
been too exalted, and above the standard of real men. Mr. Dexter is
handsome; kind-hearted enough, no doubt; moderately well cultivated;
rich, elegant in manner, though a little too demonstrative; and,
most to be considered, loves me--or, at least, declares himself my
lover. That he is sincere I cannot doubt. His was not the role of a
skillful actor, but living expression. I ought to be flattered if
not won by the homage he pays me."

Then she sat down, and began looking into her heart again, her keen
vision penetrating to its farthest recesses. A long fluttering sigh
breathed at length through her lips, and starting up she said,

"I am weak and foolish! Life is a reality; not a cycle of dreamy
romance. All poetry lies in the dim distance--a thing of memory or
anticipation--the present is invariably prose. How these vague
ideals do haunt the mind! Love! Love! I had imagined something
deeper, purer, holier than anything stirring in my heart for Leon
Dexter! Was I deceived? Is the poet's song but jingling rhyme?--a
play of words in trancing measure? Let me bind back into quietude
these wildly leaping impulses, and clip the wings of these girlish
fancies. They lead not the soul to happiness in a world like ours."

Again her form drooped, and again she sat for a long period so lost
in the mazes of her own thoughts, that time and place receded alike
from her consciousness. Not until dinner-time did she join her aunt.
Her cousins had returned from school, and she met them as usual at
the table. Her exterior was carefully controlled, so that the only
change visible was a slight pallor and a graver aspect. Mrs. Loring
scrutinized her countenance closely. This she bore without a sign of
embarrassment. She partook but lightly of food. After the meal
closed she retired to her own room, once more to torture her brain
in a fruitless effort to solve this great problem of her life.




CHAPTER V.


WHEN Paul Hendrickson left the house of Mrs. Loring, his mind was in
a state of painful excitement. The inopportune appearance of Dexter
had so annoyed him, that he had found it impossible to assume the
easy, cheerful air of a visitor. He was conscious, therefore, of
having shown himself in the eyes of Miss Loring to very poor
advantage. Her manner at parting had, however, reassured him. As
they stood for a moment in the vestibule he saw her in a new light.
The aspect of her countenance was changed, the eyes, that fell
beneath his earnest gaze, burned with a softened light, and he read
there a volume of tender interest at a single glance.

"I shall be pleased to see you again, Mr. Hendrickson." There was
more than a parting compliment in her tones as she said these words.
"I have never thought you stupid." What pleasure he derived from
repeating these sentences over and over again! Early in the evening
he called upon his friend Mrs. Denison.

"I have come to talk with you again about Miss Loring," said he. "I
can't get her out of my thoughts. Her presence haunts me like a
destiny."

Mrs. Denison smiled as she answered a little playfully:

"A genuine case of love; the infection taken at first sight. Isn't
it so, Paul?"

"That I love this girl, in spite of myself, is, I fear, a solemn
fact," said the young man, with an expression of face that did not
indicate a very agreeable self-consciousness.

"Fear? In spite of yourself? A solemn fact? What a contradiction you
are, Paul!" said Mrs. Denison.

"A man in love is an enigma. I have often heard it remarked, and I
now perceive the saying to be true. I am an enigma. Yes, I love this
girl in spite of myself; and the fact is a solemn one. Why? Because
I have too good reason for believing that she does not love me in
return. And yet, even while I say this, tones and words of hers,
heard only to-day, come sighing to my ears, giving to every
heart-beat a quicker impulse."

"Ah! Then you have seen Miss Loring to-day?"

"Yes," answered Hendrickson, in a quick, and suddenly excited
manner. "I called upon her this morning, and while I sat in the
parlor awaiting her appearance, who should intrude himself but that
fellow Dexter. I felt like annihilating him. The look I gave him he
will remember."

"That was bad taste, Paul," said Mrs. Denison.

"I know it. But his appearance was so untimely; and then, I had not
forgotten last evening. The fellow has a world of assurance; and he
carries it off with such an air--such a self-possession and easy
grace! You cannot disturb the dead level of his self-esteem. To have
him intruding at such a time, was more than I could bear. It
completely unsettled me. Of course, when Miss Loring appeared, I was
constrained, cold, embarrassed, distant--everything that was
repulsive; while Dexter was as bland as a June morning--full of
graceful compliments--attractive--winning. When I attempted some
frozen speech, I could see a change in Miss Loring's manner, as if
she had suddenly approached an iceberg; but, as often, Dexter would
melt the ice away by one of his sunny smiles, and her face would
grow radiant again."

"You exaggerate," said Mrs. Denison.

"The case admits of no exaggeration. I was too keenly alive to my
own position; and saw only what was."

"The medium was distorted. Excited feelings are the eyes' magnifying
glasses."

"It may be so." There was a modification in Hendrickson's manner. "I
was excited. How could I help being so?"

"There existed no cause for it, Paul. Mr. Dexter had an equal right
with yourself to visit Miss Loring."

"True."

"And an equal right to choose his own time."

"I will not deny it."

"Therefore, there was no reason in the abstract, why his
complimentary call upon the lady should create in your mind
unpleasant feelings towards the man. You had no more right to
complain of his presence there, than he had to complain of yours."

"I confess it."

"There is one thing," pursued Mrs. Denison, "in which you disappoint
me, Paul. You seem to lack a manly confidence in yourself. You are
as good as Leon Dexter--aye, a better, truer man in every sense of
the word--a man to please a woman at all worth pleasing, far better
than he. And yet you permit him to elbow you aside, as it were, and
to thrust you into a false position, if not into obscurity. If Miss
Loring is the woman God has created for you, in the name of all that
is holy, do not let another man usurp your rights. Do not let one
like Dexter bear her off to gild a heartless home. Remember that
Jessie is young, inexperienced, and unskilled in the ways of the
world. She is not schooled in the lore of love; cannot understand
all its signs; and, above all, can no more look into your heart,
than you can look into hers. How is she to know that you love her,
if you stand coldly--I might say cynically--observant at a far
distance. Paul! Paul! Women are not won in this way, as many a man
has found to his sorrow, and as you will find in the present case,
unless you act with more self-confidence and decision. Go to Miss
Loring then, and show her, by signs not to be mistaken, that she has
found favor in your eyes. Give her a chance to show you what her
real feelings are; and my word for it, you will not find her as
indifferent as you fear. If you gain any encouragement, make farther
advances; and let her comprehend fully that you are an admirer. She
will not play you false. Don't fear for a moment. She is above
guile."

Mrs. Denison ceased. Her words had inspired Hendrickson with new
feelings.

"As I parted from her to-day," he remarked, "she said, 'I shall be
pleased to see you again.' I I felt that there was meaning in the
words beyond a graceful speech. 'Not if I show myself as stupid as I
have been this morning,' was my answer. Very quickly, and with some
earnestness, she returned: 'I have never thought you stupid, Mr.
Hendrickson.'"

"Well? And what then? Did you compliment her in return; or say
something to fill her ears with music and make her heart tremble?
You could have asked no better opportunity for giving the parting
word that lingers longest and is oftenest conned over. What did you
say to that, Paul?"

"I blundered out some meaningless things, and left her abruptly,"
said Hendrickson, with an impatient sweep of his hand. "I felt that
her eyes were upon me, but had not the courage to lift my own and
read their revelation."

"Too bad! Too bad! The old adage is true always--'Faint heart never
won fair lady'--and if you are not a little braver at heart, my
young friend, you will lose this fair lady, whose hand may be had
for the asking. So, I pray you, be warned in time. Go to her this
very evening. You will probably find her alone. Dexter will hardly
call twice in the same day; so you will be free from his intrusion.
Let her see by tone, look, manner, word, that she has charmed your
fancy. Show yourself an admirer. Then act as the signs indicate."

"I will," replied Hendrickson, speaking with enthusiasm.

"Go and heaven speed you! I have no fear as to the issue. But, Paul,
let me warn you to repress your too sensitive feelings. Your
conduct, heretofore, has not been such as to give Miss Loring any
opportunity to judge of your real sentiments towards her. Your
manner has been distant or constrained. She does not, therefore,
understand you; and if her heart is really interested, she will be
under constraint when she meets you to-night. Don't mind this. Be
open, frank, at ease yourself. Keep your thoughts clear, and let not
a pulse beat quicker than now."

"That last injunction goes too far, my good friend; for my heart
gives a bound the moment my eyes rest upon her. So you see that mine
is a desperate case."

"The more need of skill and coolness. A blunder may prove fatal."

Mr. Hendrickson rose, saying,

"Time passes. A good work were well done quickly. I will not linger
when minutes are so precious."

"God speed you!" whispered Mrs. Denison, as they parted, a few
minutes later at the door.




CHAPTER VI.


IT was an hour from the time Mr. Hendrickson left the house of Mrs.
Denison before he found himself in one of Mrs. Loring's parlors. He
had been home, where a caller detained him.

Full ten minutes elapsed after his entrance, ere Jessie's light
tread was heard on the stairs. She came down slowly, and as she
entered the room, Hendrickson was struck with the singular
expression of her face. At the first glance he scarcely recognized
her.

"Are you not well, Miss Loring?" he asked, stepping forward to meet
her.

His manner was warm, and his tones full of sympathy.

She smiled faintly as she answered--

"Not very well. I have a blinding headache."

Still holding the hand she had extended to him in meeting, Mr.
Hendrickson led her to a sofa, and sat down by her side. He would
have retained the hand, but she gently withdrew it, though not in a
way that involved repulsion.

"I am sorry for your indisposition," he said, in a tone of interest
so unusual for him, that Miss Loring lifted her eyes, which had
fallen to the carpet, and looked at him half shyly--half
interrogatingly.

"If you had sent me word that you were not well, Miss Loring"--

He paused, gazing very earnestly upon her face, into which
crimsoning blushes began to come.

"I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Hendrickson. I did not wish to be
excused," she answered, and then, as if she had been led to utter
more than maidenly modesty approved, averted her face suddenly, and
seemed confused. There followed a moment or two of silence; when her
visitor said, leaning close to her, and speaking in a low,
penetrating, steady voice--

"Your reply, Miss Loring, is an admission of more than I had
expected--not more than I had hoped."

He saw her start, as if she had touched an electric wire. But her
face remained averted.

"Miss Loring"--

Warmer words were on his lips, but he hesitated to give them
utterance. There was a pause. Motionless sat the young maiden, her
face still partly turned away. Suddenly, and with an almost wild
impulse, Hendrickson caught her hand, and raising it to his lips,
said--

"I cannot hold back the words a moment longer, dear Miss Loring!
From the hour I first looked into your face, I felt that we were
made for each other; and now"--

But ere he could finish the sentence, Jessie had flung his hand away
and started to her feet.

"Miss Loring!"

He was on his feet also. For some moments they stood gazing at each
other. The countenance of Miss Loring was of an ashen hue; her lips,
almost as pallid as her cheeks, stood arching apart, and her eyes
had the stare of one frightened by some fearful apparition.

"Miss Loring! pardon my folly! Your language made me bold to utter
what had else slept in my heart eternally silent. Forget this hour!"

"Never! Never!" and she struck her hands together wildly. Her voice
had in it a wail of suffering that sent a thrill to the heart of
Paul Hendrickson.

Then recollecting herself, she struggled for the mastery over her
feelings. He saw the struggle, and awaited the result. A brief
interval sufficed to restore a degree of self-possession.

"I have nothing then to hope?" said the young man. His tones were
evenly balanced.

"Too late! Too late!" she answered, in a hoarse voice. "The cup is
dashed to pieces at my feet, and the precious wine spilled!"

"Oh, speak not thus! Recall the words!" exclaimed Hendrickson,
reaching out his hands towards her.

But she moved back a pace or two repeating the sentence--

"Too late! Too late!"

"It is never too late!" urged the now almost desperate lover,
advancing towards the maiden.

But retreating from him she answered in a warning voice--

"Touch me not! I am already pledged to another!"

"Impossible! Oh, light of my life!"

"Sir! tempt me not!" she said interrupting him, "I have said it was
too late! And now leave me. Go seek another to walk beside you in
life's pleasant ways. Our paths diverge here."

"I will not believe it, Miss Loring! This is only a terrible dream!"
exclaimed Hendrickson.

"A dream?" Jessie seemed clutching at the garments of some departing
hope. "A dream!" She glanced around in a bewildered manner.
"No--no--no." Almost despairingly the words came from her lips. "It
is no dream, Paul Hendrickson! but a stern reality. And now,"
speaking quickly and with energy, "in Heaven's name leave me!"

"Not yet--not yet," said the young man, reaching for his hands and
trying to take one of hers; but she put both of her hands behind her
and stepped back several paces.

"Spare me the pain of a harsh word, Mr. Hendrickson. I have
said--leave me!"

Her voice had acquired firmness.

"Oh, no! Smite me not with an unkind word," said Hendrickson. "I
would not have that added to the heavy burden I seem doomed to bear.
But ere I go, I would fain have more light, even if it should make
the surrounding darkness black as pall."

His impassioned manner was gone.

"I am calm," he added, "calm as you are now, Miss Loring. The
billows have fallen to the level plain under the pressure of this
sudden storm. You have told me it was _too late_. You have said,
'leave me!' I believe you, and I will go. But, may I ask one
question?"

"Speak, Mr. Hendrickson; but beware how you speak."

"Had I spoken as now this morning, would you have answered: 'Too
late?'"

He was looking intently upon her face. She did not reply
immediately, but seemed pondering. Hendrickson repeated the
question.

"I have said that it was _now_ too late." Miss Loring raised her
eyes and looked steadily upon him. "Go sir, and let this hour and
this interview pass from your memory. If you are wise, you will
forget it. Be just to me, sir. If I have betrayed the existence of
any feeling towards you warmer than respect, it has been under
sudden and strong temptation. As a man of honor, you must keep the
secret inviolate."

There was not a sign of girlish weakness about the calm speaker. Her
small head was erect; her slight body drawn to its full height; her
measured tones betrayed not a ripple of feeling.

"I am affianced, and know my duty," she added. "Know it, and will
perform it to the letter. And now, sir, spare me from this moment.
And when we meet again, as meet no doubt we shall, let it be as
friends--no more."

The pressure of despair was on the heart of Paul Hendrickson. He was
not able to rally himself. He could not retain the calm exterior a
little while before assumed.

"We part, then," he said, speaking in a broken voice--"part--and,
ever after, a great gulf must lie between us! I go at your bidding,"
and he moved towards the door. "Farewell, Miss Loring." He extended
his hand; she took it, and they stood looking into each other's
eyes.

"God bless you, and keep you spotless as the angels!" he added,
suddenly raising her hand to his lips, and kissing it with wild
fervor. In the next moment the bewildered girl was alone.




CHAPTER VII.


THE visit of Hendrickson was an hour too late, Dexter had already
been there, and pressed his suit to a formal issue. The bold suitor
had carried off the prize, while the timid one yet hesitated. Jessie
went back to her room, after her interview with Paul Hendrickson, in
spiritual stature no longer a half developed girl, but a full woman
grown. The girl's strength would no longer have sustained her. Only
the woman's soul, strong in principle and strong to endure, could
bear up now. And the woman's soul shuddered in the conflict of
passions that came like furies to destroy her--shuddered and bent,
and writhed like some strong forest-tree in the maddening whirl of a
tempest. But there was no faltering of purpose. She had passed her
word--had made a solemn life-compact, and, she resolved to die, but
not to waver.

The question as to whether she were right or wrong, it is not for us
here to decide. We but record the fact. Few women after such a
discovery would have ventured to move on a step farther. But Jessie
was not an ordinary woman. She possessed a high sense of personal
honor; and looked upon any pledge as a sacred obligation. Having
consented to become the wife of Leon Dexter, she saw but one right
course, and that was to perform, as best she could, her part of the
contract.

How envied she was! Many wondered that Dexter should have turned
aside for a portionless girl, when he might have led a jewelled
bride to the altar. But though superficial, he had taste and
discrimination enough to see that Jessie Loring was superior to all
the maidens whom it had been his fortune to meet. And so, without
pausing to look deeply into her heart, or take note of its peculiar
aspirations and impulses, he boldly pressed forward resolved to win.
And he did win; and in winning, thought, like many another foolish
man, that to win the loveliest, was to secure the highest happiness.
Fatal error! Doubly fatal!

It is impossible for any woman to pass through an ordeal like the
one that was testing the quality of Jessie Loring, and not show
signs of the inward strife. It is in no way surprising, therefore,
that, in her exterior, a marked change soon became visible. There
was a certain dignity and reserve, verging, at times, on coldness,
not seen prior to her engagement--and a quiet suppression of
familiarity, even with her most intimate friends. The same marked
change was visible in her intercourse with Mr. Dexter. She did not
meet him with that kind of repulsion which is equivalent to pushing
back with the hand. She accepted his loving ardor of speech and act;
but passively. There was no responsive warmth.

At first Mr. Dexter was puzzled, and his ardent feelings chilled. He
loved, admired, almost worshipped the beautiful girl from whom
consent had been extorted, and her quiet, cold manner, troubled his
sorely. Glimpses of the real truth dawned into his mind. He let his
thoughts go back, and went over again, in retrospection, every
particular of their intercourse--dwelling minutely upon her words,
looks, manner and emotions at the time he first pressed his suit
upon her. The result was far from satisfactory. She had not met his
advances as he had hoped; but rather fled from him--and he had
gained her only by pursuit. Her ascent had not come warmly from her
heart, but burdened with a sigh. Mr. Dexter felt that though she was
his, she had not been fairly won. The conviction troubled him.

"I will release her," he said, in a sudden glow of generous
enthusiasm. But Mr. Dexter had not the nobility for such a step. He
was too selfish a man to relinquish the prize.

"I will woo and win her still." This was to him a more satisfactory
conclusion. But he had won all of her in his power to gain. Her
heart was to him a sealed book. He could not unclasp the volume, nor
read a single page.

Earnestly at times did Jessie strive to appear attractive in the
eyes of her betrothed--to meet his ardor with returning warmth. But
the effort was accompanied with so much pain, that suffering was
unable to withdraw wholly beneath a veil of smiles.

The wordy, restless pleasure evinced by Mrs. Loring, was
particularly annoying to Jessie; so much so that any allusion by her
aunt to the approaching marriage, was almost certain to cloud her
brow. And yet so gratified was this worldly-minded woman, at the
good fortune of her niece in securing so brilliant an alliance,
that it seemed as if, for a time, she could talk of nothing else.

Mr. Dexter urged an early marriage, while Jessie named a period
nearly a year in advance; but, as she could give no valid reason for
delaying their happiness so long, the time was shortened to four
months. As the day approached, the pressure on the heart of Miss
Loring grew heavier.

"Oh, if I could die!" How many times in the silence of night and in
the loneliness of her chamber did her lips give forth this
utterance.

But the striving spirit could not lay down its burden thus.

Not once, since the exciting interview we have described, had Paul
and Jessie met. At places of fashionable amusement she was a
constant attendant in company with Dexter, who was proud of her
beauty. But though her eyes searched everywhere in the crowded
audiences, in no instance did she recognize the face of Hendrickson.
In festive companies, where he had been a constant attendant, she
missed his presence. Often she heard him inquired after, yet only
once did the answer convey any intelligence. It was at an evening
party. "Where is Mr. Hendrickson? It is a long time since I have
seen him," she heard a lady say. Partly turning she recognized Mrs.
Denison as the person addressed. The answer was in so low a tone
that her ear did not make it out, though she listened with suspended
breath.

"Ah! I'm sorry," responded the other. "What is the cause?"

"A matter of the heart, I believe," said Mrs. Denison.

"Indeed is he very much depressed?"

"He is changed," was the simple reply.

"Who was the lady?"

Jessie did not hear the answer.

"You don't tell me so!" In a tone of surprise, and the lady glanced
around the room.

"And he took it very much to heart?" she went on.

"Yes. I think it will change the complexion of his whole life," said
Mrs. Denison. "He is a man of deep feeling--somewhat peculiar; over
diffident; and not given to showing himself off to the best
advantage. But he is every inch a man--all gold and no tinsel! I
have known him from boyhood, and speak of his quality from certain
knowledge."

"He will get over it," remarked the lady. "Men are not apt to go
crazy after pretty girls. The market is full of such attractions."

"It takes more than a painted butterfly to dazzle him, my friend,"
said Mrs. Denison. "His eyes are too keen, and go below the surface
at a glance. The woman he loves may regard the fact as a high
testimonial."

"But you don't suppose he is going to break his heart over this
matter."

"No--oh, no! That is an extreme disaster."

"He will forget her in time; and there are good fish in the sea
yet."

"Time is the great restorer," said Mrs. Denison; "and time will
show, I trust, that good will come from this severe trial which my
young friend is now enduring. These better natures are oftenest
exposed to furnace heat, for only they have gold enough to stand the
ordeal of fire."

"He is wrong to shut himself out from society."

"So I tell him. But he says 'wait--wait, I am not strong enough
yet.'"

"He must, indeed, take the matter deeply to heart."

"He does."

Here the voice fell to such a low measure, that Jessie lost all
distinction of words. But the few sentences which had reached her
ears disturbed her spirit profoundly--too profoundly to make even a
ripple on the surface. No one saw a change on her countenance, and
her voice, answering a moment after to the voice of a friend,
betrayed no unusual sign of feeling.

And this was all she had heard of him for months.

Once, a little while before her marriage, she met him. It was a few
weeks after these brief unsatisfactory sentences had troubled the
waters of her spirit. She had been out with her aunt for the purpose
of selecting her wedding attire; and after a visit to the
dressmaker's, was returning alone, her aunt wishing to make a few
calls at places where Jessie did not care to go. She was crossing
one of the public squares when the thought of Hendrickson came
suddenly into her mind. Her eyes were cast down at the moment.
Looking up, involuntarily, she paused, for within a few paces was
the young man himself, approaching from the opposite direction. He
paused also, and they stood with eyes riveted upon each other's
faces--both, for a time, too much embarrassed to speak. Their hands
had mutually clasped, and Hendrickson was holding that of Jessie
tightly compressed within his own.

The first to regain self-possession was Miss Loring. With a quick
motion she withdrew her hand, and moved back a single step. The
mantling flush left her brow, and the startled eyes looked calmly
into the young man's face.

"Have you been away from the city, Mr. Hendrickson?" she inquired,
in a voice that gave but few signs of feeling.

"No." He could not trust himself to utter more than a single word.

"I have missed you from the old places," she said.

"Have you? It is something, even to be missed?" He could not
suppress the tremor in his voice.

"Good morning!"

Jessie almost sprang past him, and hurried away. The tempter was at
her side; and she felt it to be an hour of weakness. She must either
yield or fly--and she fled; fled with rapid unsteady feet, pausing
not until the door of her own chamber shut out all the world and
left her alone with Heaven. Weak, trembling, exhausted she bowed
herself, and in anguish of spirit prayed--

"Oh, my Father, sustain me! Give me light, strength, patience,
endurance. I am walking darkly, and the way is rough and steep. Let
me not fall. The floods roar about me--let me not sink beneath them.
My heart is failing under its heavy burden. Oh, bear me up! The sky
is black--show me some rift in the clouds, for I am fainting in this
rayless night. And oh, if I dare pray for _him_--if the desire for
his happiness springs from no wrong sentiment--let this petition
find favor--as he asked that I might be kept spotless as the angels,
so keep him; and after he has passed through the furnace, let not
even the smell of fire be upon him. Send him a higher blessing than
that which he has lost. Oh Lord, give strength to both--especially
to her whose voice is now ascending, for she is weakest, and will
have most to endure."

For a long time after the murmur of prayer had died on her lips,
Jessie remained prostrate. When she arose at last, it was with a
slow, weary movement, dreary eyes, and absent manner. The shock of
this meeting had been severe--disturbing her too profoundly for even
the soothing influence of prayer. She did not arise from her knees
comforted--scarcely strengthened. A kind of benumbing stupor
followed.

"What ails the girl!" said Mrs. Loring to herself as she vainly
strove at dinner-time to draw her forth into lively conversation.
"She gets into the strangest states--just like her poor mother! And
like her I'm afraid, sometimes, will make herself and every one else
around her miserable. I pity Leon Dexter, if this be so. He may find
that his caged bird will not sing. Already the notes are few and far
between; and little of the old sweetness remains."




CHAPTER VIII.


A FEW days after the meeting between Mr. Hendrickson and Miss
Loring, as just mentioned, Mr. Dexter received the following
communication:


"DEAR SIR--I am scarcely well enough acquainted with you to venture
this note and request; but I happen to know of something so vital to
your happiness, that I cannot feel conscience-clear and not ask an
interview. I shall be at home this evening.

"ALICE DENISON."


Early in the evening, Dexter was at the house of Mrs. Denison.

"You have frightened me my dear madam!" he said, almost abruptly, as
he entered the parlor, where he found her awaiting him.

"I have presumed on a slight acquaintance, Mr. Dexter, to ask an
interview on a very delicate subject," Mrs. Denison replied. "May I
speak freely, and without danger of offending, when no offence is
designed?"

"I have not had the pleasure of knowing you intimately, Mrs.
Denison," replied the visitor, "but it has been no fault of mine. I
have always held you in high regard; and always been gratified with
our passing intercourse on the few occasions it has been my
privilege to meet you. That you have felt enough concern for my
welfare to ask this interview, gratifies me. Say on--and speak
freely. I am eager to hear."

"You are about to marry Jessie Loring," said Mrs. Denison.

"I am." And Dexter fixed his eyes with a look of earnest inquiry
upon the lady's face.

Mrs. Denison had come to the subject more abruptly than she at first
intended, and she was already in doubt as to her next remark; but
there could be no holding back now.

"Are you sure, Mr. Dexter, that you possess her undivided heart?"

"I marvel at your question, madam!" he answered, with a start, and
in a tone of surprise.

"Calmly, my friend." And Mrs. Denison, who was a woman of remarkably
clear perceptions, laid her hand upon his arm. "I am not questioning
idly, nor to serve any sinister or hidden purpose--but am influenced
by higher motives. Nor am I acting at the instance of another. What
passes between us this evening shall be sacred. I said that I knew
of something vital to your happiness; therefore I asked this
interview. And now ponder well my question, and be certain that you
get the right answer."

Dexter let his eyes fall. He sat for a long while silent, but
evidently in earnest thought.

"Have you her full, free, glad assent to the approaching union?"
asked Mrs. Denison, breaking in upon his silence. She saw a shade of
impatience on his countenance as he looked up and checked the words
that were on his lips, by saying:

"Marriage is no light thing, my young friend. It is a relation
which, more than any other, makes or mars the future; and when
entered into, should be regarded as the must solemn act of life.
Here all error is fatal. The step once taken, it cannot be retraced.
Whether the path be rough or even, it must be pursued to the end. If
the union be harmonious--internally so, I mean--peace, joy, interior
delight will go on, finding daily increase--if inharmonious, eternal
discord will curse the married partners. Do not be angry with me
then, for pressing the question--Have you her full, free, glad,
assent to the approaching union? If not, pause--for your
love-freighted bark may be drifting fast upon the breakers--and not
yours only, but hers.

"I have reason to fear, Mr. Dexter," continued Mrs. Denison, seeing
that her visitor did not attempt to reply, but sat looking at her in
a kind of bewildered surprise, "that you pressed your suit too
eagerly, and gained a half unwilling consent. Now, if this be so,
you are in great danger of making shipwreck. An ordinary
woman--worldly, superficial, half-hearted, or no-hearted--even if
she did not really love you, would find ample compensation in your
fortune, and in the social advantages it must secure. But depend
upon it, sir, these will not fill the aching void that must be in
Jessie Loring's heart, if you have no power to fill it with your
image--for she is no ordinary woman. I have observed her carefully
since this engagement, and grieve to see that she is not happy. Have
you seen no change?"

Mrs. Denison waited for an answer.

"She is not so cheerful; I have noticed that," replied the young
man.

"Have you ever questioned in your own mind as to the cause?"

"Often."

"And what was the solution!"

"I remain ignorant of the cause."

"Mr. Dexter; _I_ am not ignorant of the cause!"

"Speak, then, in Heaven's name!"

The young man betrayed a deeper excitement than he wished to
manifest. He had been struggling with himself.

"Her heart is not yours!" said Mrs. Denison, with suppressed
feeling. "It is a hard saying, but I speak it in the hope of saving
both you and the maiden from a life of wretchedness."

"By what authority and under what instigation do you say this?" was
demanded almost angrily. "You are going a step too far, madam!"

The change in his manner was very sudden.

"I speak from myself only," replied Mrs. Denison, calmly.

"If her heart is not mine, whose is it?" Dexter showed strong
excitement.

"I am not her confidant."

"Who is? Somebody must speak from her, if I am to credit your
assertion."

"Calm yourself, my young friend," said Mrs. Denison; "there are
signs which a woman can read as plainly as if they were written
words; and I have felt too deep an interest in this matter not to
have marked every sign. Miss Loring is not happy, and the shadow
upon her spirit grows darker every day. Before this engagement, her
glad soul looked ever out in beauty from her eyes; now--but I need
not describe to you the change. You have noted its progress. It is
an extreme conclusion that her heart is not in the alliance she is
about to form."

A long silence followed.

"If you were certain that I am right--if, with her own lips, Jessie
Loring were to confirm what I have said--what then?"

"I would release her from this engagement; and she might go her
ways! The world is wide."

He spoke with some bitterness.

"The way is plain, then. From what I have said, you are fully
warranted in talking to her without reserve. Quote me if you please.
Say that I made bold to assert that you did not possess the key that
would unlock the sacred places of her heart; and you may add
further, that I say the _key is held by another_. This will bring
the right issue. If she truly loves you, there will be no mistaking
her response. If she accepts the release you offer, happy will you
be in making the most fortunate escape of your life."

"I will do it!" exclaimed Dexter, rising, "and this very night!"

"If done at all, it were well done quickly," said Mrs. Denison,
rising also. "And now, my young friend, let what will be the result,
think of me as one who, under the pressure of a high sense of
responsibility, has simply discharged a painful duty. I have no
personal or private ends to gain; all I desire is to save two hearts
from making shipwreck. If successful, I shall have my reward."

"One question, Mrs. Denison," said Dexter, as they were about
separating. "Its answer may give me light, and the strength to go
forward. I have marked your words and manner very closely; and this
is my conclusion: You not only believe that I do not possess the
love of Jessie Loring, but your thought points to another man whom
you believe does rule in her affections. Am I wrong?"

The suddenness of the question confused Mrs. Denison. Her eyes sunk
under his gaze, and for some moments her self possession was lost.
But, rallying herself, she answered:

"Not wholly wrong."

Dexter's countenance grew dark.

"His name!--give me his name!"

He spoke with agitation.

"That is going a step too far," said Mrs. Denison, with firmness.

"Is it Hendrickson?"

Dexter looked keenly into the lady's face.

"A step too far, sir," she repeated. "I cannot answer your inquiry."

"You _must_ answer it, madam!" He was imperative. "I demand the yes
or no. Is it or is it not Paul Hendrickson?"

"Your calmer reason, sir, will tell you to-morrow that I was right
in refusing to give any man's name in this connection," replied Mrs.
Denison. "I am pained to see you so much disturbed. My hope was,
that you would go to Miss Loring in the grave dignity of
manhood--But, while in this spirit of angry excitement, I pray you
keep far from her."

"Hendrickson is the man!" said Dexter, his brows still contracting
heavily. "But if he still hopes to rival me in Jessie's love, he
will find himself vastly in error. No, no, madam! If it is for him
you are interested, you had better give it up. I passed him in the
race long ago!"

A feeling of disgust arose in the mind of Mrs. Denison, mingled with
a stronger feeling of contempt. But she answered without a visible
sign of either.

"I am sorry that you have let the form of any person come in to give
right thought and honorable purpose a distorting bias. I did hope
that you would see Miss Loring under the influence of a better
state. And I pray you still to be calm, rational, generous, manly.
Go to her in a noble, unselfish spirit. If you love her truly you
desire her happiness; and to make her happy, would even release her
pledged hand, were such a sacrifice needed."

"You give me credit for more virtue than I claim to possess," was
answered, a little sarcastically. "Love desires to hold, not lose
its object."

"Enough, my young friend," said Mrs. Denison, in her calm, earnest
way. "We will not bandy words--that would be fruitless. I grieve
that you should have misunderstood me in even the least thing, or
let the slightest suggestion of a sinister motive find a lodgment in
your mind. I have had no purpose but a good one to serve, and shall
be conscience-clear in the matter. A more delicate task than this
was never undertaken. That I have not succeeded according to my
wishes, is no matter of surprise."

"Good evening, madam!"

Dexter bowed with a cold formality.

"Good evening!" was mildly returned.

And so the young man went away.

"I fear that only harm will come of this," said Mrs. Denison, as she
retired from the door. "I meant it for the best, and pray that no
evil may follow the indiscretion, if such it be!"




CHAPTER IX.


MRS. DENISON'S fears were prophetic. Evil, not good, came of her
well meant efforts to prevent the coming sacrifice. Instead of
awakening generous impulses in the mind of Leon Dexter, only anger
and jealousy were aroused; and as they gained strength, love
withdrew itself, for love could not breathe the same atmosphere. The
belief that Hendrickson was the man to whom Mrs. Denison referred,
was fully confirmed by this fact. Dexter had resolved to see Miss
Loring that very evening, and was only a short distance from her
home, and in sight of the door, when he saw a man ascend the steps
and ring. He stopped and waited. A servant came to the door and the
caller entered. For a time, the question was revolved as to whether
he should follow, or not.

"It is Hendrickson. I'll wager my life on it!"--he muttered,
grinding his teeth together. "There is a cursed plot on foot, and
this insinuating, saintly Mrs. Denison, is one of the plotters! My
very blood is seething at the thought. Shall I go in now, and
confront him at his devilish work?"

"It were better not," he said, after a brief struggle with his
feelings. "I am too excited, and cannot answer for myself. A false
step now might ruin all. First, let me cage my singing bird, and
then"--

He strode onwards and passed the house of Mrs. Loring with rapid
steps. There was a light in the parlor, and he heard the sound of
voices. Ten minutes after, he returned--the light was there still;
but though he went by slowly, with noiseless footsteps--listening--not
a murmur reached his ears.

"He is there, a subtle tempter, whispering his honeyed allurements!"
It was the fiend Jealousy speaking in his heart. "Madness!" he
ejaculated, and he strode up the marble steps. Grasping the bell, he
resolved to enter. But something held back his hand, and another
voice said--"Wait! Wait! A single error now were fatal."

Slowly he descended, his ear bent to the windows, listening--slowly,
still listening, he moved onwards again; his whole being convulsed
in a stronger conflict of passion than he had ever known--reason at
fault and perception blindfold.

A full half hour had elapsed, when Dexter reappeared. He was in a
calmer frame of mind. Reason was less at fault, and perception
clearer. His purpose was to go in now, confront Jessie and Mr.
Hendrickson, and act from that point onward as the nature of the
case might suggest. He glanced at the parlor windows. There was no
light there now. The visitor had departed. He felt relieved, yet
disappointed.

"Is Miss Loring at home?" he asked of the servant.

"Yes, sir." And he entered. The lights, which were burning low in
the parlors, were raised, and Dexter sat down and awaited the
appearance of Jessie.

How should he meet her? With the warmth of a lover, or the distance
of a mere acquaintance? Would it be wise to speak of his interview
with Mrs. Denison, or let that subject pass untouched by even the
remotest allusion? Mr. Dexter was still in debate, when he heard
some one descending the stairs. Steps were in the passage near the
door. He arose, and stood expectant.

"Miss Loring says, will you please excuse her this evening?"

"Excuse her!" Mr. Dexter could not veil his surprise. "Why does she
wish to be excused, Mary?"

"I don't know sir. She didn't say."

"Is she sick?"

"I don't think she is very well. Something isn't right with her,
poor child!"

"What isn't right with her?"

"I don't know, sir. But she was crying when I went into her room."

"Crying?"

"Yes, sir; and she cries a great deal, all alone there by herself,
sir," added Mary, who had her own reasons for believing that Dexter
was not really the heart-choice of Jessie--and with the tact of her
sex, took it upon herself to throw a little cold water over his
ardor. It may be that she hoped to give it a thorough chill.

"What does she cry about, Mary?"

"Dear knows, sir! I often wonder to see it, and she so soon to be
married. It doesn't look just natural. There's something wrong."

"Wrong? How wrong, Mary?"

"That's just what I asked myself over and over again," replied the
girl.

"She had a visitor here to-night," said Dexter, after a moment or
two. He tried to speak indifferently; but the quick perception of
Mary detected the covert interest in his tones.

"Yes." A single cold monosyllable was her reply.

"Who was he?"

"'Deed I don't know, sir."

"Was he a stranger?"

"I didn't see him, sir," answered Mary.

"You let him in?"

"No, sir. The cook went to the door."

Dexter bit his lips with disappointment.

"Will you say to Miss Loring that I wish to see her particularly
to-night."

Mary hesitated.

"Why don't you take up my request?" He spoke with covert impatience.

"I am sure she wishes to be excused to-night," persisted the girl.
"She's not at all herself; and it will be cruel to drag her down."

But Dexter waved his hand, and said, sharply:

"I wish to hear no more from you, Miss Pert! Go to Miss Loring, and
tell her that she will confer a favor by seeing me this evening. I
can receive no apology but sickness."

Jessie was sitting as Mary had left her, both hands covering her
face, when that kind-hearted creature returned.

"It's too much!" exclaimed the girl, as she entered. "He must see
you, he says. I told him you wasn't well, and wished to be excused.
But no, he must see you! Something's gone wrong with him. He's all
out of sorts, and spoke as if he'd take my head off. He really
frightened me!"

Jessie drew a long deep sigh.

"If I must, I must," she said, rising and looking at her face in the
mirror.

"_I_ wouldn't go one step, Miss Jessie, if I were you. I'd like to
see the man who dared order me down in this style. He's jealous;
that's the long and short of it. Punish him--he deserves it."

"Jealous, Mary?" Miss Loring turned to the girl with a startled
look. "Why do you say that?"

"Oh, he asked me if you hadn't a visitor to-night."

"Well?"

"I said yes. Only 'yes,' and no more."

"Why yes, and no more?" asked Miss Loring.

"D'ye think I was going to gratify him! What business had he to ask
whether you had a visitor or not? You ain't sold to him."

"Mary!" There was reproof in the look and voice of Miss Loring. "You
must not speak so of Mr. Dexter."

"Well, I won't if it displeases you. But I was downright mad with
him."

"You said yes to his question. What then, Mary?"

"Oh, then he wanted to know who he was."

"Did you tell him?"

"No."

"Why? And what did you answer?"

"I wasn't going to gratify him; and I said that I didn't know."

"Well?"

"'Was he a stranger?' said he. 'I didn't see him,' said I. 'You let
him in?' said he. 'No, the cook went to the door,' said I. You
should have seen him then. He was baffled. Then looking almost
savage, he bid me tell you that you must see him to-night."

"_Must_ see him! Did he say _must_?"

There was rebellion in Jessie's voice.

"Well no, not just that word. But he looked and meant it, which is
all the same."

"Then he doesn't know who called to see me?"

"Not from all he got from me, miss. But you're not going down?"

"Yes, Mary; I will see him as he desires. Go and say that I will
join him in a few minutes."

The girl obeyed, and Jessie, after struggling a few moments with her
feelings, went down to the parlor, where Mr. Dexter awaited her.

"I am sorry to learn that you are not well this evening," said the
young man, as he advanced across the room, with his eyes fixed
intently on the face of his betrothed. She tried to smile, and
receive him with her usual kindness of manner. But this was
impossible. She had been profoundly disturbed, and that too recently
for self-possession.

"What ails you? Has anything happened?"

Jessie had not yet trusted her lips with words. The tones of Dexter
evinced some fretfulness.

"I am not very well," she said, partly turning away her face that
she might avoid the searching scrutiny of his eyes.

Dexter took her hand and led her to a sofa. They sat down, side by
side, in silence--ice between them.

"Have you been indisposed all day?" inquired Dexter.

"I have not been very well for some time," was answered in a husky
voice, and in a manner that he thought evasive.

Again there was silence.

"I called to see Mrs. Denison this evening," said Dexter; and then
waited almost breathlessly for a response, looking at Jessie
stealthily to note the effect of his words.

"Did you?"

There was scarcely a sign of interest in her voice.

"Yes. You have met her, I believe?"

"A few times."

"Have you seen her recently?"

"No."

Dexter gained nothing by this advance.

"What do you think of her?" he added, after a pause.

"She is a lady of fine social qualities and superior worth."

Again the young man was silent. He could not discover by Jessie's
manner that she had any special interest in Mrs. Denison. This was
some relief; for it removed the impression that there was an
understanding between them.

"I don't admire her a great deal," he said, with an air of
indifference. "She's a little too prying and curious; and I'm
afraid, likes to gossip."

"Ah! I thought her particularly free from that vice."

"I had that impression also. But my interview this evening gave me a
different estimate of her character."

"Did you come from Mrs. Denison's directly here?" asked Jessie in a
changed tone, as if some thought of more than common interest had
flitted through her mind. This change Dexter did not fail to
observe.

"I did," was his answer.

"Then I may infer," said Jessie, "that your pressing desire to see
me this evening has grown out of something you heard from the lips
of Mrs. Denison. Am I right in this conclusion?"

Dexter was not quite prepared for this. After a slight hesitation he
answered--

"Partly so."

The cold indifferent manner of Jessie Loring passed away directly.

"If you have anything to communicate, as of course you have, say on,
Mr. Dexter."

As little prepared was he for this; and quite as little for the
almost stately air with which Jessie drew up her slight form,
returning his glances with so steady a gaze that his eyes fell.

The hour and the opportunity had come. But Leon Dexter had neither
the manliness nor the courage to speak.

"Did Mrs. Denison introduce my name?" asked Jessie, seeing that her
lover had failed to answer. There was not a quiver in her voice, nor
the slightest failing in her eyes.

"Yes; casually." Dexter spoke with evasion.

"What did she say?"

"Nothing but what was good," said Dexter, now trying to resume his
wonted pleasant exterior. "What else could she say? You look as if
there had been a case of slander."

"She said something in connection with my name," answered Jessie
firmly, "that disturbed you. Now as you have disclosed so much, I
must know all."

"I have made no disclosures." Dexter seemed annoyed.

"You said you were at Mrs. Denison's."

"Yes."

"And said it with a meaning. I noticed both tone and manner. You
came directly here, according to your own admission, and asked for
me. Not being well, I desired to be excused. But you would take no
excuse. Your manner to the servant was not only disturbed, but
imperative. To me it is constrained, and altogether different from
anything I have hitherto noticed. So much is disclosed. Now I wish
you to go on and tell the whole story. Then we shall understand each
other. What has Mrs. Denison said about me that has so ruffled your
feelings?"

There was no retreat for the perplexed young man. He must go forward
in some path--straight or tortuous--manly or evasive. There was too
much apparent risk in the former; and so he chose the latter. All at
once his exterior changed. The clouded brow put on a sunny aspect.

"Forgive me, dear Jessie!" he said with ardor, and a restored
tenderness of manner. "True love has ever a touch of jealousy; and
something that Mrs. Denison intimated aroused that darker passion.
But the shadowed hour has passed, and I am in the clear sunlight
again."

He raised her hand to his lips, and kissed it with fervor.

"What did she intimate?" asked Miss Loring. Her manner was less
excited, and her tone less imperative.

"What I now see to be false," said Dexter. "I was disturbed because
I imagined intrigue, and a purpose to rob me of something I prize
more dearly than life--the love of my Jessie."

"Intrigue!" was answered; "you fill me with surprise. Mrs. Denison,
if I understand her, is incapable of anything so dishonorable."

"I don't know." Mr. Dexter spoke with the manner of one in doubt,
and as if questioning his own thoughts. "She has filled my mind with
dark suspicions. Why, Jessie!" and he assumed a more animated
exterior, "she went so far as to intimate a disingenuous spirit in
you!"

"In me!" Miss Loring's surprise was natural. "Disingenuousness!"

"That word is not the true one," said Dexter. "What she said meant
something more."

"What?"

"That you were--but I will not pain your ears, darling! Forgive my
foolish indignation. Love with me is so vital a thing, that the
remotest suspicion of losing its object, brings smarting pain. You
are all the world to me, Jessie, and the intimation"--

"Of what, Leon?"

He had left the sentence unfinished. Dexter was holding one of her
hands. She did not attempt to withdraw it.

"That you were false to me!"

The words caused Miss Loring to spring to her feet. Bright spots
burned on her cheeks, and her eyes flashed.

"False to you! What did she mean by such words?" was demanded.

"It was the entering wedge of suspicion," said Dexter. "But the
trick has failed. My heart tells me that you are the soul of honor.
If I was disturbed, is that a cause of wonder? Would not such an
allegation against me have disturbed you? It would! But that your
heart is pure and true as an angel's, I best know of all the living.
Dear Jessie!" and he laid a kiss upon her burning cheek.

"I shall never cease to blame myself for the part I have played this
evening. Had I loved you less I had been calmer."

"False in what way?" asked Miss Loring, unsatisfied with so vague an
answer.

"False to your vows, of course. What else could she mean?"

"Did she say that?"

"No--of course not. But she conveyed the meaning as clearly as if
she had uttered the plainest language."

"What were her words?" asked Miss Loring.

"I cannot repeat them. She spoke with great caution, keeping remote,
as to words, from the matter first in her thought, yet filling my
mind with vague distrust, or firing it with jealousy at every
sentence."

"Can you fix a single clear remark--something that I can repeat?"

"Not one. The whole interview impresses me like a dream. Only the
disturbance remains. But let it pass as a dream, darling--a
nightmare created by some spirit of evil. A single glance into your
dear face and loving eyes rebukes my folly and accuses me of wrong.
We are all the world to each other, and no shadow even shall come
again between our souls and happiness."

Jessie resumed her seat and questioned no farther. Was she satisfied
with the explanation? Of course not. But her lover was adroit, and
she became passive.

"You cannot wonder now," he said, "that I was so anxious to see you
this evening. I might have spared you this interview, and it would
have been better, perhaps, if I had done so. But excited lovers are
not always the most reasonable beings in the world. I could not have
slept to-night. Now I shall find the sweetest slumber that has yet
refreshed my spirit--and may your sleep, dearest, be gentle as the
sleep of flowers! I will leave you now, for I remember that you are
far from being well this evening. It will grieve me to think that my
untimely intrusion, and this disturbing hour, may increase the pain
you suffer or rob you of a moment's repose.--Good night, love!" and
he kissed her tenderly. "Good night, precious one!" he added. "May
angels be your companions through the dark watches, and bring you to
a glorious morning!"

He left her, and moved towards the door; yet lingered, for his mind
was not wholly at ease in regard to the state of Jessie's feelings.
She had not repelled him in any way--but his ardent words and acts
were too passively received. She was standing where he had parted
from her, with her eyes upon the floor.

"Jessie!"

She looked up.

"Good night, dear!"

"Good night, Mr. Dexter."

"Mr. Dexter!" The young man repeated the words between his teeth, as
he passed into the street a moment afterwards. "Mr. Dexter! and in
tones that were cold as an icicle!"

He strode away from the house of Mrs. Loring, but little comforted
by his interview with Jessie, and with the fiend Jealousy a
permanent guest in his heart.




CHAPTER X.


LEON DEXTER was not wrong in his suspicions. It was Hendrickson who
visited Miss Loring on the evening of his interview with Mrs.
Denison. The young man had striven, with all the power he possessed,
to overcome his fruitless passion--but striven in vain.--The image
of Miss Loring had burned itself into his heart, and become
ineffaceable. The impression she had made upon him was different
from that made by any woman he had yet chanced to meet, and he felt
that, in some mysterious way, their destinies were bound up
together. That, in her heart, she preferred him to the man who was
about to sacrifice her at the marriage altar he no longer doubted.

"Is it right to permit this sacrifice?" The question had thrust
itself upon him for days and weeks.

"Leon Dexter cannot fill the desire of her heart." Thus he talked
with himself. "She does not love; and to such a woman marriage
unblessed by love must be a condition worse than death. No--no! It
shall not be! Steadily she is moving on, nerved by a false sense of
honor; and unless some one comes to the rescue, the fatal vow will
be made that seals the doom of her happiness and mine. It must
not--shall not be! Who so fitting as I to be her rescuer? She loves
me! Eyes, lips, countenance, tones, gestures, all have been my
witnesses. Only an hour too late! Too late? No--no! I will not
believe the words! She shall yet be mine!"

It was in this spirit, and under the pressure of such feelings, that
Paul Hendrickson visited Jessie Loring on the night Dexter saw him
enter the house. The interview was not a very long one, as the
reader knows. He sent up his card, and Miss Loring returned for
answer, that she would see him in a few moments. Full five minutes
elapsed before she left her room. It had taken her nearly all that
time to school her agitated feelings; for on seeing his name, her
heart had leaped with an irrepressible impulse. She looked down into
her heart, and questioned as to the meaning of this disturbance. The
response was clear. Paul Hendrickson was more to her than any living
man!

"He should have spared me an interview, alone," she said to herself.
"Better for both of us not to meet."

This was her state of feeling, when after repressing, as far as
possible, every unruly emotion, she left her room and took her way
down stairs.

"Is not this imprudent?" The mental question arrested the footsteps
of Miss Loring, ere she had proceeded five paces from the door of
her chamber.

"Is not what imprudent?" was answered back in her thoughts.

"What folly is this!" she said, in self-rebuke, and passed onward.

"Miss Loring!" There was too much feeling in Hendrickson's manner.
But its repression, under the circumstances, was impossible.

"Mr. Hendrickson!" The voice of Miss Loring betrayed far more of
inward disturbance than she wished to appear.

Their hands met. They looked into each other's eyes--then stood for
some moments in mutual embarrassment.

"You are almost a stranger," said Jessie, conscious that any remark
was better, under the circumstances, than silence.

"Am I?" Hendrickson still held her hand, and still gazed into her
eyes. The ardor of his glances reminded her of duty and of danger.
Her hand disengaged itself from his--her eyes fell to the floor--a
deep crimson suffused her countenance. They seated themselves--she
on the sofa, and he on a chair drawn close beside, or rather nearly
in front of her. How heavily beat the maiden's heart! What a
pressure, almost to suffocation, was on her bosom! She felt an
impending sense of danger, but lacked the resolution to flee.

"Miss Loring," said Hendrickson, his unsteady voice betraying his
inward agitation, "when I last saw you"--

"Sir!" There was a sudden sternness in the young girl's voice, and a
glance of warning in her eye. But the visitor was not to be driven
from his purpose.

"It is _not_ too late, Jessie Loring!" He spoke with eagerness.

She made a motion as if about to rise, but he said in a tone that
restrained her.

"No, Miss Loring! You _must_ hear what I have to say to-night."

She grew very pale; but looked at him steadily.

So unexpected were his intimations--so imperative his manner, that
she was, in a degree, bereft for the time of will.

"You should have spared me this, Mr. Hendrickson," she answered,
sadly, and with a gentle rebuke in her tones.

"I would endure years of misery to save you from a moment's pain!"
was quickly replied. "And it is in the hope of being able to call
down Heaven's choicest blessings on your head, that I am here
to-night. Let me speak without reserve. Will you hear me?"

Miss Loring made no sigh; only her eyelids drooped slowly, until the
bright orbs beneath were hidden and the dark lashes lay softly on
her colorless cheeks.

"There is one thing, Miss Loring," he began, "known to yourself and
me alone. It is our secret. Nay! do not go! Let me say on now, and I
will ever after hold my peace. If this marriage contract, so
unwisely made, is not broken, two lives will be made wretched--yours
and mine. You do not love Mr. Dexter! You cannot love him! That were
as impossible as for light to be enamored of dark"--

"I will not hear you!" exclaimed Miss Loring, starting to her feet.
But Hendrickson caught her hand and restrained her by force.

"You must hear me!" he answered passionately.

"I dare not!"

"This once! I must speak now, and you must hear! God has given you
freedom of thought and freedom of will. Let both come into their
true activity. The holiest things of your life demand this, Miss
Loring. Sit down and be calm again, and let us talk calmly. I will
repress all excitement, and speak with reason. You shall hearken and
decide. There--I thank you"--

Jessie had resumed her seat.

"We have read each other's hearts, Miss Loring," Hendrickson went
on. His voice had regained its firmness, and he spoke in low, deep,
emphatic tones. "I, at least, have read yours, and you know mine.
Against your own convictions and your own feelings, you have been
coerced into an engagement of marriage with a man you do not, and
never can, love as a wife should love a husband. Consummate that
engagement, and years of wretchedness lie before you. I say nothing
of Mr. Dexter as regards honor, probity, and good feeling. I believe
him to be a man of high integrity. His character before the world is
blameless--his position one to be envied. But you do not love
him--you cannot love him. Nay it is idle to repel the assertion. I
have looked down too deeply into your heart. I know how its pulses
beat, Jessie Loring! There is only one living man who has the power
to unlock its treasures of affection. To all others it must remain
eternally sealed. I speak solemnly--not vainly. And your soul echoes
the truth of my words. It is not yet too late!"

"You should not have said this, Mr. Hendrickson!" Jessie resolutely
disengaged the hand he had taken, and was clasping with almost
vice-like pressure, and arose to her feet. He did not rise, but sat
looking up into her pale suffering face, with the light of hope,
which for a moment had flushed his own, fast decaying.

"You should not have said this, Mr. Hendrickson!" she repeated, in a
steadier voice. "It is too late, and only makes my task the
harder--my burden heavier. But God helping me, I will walk forward
in the right path, though my feet be lacerated at every step."

"Is it a right path, Miss Loring? I declare it to be the wrong
path!" said Hendrickson.

"Let God and my own conscience judge!" was firmly answered. "And
now, sir, leave me. Oh, leave me."

"And you are resolute?"

"I am! God being my helper, I will go forward in the path of duty.
When I faint and fall by the way through weakness, the trial will
end."

"Friends, wealth, social attractions--all that the world can give
will be yours. But my way must be lonely--my heart desolate. I shall
be"--

"Go, sir!" Miss Loring's voice was imperative, and there was a flash
like indignation in her eyes. "Go sir!" she repeated. "This is
unmanly!"

The last sentence stung Mr. Hendrickson, and he arose quickly. Miss
Loring, who saw the effect of her words, threw up, with a woman's
quick instinct, this further barrier between them--

"I marvel, sir, knowing, as you do, the sacred obligations under
which I rest, that you should have dared utter language such as my
ears have been compelled to hear this night! I take it as no
compliment, sir."

The young man attempted to speak; but with a sternness of manner
that sent a chill to his heart, she motioned him to be silent, and
went on--

"Let this, sir, be the last time you venture to repeat what I cannot
but regard as dis"--

Dishonorable was the word on her lips, but she suddenly checked
herself. She could not say that to him.

Waking or sleeping, alone or in society, for weeks, months and years
afterwards, the image of that young man's despairing face, as she
saw it then, was ever before her.

"Insult! Dishonor!" he said, as if speaking to himself. "I could die
for her--but not that!--not that!"

And without a parting glance or a parting word, Paul Hendrickson
turned from the woman who was destined to influence his whole life,
and left her alone in his bewilderment and wretchedness. It is
difficult to say on which heart the heaviest pressure fell, or which
life was most hopeless. It is alleged that only men die of broken
hearts--that women can bear the crushing heel of disappointment,
live on and endure, while men fall by the way, and perish in the
strife of passion. It may be so. We know not. In the present case
the harder lot was on Miss Loring. If she bore her pain with less of
exterior token, it is no argument in favor of the lighter suffering.
The patiently enduring oftenest bear the most.




CHAPTER XI.


THE efforts which were made to save Miss Loring, only had the effect
to render the sacrifice more acutely painful. Evil instead of good
followed Mrs. Denison's appeals to Mr. Dexter. They served but to
arouse the demon jealousy in his heart. Upon Hendrickson's movements
he set the wariest surveillance. Twice, since that never-to-be-forgotten
evening he met the young man in company when Jessie was present. With
an eye that never failed for an instant in watchfulness, he noted his
countenance and movements; and he kept on his betrothed as keen an
observation. Several times he left her alone, in order to give
Hendrickson an opportunity to get into her company. But there was too
studied avoidance of contact. Had they met casually and exchanged a
few pleasant words, suspicion would have been allayed. As it was,
jealousy gave its own interpretation to their conduct.

On the last of these occasions referred to, from a position where he
deemed himself beyond the danger of casual observation, Hendrickson
searched with his eyes for the object of his undying regard. He saw
her, sitting alone, not far distant. Her manner was that of one lost
in thought--the expression of her countenance dreamy, and overcast
with a shade of sadness. How long he had been gazing upon her face,
the young man could not have told, so absorbed was he in the
feelings her presence had awakened, when turning almost
involuntarily his eyes caught the gleam of another pair of eyes that
were fixed intently upon him. So suddenly had he turned, that the
individual observing him was left without opportunity to change in
any degree the expression of his eyes or countenance. It was almost
malignant. That individual was Leon Dexter.

In spite of himself, Hendrickson showed confusion, and was unable to
return the steady gaze that rested upon him. His eyes fell. When he
looked up again, which was in a moment, Dexter had left his
position, and was crossing the room towards Miss Loring.

"It is the fiend Jealousy!" said Hendrickson, as he withdrew into
another room. "Well--let it poison all the springs of his happiness,
as he has poisoned mine! I care not how keen may be his sufferings."

He spoke with exceeding bitterness.

A few weeks later, and the dreaded consummation came. In honor of
the splendid alliance formed by her niece, Mrs. Loring gave a most
brilliant wedding party, and the lovely bride stood forth in all her
beauty and grace--the admired and the envied. A few thought her
rather pale--some said her eyes were too dreamy--and a gossip or two
declared that the rich young husband had only gained her person,
while her heart was in the keeping of another. "She has not married
the man, but his wealth and position!" was the unguarded remark of
one of these thoughtless individuals; and by a singular fatality,
the sentence reached the ears of Mr. Dexter. Alas! It was but
throwing another fagot on the already kindling fires of unhallowed
jealousy. The countenance of the young husband became clouded; and
it was only by an effort that he could arouse himself, and assume a
gay exterior. The prize after which he had sprung with such eager
haste, distancing all competitors, was now his own. Binding vows had
been uttered, and the minister had said--"What God hath joined
together, let not man put asunder." Yet, even in his hour of
triumph, came the troubled conviction that, though he had gained the
beautiful person of his bride, he could not say surely that her more
beautiful soul was all his own.

And so there was a death's head at his feast; and the costly wine
was dashed with bitterness.

Of what was passing in the mind of Dexter his bride had no
knowledge; nor did her keen instincts warn her that the demon of
jealousy was already in his heart. Suffering, and the colder spirit
of endurance that followed, had rendered her, in a certain sense,
obtuse in this direction.

A full-grown, strong woman, had Jessie become suddenly. The gentle,
tenderly-loving, earnest, simple-hearted girl, could never have
sustained the part it was hers to play. Unless a new and more
vigorous life had been born in her, she must have fallen. But now
she stood erect, shading her heart from her own eyes, and gathering
from principle strength for duty. Very pure--very true she was. Yet,
in her new relation, purity and truth were shrined in a cold
exterior. It were not possible to be otherwise. She did not love her
husband in any thing like the degree she was capable of loving. It
was not in him to find the deep places of her heart. But true to him
she could be, and true to him it was her purpose to remain.

Taking all the antecedents of this case, we will not wonder, when
told that quite from the beginning of so inharmonious a union,
Dexter found himself disappointed in his bride. He was naturally
ardent and demonstrative; while, of necessity, she was calm, cold,
dignified--or simply passive. She was never unamiable or capricious;
and rarely opposed him in anything reasonable or unreasonable. But
she was reserved almost to constraint at times--a vestal at the
altar, rather than a loving wife. He was very proud of her, as well
he might be; for she grew peerless in beauty. But her beauty was
from the development of taste, thought, and intellect. It was not
born of the affections. Yes, Leon Dexter was sadly disappointed. He
wanted something more than all this.

Lifted from an almost obscure position, as the dependent niece of
Mrs. Loring, the young wife of Mr. Dexter found herself in a larger
circle, and in the society of men and women of more generally
cultivated tastes. She soon became a centre of attraction; for
taste attracts taste, mind seeks mind. And where beauty is added,
the possessor has invincible charms. It did not escape the eyes of
Dexter that, in the society of other men, his young wife was gayer
and more vivacious than when with him. This annoyed him so
much, that he began to act capriciously, as it seemed to Jessie.
Sometimes he would require her to leave a pleasant company long
before the usual hour, and sometimes he would refuse to go with her
to parties or places of amusement, yet give no reasons that were
satisfactory. On these occasions, a moody spirit would come over
him. If she questioned, he answered with evasion, or covert
ill-nature.

The closer union of an external marriage did not invest the husband
with any new attractions for his wife. The more intimately she knew
him, the deeper became her repugnance. He had no interior qualities
in harmony with her own. An intensely selfish man, it was impossible
for him to inspire a feeling of love in a mind so pure in its
impulses, and so acute in its perceptions. If Mrs. Dexter had been a
worldly-minded woman--a lover of--or one moved by the small
ambitions of fashionable life--her husband would have been all well
enough. She would have been adjoined to him in a way altogether
satisfactory to her tastes, and they would have circled their orbit
of life without an eccentric motion. But the deeper capacities and
higher needs of Mrs. Dexter, made this union quite another thing.
Her husband had no power to fill her soul--to quicken her
life-pulses--to stir the silent chords of her heart with the deep,
pure, ravishing melodies they were made to give forth. That she was
superior to him mentally, Mr. Dexter was not long in discovering.
Very rapidly did her mind, quickened by a never-dying pain, spring
forward towards its culmination. Of its rapid growth in power and
acuteness, he only had evidence when he listened to her in
conversation with men and women of large acquirements and polished
tastes. Alone with him, her mind seemed to grow duller every day;
and if he applied the spur, it was only to produce a start, not a
movement onwards.

Alas for Leon Dexter! He had caged his beautiful bird; but her song
had lost, already, its ravishing sweetness.




CHAPTER XII.


THE first year of trial passed. If the young wife's heart-history
for that single year could be written, it would make a volume, every
pages of which the reader would find spotted with his tears. No
pen but that of the sufferer could write that history; and to her,
no second life, even in memory, were endurable. The record is sealed
up--and the story will not be told.

It is not within the range of all minds to comprehend what was
endured. Wealth, position, beauty, admiration, enlarged
intelligence, and highly cultivated tastes, were hers. She was the
wife of a man who almost worshipped her, and who ceased not to woo
her with all the arts he knew how to practise. Impatient he became,
at times, with her impassiveness, and fretted by her coldness.
Jealous of her he was always. But he strove to win that love which,
ere his half-coercion of her into marriage, he had been warned he
did not possess--but his strivings were in vain. He was a meaner
bird, and could not mate with the eagle.

To Mrs. Dexter, this life was a breathing death. Yet with a
wonderful power of endurance and self-control, she moved along her
destined way, and none of the people she met in society--nor even
her nearest friends--had any suspicion of her real state of mind. As
a wife, her sense of honor was keen. From that virtuous poise, her
mind had neither variableness nor shadow of turning. No children
came with silken wrappings to hide and make softer the bonds that
held her to her husband in a union that only death could dissolve;
the hard, icy, galling links of the chain were ever visible, and
their trammel ever felt. Cold and desolate the elegant home
remained.

In society, Mrs. Dexter continued to hold a brilliant position. She
was courted, admired, flattered, envied--the attractive centre to
every circle of which she formed a part. Rarely to good advantage
did her husband appear, for her mind had so far outrun his in
strength and cultivation, that the contrast was seriously against
him--and he felt it as another barrier between them.

One year of pride was enough for Mr. Dexter. A beautiful, brilliant,
fashionable wife was rather a questionable article to place on
exhibition; there was danger, he saw, in the experiment. And so he
deemed it only the dictate of prudence to guard her from temptation.
An incident determined him. They were at Newport, in the mid-season;
and their intention was to remain there two weeks. They had been to
Saratoga, where the beauty and brilliancy of Mrs. Dexter drew around
her some of the most intelligent and attractive men there. All at
once her husband suggested Newport.

"I thought we had fixed on next week," said Mrs. Dexter, in reply.

"I am not well," was the answer. "The sea air will do me good."

"We will go to-morrow, then," was the unhesitating response. Not
made with interest or feeling; but promptly, as the dictate of
wifely duty.

Just half an hour previous to this brief interview, Mr. Dexter was
sitting in one of the parlors, and near him were two men, strangers,
in conversation. The utterance by one of them of his wife's name,
caused him to be on the instant all attention.

"She's charming!" was the response.

"One of the most fascinating women I have ever met! and my
observation, as you know, is not limited. She would produce a
sensation in Paris."

"Is she a young widow?"

"No--unfortunately."

"Who, or what is her husband?" was asked.

"A rich nobody, I'm told."

"Ah! He has taste."

"Taste in beautiful women, at least," was the rejoinder.

"Is he here?"

"I believe so. He would hardly trust so precious a jewel as that out
of his sight. They say he is half-maddened by jealousy."

"And with reason, probably. Weak men, with brilliant, fashionable
wives, have cause for jealousy. He's a fool to bring her right into
the very midst of temptation."

"Can't help himself, I presume. It might not be prudent to
attempt the caging system."

A low, chuckling laugh followed. How the blood did go rushing and
seething through the veins of Leon Dexter!

"I intend to know more of her," was continued. "Where do they live?"

"In B--."

"Ah! I shall be there during the winter."

"She sees a great deal of company, I am told. Has weekly or monthly
'evenings' at which some of the most intellectual people in the city
may be found."

"Easy of access, I suppose?"

"No doubt of it."

Dexter heard no more. On the next day he started with his wife for
Newport. The journey was a silent one. They had ceased to converse
much when alone. And now there were reasons why Mr. Dexter felt
little inclination to intrude any common-places upon his wife.

They were passing into the hotel, on their arrival, when Mr. Dexter,
who happened to be looking at his wife, saw her start, flush, and
then turn pale. It was the work of an instant. His eyes followed the
direction of hers, but failed to recognize any individual among the
group of persons near them as the one who thus affected her by his
presence. He left her in one of the parlors, while he made
arrangements for rooms. In a few minutes he returned. She was
sitting as he had left her, seeming scarcely to have stirred during
his absence. Her eyes were on the floor, and when he said, "Come,
Jessie!" she started and looked up at him, in a confused way.

"Our apartments are ready; come."

He had to speak a second time before she seemed to comprehend his
meaning. She arose like one in deep thought, and moved along by her
husband's side, leaving the parlor, and going up to the rooms which
had been assigned to them. The change in her countenance and manner
was so great, that her husband could not help remarking upon it.

"Are you not well, Jessie?" he asked, as she sat down with a weary
air.

"Not very well," she answered--yet with a certain evasion of tone
that repelled inquiry.

Mr. Dexter scanned her countenance sharply. She lifted her eyes at
the moment to his face, and started slightly at the unusual meaning
she saw therein. A flush betrayed her disturbed condition; and a
succeeding pallor gave signs of unusual pain.

"Will you see a physician!"

"No--no!" she answered, quickly; "it was a momentary sickness--but
is passing off now." She arose as she said this, and commenced
laying aside her travelling garments. Mr. Dexter sat down, and
taking a newspaper from his pocket, pretended to read; but his
jealous eyes looked over the sheet, and rested with keen scrutiny on
the face of his wife whenever it happened to be turned towards him.
That she scarcely thought of his presence, was plain from the fact
that she did not once look at him. Suddenly, as if some new thought
had crossed his mind, Mr. Dexter arose, and after making some slight
changes in his dress, left the apartment and went down stairs. He
was evidently in search of some one; for he passed slowly, and with
wary eyes, along the passages, porticos and parlors. The result was
not satisfactory. He met several acquaintances, and lingered with
each in conversation; but the watchful searching eyes were never a
moment at rest.

The instant Mr. Dexter left the room, there was a change in his
wife. The half indifferent, almost listless manner gave place to one
that expressed deep struggling emotions. Her bent form became erect,
and she stood for a little while listening with her eyes upon the
door, as if in doubt whether her husband would not return. After the
lapse of two or three minutes, she walked to the door, and placing
her fingers on the key, turned it, locking herself in. This done,
she retired slowly towards a lounge by the window, nearly every
trace of excitement gone, and sitting down, was soon so entirely
absorbed in thought as scarcely to show a sign of external life.

It was half an hour from the time Mr. Dexter left his wife, when he
returned. His hand upon the lock aroused her from the waking dream
into which she had fallen. As she arose, her manner began to change,
and, ere she had reached the door, the quicker flowing blood was
restoring the color to her cheeks. She had passed through a long and
severe struggle; and woman's virtue, aided by woman's pride and
will, had conquered.

Mrs. Dexter spoke to her husband cheerfully as he came in, and met
his steady, searching look without a sign of confusion. He was at
fault. Yet not deceived.

"Are you better?" he asked.

"Much better," she replied; and turning from him, went on with the
arrangement of her toilet, which had been suspended from the period
of her husband's absence, until his return. Mr. Dexter passed into
their private parlor, adjoining the bedroom, and remained there
until his wife had finished dressing.

"Shall we go down?" he inquired, as she came in looking so beautiful
in his eyes that the very sight of her surpassing loveliness gave
him pain. The Fiend was in his heart.

"Not now," she replied "I am still fatigued with the day's travel,
and had rather not see company at present."

She glanced from the window.

"What a sublimity there is in the ocean!" she said, with an unusual
degree of interest in her manner, when speaking to her husband. "I
can never become so familiar with its grandeur and vastness, as to
look upon its face without emotion. You remember Byron's magnificent
apostrophe?--

"'Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll.'"

And she repeated several of the stanzas from "Childe Harold," with
an effect that stirred her husband's feelings more profoundly than
they had ever been stirred by nature and poetry before.

"I have read and heard that splendid passage many times, but never
with the meaning and power which your voice has lent to the poet's
words," said Dexter, gazing with admiration upon his wife.

He sat down beside her, and took her hand in his. Her eyes wandered
to his face, and lingered there as if she were searching the
lineaments for a sign of something that her heart could take hold
upon and cling to. And it was even so; for she felt that she needed
strength and protection in an hour of surely coming trial. A feeble
sigh and a drooping of the eyelids attested her disappointment. And
yet as he leaned towards her she did not sit more erect, but rather
suffered her body to incline to him. He still retained her hand, and
she permitted him to toy with it, even slightly returning the
pressure he gave.

"You shall be my teacher in the love of nature." He spoke with a
glow of true feeling. "The lesson of this evening I shall never
forget. Old ocean will always wear a different aspect in my eyes."

"Nature," replied Mrs. Dexter, "is not a mere dead symbol.--It is
something more--an outbirth from loving principles--the body of a
creating soul. The sea, upon whose restless surface we are gazing, is
something more than a briny fluid, bearing ships upon its
bosom--something more than a mirror for the arching heavens--something
more than a symbol of immensity and eternity. There is a truth in
nature far deeper, more divine, and of higher significance."

She paused, and for some moments her thoughts seemed floating away
into a world, the real things of which our coarser forms but feebly
represent.

"It must be so. I feel that it is so; yet what to you seems clear as
the sunbeams, hides itself from me in dusky shadows. But say on
Jessie. Your words are pleasant to my ears."

Mrs. Dexter seemed a little surprised at this language, for she
turned her eyes from the sea to his face, and looked at him with a
questioning gaze for some moments.

"This world is not the real world," she said, speaking earnestly and
gazing at him intently to see how far his thought reflected hers.

"Is not this real?" Dexter asked, raising the hand of his wife and
looking down upon it. "I call it a real hand."

"And I," said Mrs. Dexter, smiling, "call it only the appearance of
a hand; it is the real hand that vitalizes and gives it power. This
will decay--this appearance fade--but the real hand of my spirit
will live on, immortal in its power as the human soul of which it
makes a part."

"Into what strange labyrinths your mind is wandering Jessie!" said
Mr. Dexter, a slight shade of disapproval in his voice. "I am afraid
you are losing yourself."

"Rather say that I have been lost, and am finding myself in open
paths, with the blue sky instead of forest foliage above me."

"Your language is a myth, Jessie. I never heard of your being lost.
To me you have been ever present, walking in the sunlight, a divine
reality. Not the mere appearance of a woman; but a _real_ woman, and
my wife. Pray do not lose yourself now! Do not recede from an actual
flesh and blood existence into some world of dim philosophy whither
I cannot go. I am not ready for your translation."

Mr. Dexter was half playful, half serious. His reply disappointed
his wife. Her manner, warmer than usual, took on a portion of its
old reserve. But she went on speaking.

"The immortal soul, spiritual in its essence, yet organized in all
its minutest parts--cannot attain its full stature unless it
receives immortal food. The aliments of mere sensual life are for
the body, and the mind's lowest constituents of being; and they who
are content to feed on husks must sort with the common herd. I have
higher aspirations, my husband! I see within and above the animal
and sensuous a real world of truth and goodness, where, and where
only, the soul's immortal desires can be satisfied. With the key in
my hand shall I not enter? The common air is too thick for me. I
must perish or rise into purer atmospheres."

Mrs. Dexter paused, conscious that her husband did not appreciate
her meanings. He was listening intently, and striving apparently
after them; but to him only the things of sense were real; and he
was not able to comprehend how lasting pleasure was to flow from the
intellectual and spiritual. He did not answer, and she lapsed into
silence; all the fine enthusiasm that had filled her countenance so
full of a living beauty giving place to a cold, calm exterior. She
had hoped to quicken her husband's sluggish perceptions, and to
create in his mind an incipient love for the pure and beautiful
things after which her own mind was beginning to aspire.

In her intercourse with refined and intellectual persons, Mrs.
Dexter had made the acquaintance of a lady named Mrs. De Lisle. Her
residence was not far from Mrs. Dexter's and they met often for
pleasant and profitable conversation. In Mrs. De Lisle, Mrs. Dexter
found a woman of not only superior attainments, but one possessing
great purity of mind, and a high religious sense of duty. What
struck her in the very beginning was a new mode of weighing human
actions, and a quiet looking beneath the surface of things, and
estimating all she saw by the quality within instead of by the
appearance without. From the first, Mrs. Dexter was strongly
attracted by this lady; and it was a little remarkable that her
husband was as strongly repelled. He did not like her; and often
spoke of her sneeringly as using an unknown tongue. His wife
contended with him slightly at first in regard to Mrs. De Lisle; but
soon ceased to notice his captious remarks.

In Mrs. De Lisle, the struggling and suffering young creature had
found a true friend--not true in the sense of a weakly, sympathizing
friend, but more really true; one who could lift her soul up into
purer regions, and help it to acquire strength for duty.

There was another lady named Mrs. Anthony who had insinuated herself
into the good opinion of Mrs. Dexter, and partially, also, into her
confidence.

It does not take a quick-sighted woman long to comprehend the true
marital standing of the friend in whom she feels an interest. Both
Mrs. De Lisle and Mrs. Anthony soon discovered that no love was in
the heart of Mrs. Dexter, and that consequently, no interior
marriage existed. They saw also that Mr. Dexter was inferior,
selfish, captious at times, and kept his wife always under
surveillance, as if afraid of her constancy. The different conduct
of the ladies, touching this relation of Mrs. Dexter to her husband,
was in marked contrast. While Mrs. De Lisle never approached the
subject in a way to invite communication, Mrs. Anthony, in the most
adroit and insinuating manner, almost compelled a certain degree of
confidence--or at least admission that there was not and never could
be, any interior conjunction between herself and husband.

Mrs. Anthony was a highly intellectual and cultivated woman, with
fascinating manners, a strong will, and singularly fine
conversational powers. She usually exercised a controlling influence
over all with whom she associated. Happy it was for Mrs. Dexter that
a friend like Mrs. De Lisle came to her in the right time, and
filled her mind with right principles for her own pure instincts to
rest upon as an immovable foundation.

An hour spent in company with Mrs. Anthony always left Mrs. Dexter
in a state of disquietude, and suffering from a sense of restriction
and wrong. A feeling of alienation from her husband ever accompanied
this state, and her spirit beat itself about, striking against the
bars of conventional usage, until the bruised wings quivered with
pain. But an hour spent with Mrs. De Lisle left her in a very
different state. True thoughts were stirred, and the soul lifted
upwards into regions of light and beauty. There was no grovelling
about the earth, no fanning of selfish fires into smoky flames, no
probing of half-closed wounds until the soul writhed in a new-born
anguish--but instead, hopeful words, lessons of duty, and the
introduction of an ennobling spiritual philosophy, that gave
strength and tranquillity for the present, and promised the soul's
highest fruition in the surely coming future.

Both Mrs. De Lisle and Mrs. Anthony were at Saratoga. The
announcement of Mrs. Dexter that she was going to leave for Newport
so suddenly surprised them both, as it had been understood that she
was to remain for some time longer.

"My husband wishes to visit Newport now," was the answer of Mrs.
Dexter to the surprised exclamation of Mrs. Anthony.

"Tell him that you wish to remain here," replied Mrs. Anthony.

"He is not well, and thinks the sea air will do him good."

"Not well! I met him an hour ago, and never saw him looking better
in my life. Do you believe him?"

"Why not?" asked Mrs. Dexter.

Her friend laughed lightly, and then murmured--

"Simpleton! He's only jealous, and wants to get you away from your
admirers. Don't go."

Mrs. Dexter laughed with affected indifference, but her color rose.

"You wrong him," she said.

"Not I," was answered. "The signs are too apparent. I am a close
observer, my dear Mrs. Dexter, and know the meaning of most things
that happen to fall within the range of my observation. Your husband
is jealous. The next move will be to shut you up in your chamber,
and set a guard before the house. Now if you will take my advice,
you'll say to this unreasonable lord and master of yours, 'Please to
wait, sir, until I am ready to leave Saratoga. It doesn't suit me to
do so just now. If you need the sea, run away to Newport and get a
dash of old ocean. I require Congress water a little longer.' That's
the way to talk, my little lady. But don't for Heaven's sake begin
to humor his capricious fancies. If you do, it's all over."

Mrs. De Lisle was present, but made no remark. Mrs. Dexter parried
her friend's admonition with playful words.

"Will you come to my room when disengaged?" said the former, as she
rose to leave the parlor where they had been sitting.

"I will."

Mrs. De Lisle withdrew.

"You'll get a sermon on obedience to husbands," said Mrs. Anthony,
tossing her head and smiling a pretty, half sarcastic smile. "I've
one great objection to our friend."

"What is it?" inquired Mrs. Dexter.

"She's too proper."

"She's good," said Mrs. Dexter.

"I'll grant that; but then she's too good for me. I like a little
wickedness sometimes. It's spicy, and gives a flavor to character."

Mrs. Anthony laughed one of her musical laughs. But growing serious
in a moment, she said--

"Now, don't let her persuade you to humor that capricious husband of
yours. You are something more than an appendage to the man. God gave
you mind and heart, and created you an independent being. And a man
is nothing superior to this, that he should attempt to lord it over
his equal. I have many times watched this most cruel and exacting of
all tyrannies, and have yet to see the case where the yielding wife
could ever yield enough. Take counsel in time, my friend. Successful
resistance now, will cost but a trifling effort."

Mrs. Dexter neither accepted nor repelled the advice; but her
countenance showed that the remarks of Mrs. Anthony gave no very
pleasant hue to her thoughts.

"Excuse me," she said rising, "I must see Mrs. De Lisle."

Mrs. Anthony raised her finger, and gave Mrs. Dexter a warning look,
as she uttered the words--

"Don't forget."

"I won't," was answered.

Mrs. De Lisle received her with a serious countenance.

"You go to Newport in the morning?" she spoke, half-questioning and
half in doubt.

"Yes."

The countenance of Mrs. De Lisle brightened.

"I thought," she said, after a pause, "that I knew you."

She stopped, as if in doubt whether to go on.

Mrs. Dexter looked into her face a moment.

"You understand me?" Mrs. De Lisle added.

"I do."

Mrs. Dexter betrayed unusual emotion.

"Forgive me," said her friend, "if I have ventured on too sacred
ground. You know how deeply I am interested in you."

Tears filled the eyes of Mrs. Dexter; her lips quivered; every
muscle of her face betrayed an inward struggle.

"Dear friend!" Mrs. De Lisle reached out her hands, and Mrs. Dexter
leaned forward against her, hiding her face upon her breast. And now
strong spasms thrilled her frame; and in weakness she wept--wept a
long, long time. Nature had her way. But emotion spent itself, and a
deep calm followed.

"Dear, patient, much-enduring, true-hearted friend!"

Mrs. De Lisle spoke almost in a whisper, her lips, close to the ear
of Mrs. Dexter. The words, or at least some of them, had the effect
to rouse the latter from her half lethargic condition. Lifting her
face from the bosom of her friend, she looked up and said--

Patient? Much enduring?

"Is it not so? God give you wisdom, hope, triumph! I have looked
into your heart many times, Mrs. Dexter. Not curiously, not as a
study, not to see how well you could hide from common eyes its
hidden anguish, but in deep and loving compassion, and with a strong
desire to help and counsel. Will you admit me to a more sacred
friendship?"

"Oh, yes! Gladly! Thankfully!" replied Mrs. Dexter. "How many, many
times have I desired to open my heart to you; but dared not. Now, if
you have its secret, gained by no purposed act of mine, I will
accept the aid and counsel."

"You do not love," said Mrs. De Lisle--not in strong, emphatic
utterance--not even calmly--but in a low, almost reluctant voice.

"I am capable of the deepest love," was answered.

"I know it."

"What then?" Mrs. Dexter spoke with some eagerness.

"You are a wife."

"I am," with coldness.

"By your own consent?"

"It was extorted. But no matter. I accepted my present relation; and
I mean to abide the contract. Oh, my friend! you know not the pain I
feel in thus speaking, even to you. This is a subject over which I
drew the veil of what I thought to be eternal silence. You have
pushed it aside--not roughly, not with idle curiosity, but as a
loving friend and counsellor. And now if you can impart strength or
comfort, do so; for both are needed."

"The language of Mrs. Anthony pained me," said Mrs. De Lisle.

"Not more than it pained me," was the simple answer.

"And yet, Mrs. Dexter, though I observed you closely, I did not see
the indignant flush on your face, that I had hoped to see mantling
there."

"It was a simple schooling of the exterior. I felt that she was
venturing on improper ground; but I did not care to let my real
sentiments appear. Mrs. Anthony lacks delicacy in some things."

"Her remarks I regarded as an outrage. But seriously, Mrs. Dexter,
is your husband so much inclined to jealousy?"

"I am afraid so."

"Do you think his purpose to leave Saratoga in the morning, springs
from this cause?"

"I am not aware of any circumstance that should give rise to sudden
apprehension in his mind. There is no one that I have remarked as
offering me particular attentions. I am here, and cannot help the
fact that gentlemen of superior taste, education, and high mental
accomplishments, seem pleased with my society. I like to meet such
persons--I enjoy the intercourse of mind with mind. It is the only
compensating life I have. In it I forget for a little while my
heart's desolation. In all that it is possible for me to be true to
my husband, I am true; and I pray always that God will give me
strength to endure even unto the end. His fears wrong me! There is
not one of the scores of attractive men who crowd around me in
public, who has the power, by look, or word, or action, to stir my
heart with even the lightest throb of tender feeling. I have locked
the door, and the key is hidden."

Mrs. De Lisle did not answer, for some time.

"Your high sense of honor, pure heart, and womanly perceptions, are
guiding you right, I see!" she then remarked; "the ordeal is
terrible, but you will pass through unscathed."

"I trust so!" was murmured in a sad voice; "I trust to keep my
garments unspotted. Without blame, or suspicion of wrong, I cannot
hope to move onward in my difficult way. Nor can I always hope to be
patient under captious treatment, and intimations of unfaithfulness.
The last will doubtless come; for when the fiend jealousy has
enthroned itself in a man's heart, the most common-place actions may
be construed into guilty concessions. All this will be deeply
humiliating; and I know myself well enough to apprehend occasional
indignant reactions, or cool defiances. I possess a high, proud
spirit, which, if fairly aroused, is certain to lead me into
stubborn resistance. So far I have managed to hold this spirit in
abeyance; but if matters progress as they have begun, the climax of
endurance will ere long be reached."

"Great circumspection on your part will be needed," said Mrs. De
Lisle. "Remember always, your obligations as a wife. In consenting
to enter into the most solemn human compact that is ever made, you
assumed a position that gave you power over the happiness of
another. If, as I gather from some things you have said, you went to
the altar under constraint, an unloving bride, so much the more
binding on you are the promises then made to seek your husband's
happiness--even at the sacrifice of your own. In that act you
wronged him--wronged him as no woman has a right to wrong any man,
and you can never do enough by way of reparation."

"I was wronged," said Mrs. Dexter, her glance brightening, and a
warmth, like indignation, in her voice; "for I was dragged to that
marriage-altar against my will, and almost under protest. Mr. Dexter
knew that my heart was not his."

"You were a free woman!" replied Mrs. De Lisle.

"I was not free," Mrs. Dexter answered.

"Not free? Who or what constrained you to such an act?"

"My honor. In a moment of weakness, and under the fascination of a
strong masculine will, I plighted faith with Mr. Dexter. He knew at
the time that I did not love him as a woman should love the man she
consents to marry. He knew that he was extorting an unwilling
consent. And just so far he took an unmanly advantage of a weak
young girl. But the contract once made, truth and honor required its
fulfillment. At least, so said my aunt, to whom alone I confided my
secret; and so said my stern convictions of duty."

"So far from that," replied Mrs. De Lisle, "truth and honor required
its non-fulfillment; for neither in truth nor in honor, could you
take the marriage vows."

The directness with which Mrs. De Lisle stated this position of the
case, startled her auditor.

"Is it not so?" was calmly asked. "You are too much in the habit of
looking below the surface of things, to regard the formula of
marriage as an unmeaning array of words. In their full signification,
you could not utter the sentences you were required to speak--how
then, as regarding truth and honor, could you pronounce them in that
act of your life which, of all others, should have been most without
guile? I would have torn all such extorted promises into a thousand
tatters, and scattered them to the winds! The dishonor of breaking
them were nothing to the wrong of fulfillment. Witness your unhappy
lives!"

"Would to heaven you had been the friend of my girlhood!"

It was all the reply Mrs. Dexter made, as she bowed her head, like
one pressed down by a heavy burden.

"You will now comprehend, more clearly than before," said Mrs. De
Lisle, "your present duty to your husband. He thought that he was
gaining a wife, and you, in wedding him promised to him to be a
wife--promised with a deep conviction in your soul that the words
were empty utterances. The case is a sad one, viewed in any aspect;
but pardon me for saying, that you were most to blame. He was an
ardent lover, whom you had fascinated; a man of superficial
character, and not competent, at the time, to weigh the consequences
of an act he was so eager to precipitate. To possess, he imagined
was to enjoy. But you were better versed in the heart's lore, and
knew he would wake up, ere many moons had passed, to the sad
discovery that what he had wooed as substance was only a cheating
shadow. And he is waking up. Every day he is becoming more and more
clearly convinced that you do not love him, and can never be to him
the wife he had fondly hoped to gain. Have you not laid upon
yourself a binding obligation? Is it a light thing so to mar the
whole life of man? Your duty is plain, Mrs. Dexter. Yield all to him
you can, and put on towards him always the sunniest aspects and
gentlest semblances of your character. If he is capricious, humor
him; if suspicious, act with all promptness in removing suspicion to
the extent of your power. Make soft the links of the chain that
binds you together, with downy coverings. Truth, honor, duty,
religion, all require this."

"Dear friend!" said Mrs. Dexter, grasping the hand of Mrs. De Lisle,
"you have lifted me out of a thick atmosphere, through which my eyes
saw everything in an uncertain light, up into a clear seeing region.
Yes, truth, honor, duty, religion, all speak to my convictions; and
with all the truth that in me lieth, will I obey their voice. But
love is impossible, and its semblance in me is so faint that my
husband cannot see the likeness. There lies the difficulty. He wants
a fond, tender, loving wife--a pet and a plaything. These he can
never find in me; for, Heaven help me! Mrs. De Lisle, his sphere
grows more and more repulsive every day, and I shudder sometimes at
the thought of unmitigated disgust!"

"Do your best, my friend," was the answer of of Mrs. De Lisle.
"Fill, to the utmost of your ability, all your wifely relations, and
seek to develop in your husband those higher qualities of thought
and feeling to which your spirit can attach itself. And above all,
do not listen to such erroneous counsels as Mrs. Anthony gave just
now. If followed they will surely produce a harvest of misery."

"Thanks, good counsellor! I will heed your words. They come in the
right time, and strengthen my better purposes," said Mrs. Dexter.
"To-morrow I shall leave with my husband for Newport, and he shall
see in me no signs of reluctance. Nor do I care, except to leave
your company. I will find as much to keep my thoughts busy at
Newport as here."




CHAPTER XIII.


THE effort to interest her husband in things purely intellectual
failed, and a shade of disappointment settled on the feelings of
Mrs. Dexter. She soared, altogether, too far up into the mental
atmosphere for him. He thought her ideal and transcendental; and she
felt that only the sensual principles in his mind were living and
active. Conversation died between them, and both relapsed into that
abstracted silence--musing on one side and moody on the other--which
filled so large a portion of their time when together.

"Shall we go down to the parlors?" said Mr. Dexter, rousing himself.
"The afternoon is running away fast towards evening."

"I am more fatigued than usual," was answered, "and do not care to
make my appearance before tea-time. You go down; and I will occupy
myself with a book. When the tea-bell rings, I will wait for you to
come and escort me to the table."

Mr. Dexter did not urge his wife to leave their rooms, but went down
as she had suggested. The moment he left her, there occurred a great
change in her whole appearance. She was sitting on a lounge by the
window. Instead of rising to get a book, or seeking for any external
means of passing a solitary hour, she shrunk down in her seat,
letting her eyes droop gradually to the floor. At first, her
countenance was disturbed; but its aspect changed to one of deep
abstraction. And thus she sat for nearly an hour. The opening of her
room door startled her into a life of external consciousness.
Her husband entered. She glanced at his face, and saw that something
had occurred to ruffle his feelings. He looked at her strangely for
some moments, as if searching for expected meanings in her
countenance.

"Are you not well?" Mrs. Dexter asked.

"Oh, yes, I'm well enough," he answered with unusual abruptness of
manner.

She said no more, and he commenced pacing the floor of their small
parlor backwards and forwards with restless footsteps.

Once, without moving her head or body, Mrs. Dexter stole a glance
towards her husband; she encountered his eyes turning stealthily
upon her, and scanning her face with an earnest scrutiny. A moment
their eyes lingered, mutually spell-bound, and then the glances were
mutually withdrawn. Mr. Dexter continued his nervous perambulations,
and his wife remained seated and silent.

The ringing of the bell announced tea. Mr. Dexter paused, and Mrs.
Dexter, rising without remark, took his arm, and they went down to
the dining-hall, neither of them speaking a word. On taking her
place at the table, Mrs. Dexter's eyes ran quickly up and down the
lines of faces opposite.

This was done with so slight a movement of the head, that her
husband, who was on the alert, did not detect the rapid observation.
For some three or four minutes the guests came filing in, and all
the while Mrs. Dexter kept glancing from face to face. She did not
move her head or seem interested in the people around her; but her
eyes told a very different story. Twice the waiter asked if she
would take tea or coffee, before she noticed him, and her answer,
"Coffee," apprised her watchful husband of the fact that she was
more than usually lost in thought.

"Not coffee?" Mr. Dexter bent to his wife's ear.

"No, black tea," she said, quickly, partly turning to the waiter. "I
was not thinking," she added, speaking to her husband. At the moment
Mrs. Dexter turned towards the waiter, she leaned forward, over the
table, and gave a rapid glance down at the row of faces on that
side; and in replying to her husband, she managed to do the same
thing for the other end of the table. No change in her countenance
attested the fact that her search for some desired or expected
personage had been successful. The half emptied cup of tea, and
merely broken piece of toast lying on her plate, showed plainly
enough that either indisposition or mental disturbance, had deprived
her of appetite.

From the tea table they went to one of the parlors. Only a few
gentlemen and ladies were there, most of the guests preferring a
stroll out of doors, or an evening drive.

"Shall we ride? It is early yet, and the full moon will rise as the
sun goes down."

"I have ridden enough to day," Mrs. Dexter answered. "Fatigue has
made me nervous. But don't let that prevent your taking a drive."

"I shall not enjoy it unless you are with me," said Mr. Dexter.

"Then I will go." Mrs. Dexter did not speak fretfully, nor in the
martyr tone we often hear, but in a voice of unexpected
cheerfulness. "Order the carriage," she added, as she rose; "I will
get my bonnet and shawl, and join you here by the time it is at the
door."

"No--no, Jessie! Not if you are so fatigued. I had forgotten our
journey to-day," interposed Mr. Dexter.

"A ride in the bracing salt air will do me good, perhaps. I am, at
least, disposed to make the trial. So order the carriage, and I will
be with you in a moment."

Mrs. Dexter spoke with a suddenly outflashing animation, and then
left her husband to make preparations for accompanying him in the
drive. She had passed through the parlor door on to one of the long
porticoes of the building, and was moving rapidly, when, just before
reaching the end, where another door communicated with a stairway,
she suddenly stood still, face to face with a man who had stepped
from that door out upon the portico.

"Jess--Mrs. Dexter!" the man checked the unguarded utterance of her
familiar Christian name, and gave the other designation.

"Mr. Hendrickson!"

Only for an instant did Mrs. Dexter betray herself; but in that
instant her heart was read, as if a blaze of lightning had flashed
over one of its pages, long hidden away in darkness, and revealed
the writing thereon in letters of gleaming fire.

"You arrived to day?" Mr. Hendrickson also regained the even balance
of mind which had momentarily been lost, and regained it as quickly
as the lady. He spoke with the pleased air of an acquaintance--nothing
more.

"This afternoon," replied Mrs. Dexter in a quiet tone, and with a
smile in which no casual observer could have seen anything deeper
than pleasant recognition.

"How long will you remain?"

"It is not certain; perhaps until the season closes."

Mrs. Dexter made a motion to pass on. Mr. Hendrickson raised his hat
and bowed very respectfully; and thus the sudden interview ended.

Mr. Dexter had followed his wife to the door of the parlor, and
stood looking at her as she retired along the portico. This meeting
with Hendrickson was therefore in full view. A sudden paleness
overspread his countenance; and from his convulsed lips there fell a
bitter imprecation.

On reaching her apartments, Mrs. Dexter was so weak that she was
forced to sit down upon the first chair she could obtain. A dead
pallor was in her face.

"Oh, give me strength--self control--motives to duty!"--in weakness
and fear her quivering heart cried upwards.

"Jessie!" How long she had been sitting thus Mrs. Dexter knew not.
She started. It was the voice of her husband.

"Not ready yet, I see!" His tones were rough--his manner excited.
"And the carriage has stood at the door for ten minutes."

"I am ready!" she answered, starting up, and lifting her bonnet from
the bed.

"It is no matter now. The sun is setting, and I have ordered the
carriage back to the stable. You only consented to go on my account;
and I am impatient under mere acquiescence."

"You wrong me, Mr. Dexter," said his wife, with unusual
earnestness of manner. "I am ready to go with you at all times; and
I strive in all things to give you pleasure. Did I hesitate a moment
when you suddenly declared your wish to leave Saratoga for Newport?"

"No, of course you did not; for you were too glad of the opportunity
to get here." There was a strange gleam in the eyes of Mr. Dexter as
he said this; and his voice had in it an angry bitterness never
before observed.

"What do you mean, sir?" demanded the outraged wife, turning upon
her husband abruptly, and showing an aspect so stern and fierce,
that the astonished man retreated a pace or two as if in fear. Never
before had he seen in that beautiful face the reflection of a spirit
so wildly disturbed by passion.

"Speak out, Leon Dexter! What do you mean?"

And her eyes rested on his with a glance as steady as an eagle's.

"I saw your meeting a little while ago."

Mr. Dexter rallied a little.

"What meeting?" There was no betraying sign in Mrs. Dexter's face,
nor the least faltering in her tones.

"Your meeting with _him_."

"With whom? Speak out plainly, sir! I am in no mood for trifling,
and in no condition for solving riddles."

"With Paul Hendrickson." Dexter pronounced the name slowly, and with
all the meaning emphasis he could throw into his voice.

"Well, sir, what of that?" Still neither eye nor voice faltered.

"Much! You see that I understand you!"

"I see that you do not understand me," was firmly answered. "And
now, sir, will you suffer me to demand an explanation of your
language just now. I want no evasion--no faltering--no holding back.
'Too glad of an opportunity to get here!' That was the sentence. Its
meaning, sir?"

The small head of Mrs. Dexter was erect; her nostrils distended; her
lips closely laid upon each other; her eyes full fixed and almost
fiery in their intense light. Suddenly she was transformed in the
eyes of her husband from a yielding, gentle, though cold woman into
the very spirit of accusation and defiance. He was silent; for he
saw that he had gone too far.

"That must be explained, sir!" She was not to be turned aside. "I
have noted your capricious conduct; your singular glances at times;
your strange moodiness without apparent cause. A little light has
given a faint impression of their meaning. But I must have the full
blaze of your thoughts. Nothing else will satisfy me now."

She paused. Mr. Dexter had indeed gone a step too far, a fact of
which he was painfully aware. He had conjured up a spirit that it
might not be easy to lay.

"You are too excited. Calm yourself," he said.

Turning from her husband, Mrs. Dexter crossed the room, and seating
herself upon a sofa, said, in a quiet way--

"Sit down beside me, Mr. Dexter. I am calm. Sit down and speak; for
your recent language must be explained. Evasion will be fruitless--I
will not accept of it."

"I spoke hastily. Forget my words."

Mr. Dexter sat down beside his wife, and spoke in a gentle soothing
manner.

"It is all in vain, Mr. Dexter! All in vain! Yours were no idle
words; and I can never forget them. You have greatly misapprehended
your wife, I see; and the quicker you know this the better it will
be for both of us. The time has come for explanation--and it shall
be made! Why did I wish to come to Newport?"

"You knew that Paul Hendrickson was here," said Mr. Dexter; "that
was the reason!"

"It is false, sir!" was the quick and sharp rejoinder.

"Jessie! beware how you speak!" The angry blood mounted to the very
brow of the husband.

"It is false, sir!" she repeated, even more emphatically, if that
were possible. "Of his movements I am as ignorant as you are!"

"I cannot tamely bear such words," said Mr. Dexter, still much
excited.

"And _I will not_ bear such imputations," was firmly rejoined.

Mr. Dexter arose, and commenced the unsatisfactory movement of
pacing the floor. Mrs. Dexter remained sitting firmly erect, her
eyes following the form of her husband.

"We will drop the subject now and forever," said the former,
stopping, at length, in front of his wife.

Mrs. Dexter did not reply.

"I may have been too hasty."

"_May_ have been!" There was contempt on the lip, and indignation in
the voice of Mrs. Dexter.

"Yes, _may_. We are certain of nothing in this world," said her
husband, coldly; "and now, as I said, we will drop the subject."

"It is easier to say than to unsay, Mr. Dexter. The sentiment is
very trite, but it involves a world of meaning sometimes, and"--she
paused, then added, with marked emphasis--"_does now_!"

Mr. Dexter made no response, and there the matter ended for the
time; each of the ill-assorted partners farther from happiness than
they had yet been since the day of their unfortunate union.




CHAPTER XIV.


AN hour later: Scene, the public parlor.

"Mrs. Dexter."

The lady rose, a pleasant smile animating her face, and returned the
gentleman's courteous greeting.

"Mr. Hendrickson." Yes, that was the name on her lips.

"You arrived to-day," he said, and he took a place at the other end
of the _tete-a-tete_.

"Yes."

"From Saratoga, I believe?"

"Yes. How long have you been at Newport?"

"I arrived only this morning. You are looking very well, Mrs.
Dexter."

"Am I?"

"Yes. Time lays his hands upon you lightly!"

The shadow of another's presence came between them.

"Mr. Dexter, my husband; Mr. Hendrickson, from B--," said Mrs.
Dexter, with the most perfect ease of manner, presenting the two
gentlemen. They had met before, as the reader knows, and had good
reason for remembering each other. They touched hands, Dexter
frowning, and Hendrickson slightly embarrassed. Mrs. Dexter entirely
herself, smiling, talkative, and with an exterior as unruffled as a
mountain lake.

"How long will you remain?" she asked, speaking to Mr. Hendrickson.

"Several days."

"Ah! I am pleased to hear you say so. I left some very pleasant
friends at Saratoga, but yours is the only familiar face I have yet
seen here."

"I saw Mr. and Mrs. Florence just now," said Mr. Dexter.

"Did you?"

"Yes. There they are, at the lower end of the parlor. Do you see
them?"

Mrs. Dexter turned her eyes in the direction indicated by her
husband, and replied in an indifferent manner:

"Oh, yes."

"Mrs. Florence is looking at you now. Won't you go over and see
her?"

"After a while," replied Mrs. Dexter. Then turning to Mr.
Hendrickson, she said:

"These summer resorts are the dullest places imaginable without
congenial friends."

"So I should think. But you can scarcely know the absence of these.
I heard of you at Saratoga, as forming the centre of one of the most
agreeable and intelligent circles there."

"Ah!" Mrs. Dexter was betrayed into something like surprise.

"Yes. I saw Miss Arden in New York, as I came through. She had been
to Saratoga."

"Miss Arden? I don't remember her," said Mrs. Dexter.

"She resides in B--."

"Miss Arden? Miss Arden?" Mrs. Dexter seemed curious. "What is her
appearance?"

"Tall, with a very graceful figure. Complexion dark enough to make
her pass for a brunette. Large black eyes and raven hair."

"In company with her mother?" said Mrs. Dexter.

"Yes."

"I remember her now. She was quite the belle at Saratoga. But I was
not so fortunate as to make her acquaintance. She sings wonderfully.
Few professional artists are so gifted."

"You have used the right word," said Mr. Hendrickson. "Her musical
powers are wonderful. I wish you knew her, she is a charming girl."

"You must help me to that knowledge on our return to B--."

"Nothing would give me more pleasure. I am sure you will like each
other," said Hendrickson, warmly.

From that point in the conversation Mrs. Dexter began to lose her
self-possession, and free, outspoken manner. The subject was
changed, but the airiness of tone and lightness of speech was gone.
Just in time, Mrs. Florence came across the room, joined the circle,
and saving her from a betrayal of feelings that she would not, on
any account, have manifested.

Mrs. Florence was a woman of taste. She had been in New York a few
days previously, whither she had gone to hear a celebrated European
singer, whose fame had preceded her. Her allusion to this fact led
to an introduction of the subject of music. Hendickson made some
remarks that arrested her attention, when quite an animated
conversation sprung up between them. Mrs. Dexter did not join in it;
but sat a closely observant listener. The young man's criticisms on
the art of music surprised her. They were so new, so analytical, and
so comprehensive. He had evidently studied the subject, not as an
artist, but as a philosopher--but with so clear a comprehension of
the art, that from the mere science, he was able to lead the mind
upward into the fullest appreciation of the grander ideal.

Now and then as he talked, Mr. Dexter passed in a brief sentence;
but to the keen, intelligent perception of his wife, what mere
sounding words were his empty common-places! The contrast between
him and Hendrickson was painful. It was in vain that she tried not
to make this contrast. It thrust itself upon her, in spite of all
resistance.

Mr. Florence had crossed the room with his wife, and joined the
little circle. He did not take part in the conversation, and now
said, rising as he spoke.

"Come, Dexter; let's you and I have a game of billiards."

He laid his band familiarly on the arm of Mr. Dexter, and that
individual could not refuse to accept the invitation. They left the
room together. This withdrawal of Mr. Dexter put both his wife and
Mr. Hendrickson more at their ease. Both felt his absence as a
relief. For a time the conversation was chiefly conducted by the
latter and Mrs. Florence, only an occasional remark falling from the
lips of Mrs. Dexter, and that almost extorted by question or
reference. But gradually she was drawn in, and led on, until she was
the talker and they the listeners.

When interested in conversation, a fine enthusiasm always gave to
the manners of Mrs. Dexter a charming grace, and to her beautiful
countenance a higher beauty. She was almost fascinating. Never had
Hendrickson felt her power as he felt it now, while looking into her
animated face, and listening to sentiment, description, criticism or
anecdote, flowing from her lips in eloquent language, and evincing a
degree of taste, discrimination, refinement and observation he could
scarcely have imagined in one of her age.

He was leaning towards her, and listening with rapt interest, his
countenance and eyes full of admiration, when a quick, impatient
_ahem_ caused him to look up. As he did so, he encountered the
severe face and piercing eyes of Mr. Dexter. The sudden change in
the expression of his countenance warned Mrs. Dexter of the presence
of her husband, who had approached quietly, and was standing a pace
or two behind his wife. But not the slightest consciousness of this
presence did her manner exhibit. She kept on talking as before, and
talking to Mr. Hendrickson.

"Will you go with me now, Mrs. Dexter?" said her husband, coming
forward, and making a motion as if about to offer his arm.

"Not yet if you please, Mr. Dexter," was smilingly answered. "I am
too much interested in this good company. Come, sit down here," and
she made room for him on the sofa.

But he stood still.

"Then amuse yourself a little longer," said his wife, in a gay
voice. "I will be ready to go with you after a while."

Mr. Dexter moved away, disappointed, and commenced pacing the floor
of the long parlor. At every turn his keen eyes took in the aspect
of the little group, and particularly the meaning of his wife's
face, as it turned to Mr. Hendrickson, either in the play of
expression or warm with the listener's interest. The sight half
maddened him. Three times, in the next half hour, he said to his
wife, as he paused in his restless promenade before her--

"Come, Jessie."

But she only threw him a smiling negative, and became still more
interesting to her friends. At last, and of her own will, she arose,
and bowing, with a face all smiles and eyes dancing in light, to Mr.
Hendrickson and Mrs. Florence, she stepped forward, and placing her
hand on the arm of her husband, went like a sunbeam from the room.




CHAPTER XV.


"MADAM!"

They had reached their own apartments, and Mrs. Dexter was moving
forward past her husband. The stern imperative utterance caused her
to pause and turn round.

"We leave for home in the morning!" said Mr. Dexter.

"_We_?" His wife looked at him fixedly as she made the simple
interrogation.

"Yes, _we_!" was answered, and in the voice of one who had made up
his mind, and did not mean to be thwarted in his purpose.

"Mr. Dexter!" his wife stood very erect before him; her eyes did not
quail beneath his angry glances; nor was there any sign of weakness
in her low, even tones. "Let me warn you now--and regard the warning
as for all time--against any attempt to coerce me into obedience to
your arbitrary exactions. Your conduct to-night was simply
disgraceful--humiliating to yourself, and mortifying and unjust to
your wife. Let us have no more of this. There is a high wall between
us, Mr. Dexter--high as heaven and deep as--." Her feelings were
getting the rein and she checked herself. "Your own hands have built
it," she resumed in a colder tone, "but your own hands, I fear, have
not the strength to pull it down. Love you I never did, and you knew
it from the beginning; love you I never can. That is a simple
impossibility. But true to you as steel to the magnet in all the
externals of my life, I have been and shall continue to be, even to
the end of this unhappy union. As a virtuous woman, I could be
nothing less. The outrage I have suffered this day from your hands,
is irreparable. I never imagined it would come to this. I did not
dream that it was in you to charge upon your wife the meditation of
a crime the deepest it is possible for a woman to commit. That you
were weakly jealous, I saw; and I came here in cheerful acquiescence
to your whim, in order to help you to get right. But this very act
of cheerful acquiescence was made the ground of a charge that
shocked my being to the inmost and changed me towards you
irrevocably."

The stern angry aspect of Mr. Dexter was all gone. It seemed as if
emotion had suddenly exhausted itself.

"We had better go home to-morrow." He spoke in a subdued voice.
"Neither of us can find enjoyment here."

"I shall not be ready to morrow, nor the next day either," was the
out-spoken reply. "To go thus hurriedly, after your humiliating
exhibition of distrust, would only be to give free rein to the
tongue of scandal; and that I wish to avoid."

"It has free rein already," said Mr. Dexter. "At Saratoga I heard
your name lightly spoken and brought you away for that very reason.
You are not chary enough of yourself in these public places. I know
men better than you do."

"If a light word was spoken of me, sir, at Saratoga or anywhere
else, you alone are to blame. My conduct has warranted no such
freedom of speech. But I can easily imagine how men will think
lightly of a woman when her husband shows watchfulness and
suspicion. It half maddens me, sir, to have this disgrace put upon
me. To-morrow week I will go home if you then desire it--not a day
earlier. And I warn you against any more such exhibitions as we have
had to-night. If you cannot take pleasure in society that is
congenial to my taste, leave me to my enjoyment, but don't mar it
with your cloudy presence. And set this down as a truism--the wife
that must be watched, is not worth having."

For utterances like these, Mr. Dexter was not prepared. They stunned
and weakened him. He felt that he had a spirit to deal with that
might easily be driven to desperation. A man, if resolute, he had
believed might control the actions of almost any woman--that woman
being his wife. And he had never doubted the result of marital
authority, should he at any time deem it necessary to lay upon Mrs.
Dexter an iron hand. The occasion, as he believed, had arrived; the
hand was put forth; the will was resolute; but his vice-like grip
closed upon the empty air! The spirit with which he had to deal was
of subtler essence and more vigorous life than he had imagined.

How suddenly were Mrs. Dexter's wifely, unselfish and self-denying
purposes in regard to her husband scattered upon the winds! She had
come to Newport, resolved to be all to him that it was possible for
her to be--even to the withdrawing of herself more from social
circles in which attractive men formed a part. The admonitions of
Mrs. De Lisle sunk deeply into her heart. She saw her relation to
her husband in a new aspect. He had larger claims upon her than she
had admitted heretofore. If she had been partly coerced into the
compact, he had been deceived by her promises at the altar into
expecting more than it was in her power to give. She owed him not
only a wife's allegiance, but a wife's tender consideration.

Alas! how suddenly had all these good purposes been withered up,
like tender flowers in the biting frost! And now there was strife
between them--bitterness, anger, scorn, alienation. The uneasiness
which her husband had manifested for some months previously,
whenever she was in free, animated conversation with gentlemen,
annoyed her slightly; but she had never regarded it as a very
serious affection on his part, and, conscious of her own purity,
believed that he would ere long see the evidence thereof, and cease
to give himself useless trouble. His conduct at Saratoga, followed
by the conversations with Mrs. De Lisle and Mrs. Anthony, aroused
her to a truer sense of his actual state of mind. His singular,
stealthy scanning of her countenance, immediately after their
arrival at Newport, following, as she rightly concluded, his
unexpected meeting with Hendrickson, considerably disturbed the
balance of mind she had sought to gain, and this dimmed her clear
perceptions of duty. His direct reference to Mr. Hendrickson, after
her hurried meeting with him, filled her with indignation, and
simply prepared the way for this last defiant position. She felt
deeply outraged, and wholly estranged.

Icy reserve and distant formality now marked the intercourse of Mr.
and Mrs. Dexter. It was all in vain that he sought to win back that
semblance of affection which he had lost. Mrs. Dexter was too
sincere a woman--too earnest and true--for broad disguises. She
could be courteous, regardful, attentive to all the needs of her
husband; but she could not pretend to love, when daily her heart
experienced new occasions of dislike.

On the next morning, Mrs. Dexter, on going into one of the parlors,
met Mr. Hendrickson. From his manner, it was evident that he had
been waiting there in hopes to gain an interview. Mrs. Dexter felt
displeased. She was a lawful wife, and it struck her as an
implication on his part of possible dishonor on hers. He came
forward to meet her as she entered the room, with a pleased smile on
his face, but she gave his warm greeting but a cold return. An
instant change in his manner, showed the effect upon his feelings.

"I shall leave to-day," he said.

"So soon? I thought you purposed remaining for several days."

"So I did. But I have a letter this morning from the brother of Miss
Arden, of whom I spoke last evening. He leaves her at Albany to-day,
and asks me to join her to-morrow. They were on their way to
Niagara; but unexpected business--he is a lawyer--requires him to
return home; and I am to be the young lady's escort. So they have
arranged the matter, and I cannot decline, of course."

"Why should you?" Mrs. Dexter schooled her voice. Its natural
expression, at that time, might have betrayed a state of feeling
that it would have been treason to exhibit.

"True. Why should I? The lady is charming. I was going to say that
she has not her peer."

"Why not say it?" remarked Mrs. Dexter.

"Because," replied Mr. Hendrickson, as his eyes withdrew themselves
from the face of Mrs. Dexter, "I do not believe it. She has her
peer."

"She must be a lovely woman so to captivate your fancy," said Mrs.
Dexter.

"Did I say that she had captivated my fancy?" asked Hendrickson.

"If not in so many formally spoken words, yet in a language that we
ladies can read at a glance," replied Mrs. Dexter, affecting a gay
smile. "Well," she added, "as you are to be so largely the gainer by
this sudden withdrawal from Newport, we quiet people, who cannot but
miss your pleasant company, have nothing left but acquiescence. I
hope to make Miss Arden's acquaintance on our return to B--."

The voice of Mrs. Dexter had a faint huskiness and there were signs
of depression which she was not able to conceal. These the watchful
eyes of Mr. Hendrickson detected. But so far from taking any
advantage thereof, he made an effort to divert both her mind and his
own by the introduction of a more indifferent subject. They
conversed for half an hour longer, but no further reference was made
to Miss Arden. Then Mr. Hendrickson excused himself. Mrs. Dexter did
not see him again.

He left for Boston soon after, on his way to join Miss Arden at
Albany.

From the parlor Mrs. Dexter returned to her own rooms, and did not
leave them during the day. She had felt feverish on rising, and was
conscious of a pressure on the brain, accompanied by a feeling of
lassitude that was unusual. This condition of the system increased,
as the day wore on. At dinner-time, her husband urged her to go with
him to the table; but she had a loathing for food, and declined. He
ordered a servant to take tea, with toast and some delicacies, to
her room; but when he came up again, he found them untasted.

"Was this a disease of mind or body?" Mr. Dexter asked himself the
question, and studied over the solution. Notwithstanding the
disturbed interview with his wife on the previous evening, he had
kept his eyes on her, and noticed her meeting with Hendrickson in
the parlor. Her warning, however, had proved effectual in preventing
his intrusion upon them. He saw Hendrickson leave her, and noticed
that she sat in deep abstraction for some time afterwards, and that
when she arose, and went up to her own apartments, her face wore an
expression that was unusual. Much to his surprise, he saw
Hendrickson leave soon after for Boston. On examining the register,
he learned that his destination was Albany.

A momentary relief was experienced at this departure; but soon
mystery was suggested, and a mutual understanding between his wife
and Hendrickson imagined. And so fuel was heaped on the fires of
jealousy, which blazed up again as fiercely as ever. The seclusion
of herself in her own room by Mrs. Dexter, following as it did
immediately on the departure of Hendrickson, confirmed him in the
impression that she was deeply interested in her old lover. How else
could he interpret her conduct? If she were really sick, conflict of
feeling, occasioned by his presence, was the cause. That to his mind
was clear. And he was not so far wrong; for, in part, here lay the
origin of her disturbed condition of mind and body. Still, his
conclusions went far beyond the truth.

Mrs. Dexter was lying on the bed when her husband came up from
dinner. She did not stir on his entrance. Her face was turned away,
and partly hidden by the fringe of a pillow.

"You must eat something," he said, speaking kindly. But she neither
moved nor replied.

"Jessie." No motion or response.

"Jessie!" Mr. Dexter stood a few feet from the bed, looking at her.

"She may be sleeping," he thought, and stepping forward, he bent
down and laid his fingers lightly on her cheek. It was unnaturally
hot. "Jessie"--he uttered her name again--"are you asleep?"

"No." She replied in a feeble murmur.

"Won't you have a cup of tea?"

"No."

"Are you sick?"

She did not answer. He laid his hand upon her cheek again.

"You have fever."

A low sigh was the only response.

"Does your head ache?"

Something was said in reply, but the ear of Mr. Dexter could not
make out the words.

"Jessie! Jessie! Why don't you answer me? Are you sick?"

Mr. Dexter spoke with rising impatience. Still and silent as an
effigy she remained. For a moment or two he strode about the room,
and then went out abruptly. He came back in half an hour.

There lay his wife as he had left her, and without the appearance of
having stirred. A shadow of deeper concern now fell upon his
spirits. Bending over the bed, and laying his hand upon her face
again, he perceived that it was not only flushed, but hotter than
before. He spoke, but her ears seemed shut to his voice.

"Jessie! Jessie!" He moved her gently, turning her face towards him.
Her eyes were closed, her lips shut firmly, and wearing an
expression of pain, her forehead slightly contracted.

"Shall I call a physician?" he asked.

But she did not reply. Sudden alarm awakened in the heart of Mr.
Dexter. Going to the bell, he rang it violently. To the servant who
came he said, hurriedly--

"Go and find Dr. G--, and tell him that I wish to see him
immediately."

The servant departed, and Dexter went back to the bed. No change had
occurred in his wife. She still lay, to all appearance, in a stupor.
It was nearly a quarter of an hour before Dr. G-- came; the waiter
had been at some trouble to find him.

"My wife seems quite ill," said Mr. Dexter, as he entered, "and, I
think requires medical attention."

Dr. G-- went to the bedside and stood looking at the flushed face
of Mrs. Dexter for some moments. Then he laid his hand against her
cheek, and then took hold of her wrist. Mr. Dexter, whose eyes were
on him, thought he saw him start and change countenance at the first
stroke of the pulse that played against his fingers.

"How long has she been in this condition?" asked the doctor, turning
with a serious aspect to Mr. Dexter.

"She has not seemed well since morning" was replied. "I noticed that
she scarcely tasted food at breakfast, and she has kept her room for
most of the day, lying down for a greater part of the time. I left
her on the bed when I went to dinner. She did not complain of
indisposition, but seemed listless and out of spirits. I ordered tea
sent up, but, as you perceive, it has not been tasted. On my return,
I found her in the condition in which she now lies--apparently
in a heavy sleep."

The physician did not seem to get any light from this statement. He
turned his eyes again upon the face of Mr. Dexter, and stood in
thought for almost a minute. Then he examined her pulse again. It
had a strong, rapid, wiry beat. Stooping, he looked very closely at
the condition of her skin; then shook his head, and said something
in an under tone.

"Do you think her seriously ill?" inquired Mr. Dexter.

"Has there been any unusual exposure; or any strong mental
disturbance?" asked the doctor, not seeming to have heard the
question.

"There has been mental disturbance," said Mr. Dexter.

"Of a violent character?"

"She was strongly agitated last night, at something that happened."

"Was it of a nature to leave a permanent impression on her
feelings?"

"Yes." The answers were made with evident reluctance.

"Her condition is an unusual one," said the doctor, musing; and he
resumed his examination of the case.

"Dr. R--, from Boston, arrived to-day;" he looked up, and
presented a very grave face to the now seriously alarmed husband. "I
think he had better be consulted."

"Oh, by all means," said Mr. Dexter. "Shall I go in search of him?"

"Do you know him?"

"I do not."

"I will go then. It may save time, and that is important."

The doctor went out hurriedly, and in less than five minutes
returned with Doctor R--. The two physicians conferred for some
time, speaking in under tones. Mr. Dexter heard the words
"congestion of the brain" and "brain fever," with increasing alarm.

"Well, doctors, how do you decide the case?" he inquired anxiously,
as their conference terminated.

"There is a strong tendency to congestion of the brain," was replied
by Doctor G--, "but, it is our opinion that we can check this
tendency. Your wife, Mr. Dexter, is seriously ill. An experienced
nurse must be had without delay. And every possible attention given,
so as to second at all points the treatment under which she will be
placed. A favorable result will doubtless crown our efforts. I
present the case as a serious one, because it is so in its
requirement of skill and unfailing attention."

The doctors did not err in their estimate of the case. The illness
of Mrs. Dexter proved to be very serious. It was a brain fever. Four
weeks elapsed before she was able to be removed from Newport to her
home, and then she was so feeble in body and mind as to present but
the shadowy semblance of her former self.

Very slowly did health flow back through her exhausted system. But a
cheerful mind did not come with returning vigor. Her, spirit had
bowed itself towards the earth; and power to rise again into the
bracing atmosphere and warm sunshine, was not restored for a long
period.




CHAPTER XVI.


AT Albany, Mr. Hendrickson found Miss Arden awaiting him. The warmth
of her reception showed that he was more in her eyes than a pleasant
friend. And in his regard she held the highest place--save one.

The meeting with Mrs. Dexter at Newport was unfortunate. Hendrickson
had looked right down into her heart; reading a page, the writing on
which she would have died rather than have revealed. Her pure regard
for him was her own deeply hidden secret. It was a lamp burning in
the sepulchre of buried hope. She could no more extinguish the
sacred fire than quench her own existence.

But thrown suddenly off her guard, she had betrayed this secret to
unlawful eyes. Hendrickson had read it. And she too had read his
heart. After the lapse of more than a year they had met; and without
wrong on either side had acknowledged a mutual inextinguishable
love.

"You are not well, Mr. Hendrickson." Many times, and with
undisguised concern, was this said by Miss Arden, during the journey
to Niagara.

"Only a slight headache;" or, "I'm well enough, but feel dull;" or,
"The trip from Newport fatigued me," would be answered, and an
effort made to be more companionable. But the task was difficult,
and the position in which the young man found himself particularly
embarrassing. His thoughts were not with Miss Arden, but with Mrs.
Dexter. Before the unexpected meeting at Newport, he had believed
himself so far released from that entanglement of the heart, as to
be free to make honorable advances to Miss Arden. But he saw his
error now. With him marriage was something more than a good
matrimonial arrangement, in which parties secure external
advantages. To love Miss Arden better than any other living woman,
he now saw to be impossible--and unless he could so love her, he
dared not marry her. That was risking a great deal too much. His
position became, therefore, an embarrassing one. Her brother was an
old friend. They had been college companions. The sister he had
known for some years, but had never been particularly interested in
her until within a few months. Distancing his observation, her mind
had matured; and the graces of art, education and accomplishment,
had thrown their winning attractions around her. First, almost as a
brother, he began to feel proud of her beauty and intelligence;
admiration followed, and, before he was aware of the tendency of his
feelings, they had taken on a warmer than fraternal glow.

All things tended to encourage this incipient regard; and, as Miss
Arden herself favored it, and ever turned towards Hendrickson the
sunniest side of her character, he found himself drawn onwards
almost imperceptibly; and had even begun to think seriously of her
as his wife, when the meeting with Mrs. Dexter revealed the
existence of sentiments on both sides that gave the whole subject a
new aspect.

A very difficult problem now presented itself to the mind of Mr.
Hendrickson, involving questions of duty, questions of honor, and
questions of feeling. It is not surprising that Miss Arden found a
change in her travelling companion, nor that her visit to Niagara
proved altogether unsatisfactory. No one could have been kindlier,
more attentive, or more studious to make her visit attractive. But
his careful avoidance of all compliments, and the absence of every
thing lover-like, gave her heart the alarm. It was in vain that she
put forth every chaste, womanly allurement; his eyes did not
brighten, nor his cheeks glow, nor his tones become warmer. He was
not to be driven from the citadel of his honor. A weaker, more
selfish, and more external man, would have yielded. But Hendrickson,
like the woman he had lost, was not made of "common clay," nor cast
in any of humanity's ruder moulds. He was of purer essence and
higher spiritual organization than the masses; and principle had now
quite as much to do with his actions as feeling. He could be a
martyr, but not a villain.

Two days were spent at Niagara, and then Hendrickson and Miss Arden
returned, and went to Saratoga. It did not, of course, escape the
notice of Hendrickson, that his manner to his travelling companion
was effecting a steady change in her spirits; and he was not lacking
in perception as to the cause. It revealed to him the sincerity of
her regard; but added to the pain from which he was suffering,
increasing it almost to the point where endurance fails.

It was a relief to Hendrickson when he was able to place Miss Arden
under the care of her mother, who had remained at Saratoga. On the
evening after his arrival, he was sitting alone in one of the
drawing-rooms, when a lady crossed from the other side, and joined
another lady near him.

"Mrs. De Lisle," said the latter, as she arose.

"Good evening, Mrs. Anthony!" and the ladies sat down together.

"I have just received a sad letter from Newport," said Mrs. De
Lisle.

"Indeed! What has happened there?"

"Our sweet young friend is dangerously ill."

"Who? Mrs. Dexter?"

"Yes."

"Mrs. De Lisle! She was in perfect health, to all appearance, when
she left here."

"So I thought. But she has suddenly been stricken down with a brain
fever, and her physicians regard her condition as most critical."

"You distress me beyond measure!" said Mrs. Anthony.

"My friend writes that three physicians are in attendance; and that
they report her case as dangerous in the extreme. I did not intend
going there until next week, but, unless my husband strongly
objects, I will leave to-morrow. Good nursing is quite as essential
as medical skill."

"Go, by all means, if you can," replied Mrs. Anthony. "Dear child! I
shouldn't wonder if that jealous husband of hers had done something
to induce this attack. Brain fever don't come on without mental
excitement of some kind. I can't bear him; and I believe, if the
truth were known, it would be found that she hates the very sight of
him. He's a man made of money; and that's saying the best that can
be said. As to qualities of the mind and heart, she ranks, in
everything, his superior. What a sacrifice of all that such a woman
holds dear must have been made when she consented to become the
wedded wife of Leon Dexter!"

Hendrickson heard no more, for a third party coming up at the
moment, led to a change in the conversation. At the same instant
Mrs. Arden and her daughter entered the room, and he arose and
stepped forward to meet them.

"How pale you look, Mr. Hendrickson!" said Mrs. Arden, with concern.
"Are you not well?"

"I have not felt as bright as usual, for some days," he answered,
trying to force a smile, but without success. "Your daughter has, no
doubt, already informed you that I proved myself one of the dullest
of travelling companions."

"Oh, no," Miss Arden spoke up quickly. "Ma knows that I gave you
credit for being exceedingly agreeable. But, indeed, Mr.
Hendrickson, you look ill."

"I am slightly indisposed," he answered, "and with your leave will
retire to my room. I shall feel better after lying down."

"Go by all means," said Mrs. Arden.

Hendrickson bowed low, and, passing them, left the parlor almost
hurriedly.

"Dangerously ill! A brain fever!" he said aloud, as he gained his
own apartment and shut the door behind him. He was deeply disturbed.
That their unexpected meeting had something to do with this sudden
sickness he now felt sure. Her strong, though quickly controlled
agitation he had seen; it was a revelation never to be forgotten;
and showed the existence of a state of feeling in regard to her
husband which must render her very existence a burden. That she was
closely watched, he had seen, as well as heard. And it did not
appear to him improbable, considering the spirit he had observed her
display, that coincident with his departure from Newport, some
jealous accusations had been made, half maddening her spirit, and
stunning her brain with excitement.

"Angel in the keeping of a fiend!" he exclaimed, as imagination drew
improbable scenes of persecution. "How my heart aches for
you--yearns towards you--longs for the dear privilege of making all
your paths smooth and fragrant; all your hours golden-winged; all
your states peaceful! How precious you are to me! Precious as my own
soul--dear counterpart! loving complement! Vain, as your own strife
with yourself, has been my strife. The burden has been too heavy for
us; the ordeal too fiery. My brain grows wild at thought of this
terrible wrong."

The image of Miss Arden flitted before him.

"Beautiful--loving--pure!" he said, "I might win you for my bride;
but will not so wrong you as to offer a divided heart. All things
forbid!"

Mr. Hendrickson did not leave his room that evening. At ten o'clock
a servant knocked at his door. Mrs. Arden had sent her compliments,
and desired to know if he were better than when he left her?

"Much better," he answered; and the servant departed.

Midnight found him still in strife with himself. Now he walked the
floor in visible agitation; and now sat motionless, with head bowed,
and arms folded across his bosom. The impression of sleep was far
from his overwrought brain. One thing he decided, and that was to
leave Saratoga by the earliest morning train, and go with all
possible haste to Newport. Suspense in regard to Mrs. Dexter he felt
it would be impossible for him to bear.

"But what right have you to take all this interest in a woman who is
another's lawful wife?" he asked, in the effort to stem the tide of
his feelings.

"I will not stop to debate questions of right," so he answered
within his own thoughts. "She _is_ the wife of another, and I would
die rather than stain her pure escutcheon with a thought of
dishonor. I cease to love her when I imagine her capable of being
false, in even the smallest act, to her marriage vows. But the right
to love, Heaven gave me when my soul was created to make one with
hers. I will keep myself pure that I may remain worthy of her."

On the evening of the next day Hendrickson arrived at Newport.
Almost the first man he encountered was Dexter.

"How is Mrs. Dexter?" he asked, forgetting in his anxiety and
suspense the relation he bore to this man. His eager inquiry met a
cold response accompanied by a scowl.

"I am not aware that you have any particular interest in Mrs.
Dexter!"

And the angry husband turned from him abruptly.

"How unfortunate!" Hendrickson said to himself as he passed.

At the office he put the same inquiry.

"Very ill," was the answer.

"Is she thought to be dangerous?"

"I believe so."

Beyond this he gained no further intelligence from the clerk. A
little while afterwards he saw Mrs. Florence in one of the parlors,
and joined her immediately. From her he learned that Mrs. Dexter
remained wholly unconscious, but that the physicians regarded her
symptoms as favorable.

"Do they think her out of danger?" he asked, with more interest in
his manner than he wished to betray.

"Yes."

He could scarcely withhold an exclamation.

"What do you think, madam?" he inquired.

"I cannot see deeper than a physician," she answered. "But my
observation does not in anything gainsay the opinion which has been
expressed. I am encouraged to hope for recovery."

"Do you remain here any time?"

"I shall not leave until I see Mrs. Dexter on the safe side and in
good hands," was replied.

"Have you heard any reason assigned for this fearful attack?"
inquired Hendrickson.

Mrs. Florence shook her head.

Not caring to manifest an interest in Mrs. Dexter that might attract
attention, or occasion comment, Hendrickson dropped the subject.
During the evening he threw himself in the way of the physician, and
gathered all he desired to know from him. The report was so
favorable that he determined to leave Newport by the midnight boat
for New York and return home, which he accordingly did.




CHAPTER XVII.


THE season at Newport closed, and the summer birds of fashion
flitted away. But Mrs. Dexter still remained, and in a feeble
condition. It was as late as November before the physician in
attendance would consent to her removal. She was then taken home,
but so changed that even her nearest friends failed to recognize in
her wan, sad, dreary face, anything of its old expression.

No man could have been kinder--no man could have lavished warmer
attentions on another than were lavished on his wife by Mr. Dexter.
With love-like assiduity, he sought to awaken her feelings to some
interest in life; not tiring, though she remained as coldly passive
as marble. But she gave him back no sign. There was neither
self-will, perverseness, nor antagonism, in this; but paralysis
instead. Emotion had died.

It was Christmas before Mrs. Dexter left her room--and then she was
so weak as to need a supporting arm. Tonics only were administered
by her physician; but if they acted at all, it was so feebly that
scarcely any good result appeared. The cause of weakness lay far
beyond the reach of his medicines.

With the slow return of bodily strength and mental activity, was
developed in the mind of Mrs. Dexter a feeling of repugnance to her
husband that went on increasing. She did not struggle against this
feeling, because she knew, by instinct, that all resistance would be
vain. It was something over which she could not possibly have
control; the stern protest of nature against an alliance unblessed
by love.

One day, during mid-winter, her best friend, Mrs. De Lisle, in
making one of her usual visits, found her sitting alone, and in
tears. It was the first sign of struggling emotion that she had yet
seen, and she gladly recognized the tokens of returning life.

"Showers for the heart," she said, almost smiling, as she kissed the
pale invalid. "May the green grass and the sweet smiling violets
soon appear."

Mrs. Dexter did not reply, but with unusual signs of feeling, hid
her face in the garments of her friend.

"How are you to-day?" asked Mrs. De Lisle, after she had given time
for emotion to subside.

"About as usual," was answered, and Mrs. Dexter looked with
regaining calmness into her face.

"I have not seen you so disturbed for weeks," said Mrs. De Lisle.

"I have not felt so wild a strife in my soul for months," was
answered. "Oh, that I could die! It was this prayer that unlocked
the long closed fountain of tears."

"With God are the issues of life," said Mrs. De Lisle. "We must each
of us wait His good time--patiently, hopefully, self-denyingly
wait."

"I know! I know!" replied Mrs. Dexter. "But I cannot look along the
way that lies before me without a shudder. The path is too
difficult."

"You will surely receive strength."

"I would rather die!" A slight convulsion ran through her frame.

"Don't look into the future, dear young friend! Only to-day's duties
are required; and strength ever comes with the duty."

"Not even God can give strength for mine," said Mrs. Dexter, almost
wildly.

"Hush! hush! the thought is impious!" Mrs. De Lisle spoke in warning
tones.

"Not impious, but true. God did not lay these heavy burdens on me.
My own hands placed them there. If I drag a pillar down upon myself,
will God make my bones iron so that they shall not be broken? No,
Mrs. De Lisle; there is only one hope for me, and that is in death;
and I pray for it daily."

"You state the case too strongly," said Mrs. De Lisle. "God provides
as well as provides. His providence determining what is best for us;
and His providence counteracts our ignorance, self-will, or evil
purposes, and saves us from the destruction we would blindly meet.
He never permits any act in His creatures, for which He does not
provide an agency that turns the evil that would follow into good.
Your case is parallel to thousands. As a free woman, you took this
most important step. God could not have prevented it without
destroying that freedom which constitutes your individuality,
and makes you a recipient of life from Him. But He can sustain you
in the duties and trials you have assumed; and He will do it, if you
permit Him to substitute His divine strength for your human
weakness. In all trial, affliction, calamity, suffering, there is a
germ of angelic life. It is through much tribulation that the
Kingdom of Heaven is gained. Some spirits require intenser fires for
purification than others; and yours may be of this genus. God is the
refiner and the purifier; and He will not suffer any of the gold and
silver to be lost. Dear friend! do not shrink away from the ordeal."

"I am not strong enough yet." It was all the reply Mrs. Dexter made.
Her voice was mournful in the extreme.

"Wait for strength. As your day is, so shall it be."

Mrs. Dexter shook her head.

"What more can I say?" Mrs. De Lisle spoke almost sadly, for she
could not see that her earnestly spoken counsel had wrought any good
effect.

"Nothing! nothing! dear friend!" answered Mrs. Dexter, still very
mournfully.

A little while she was silent; and seemed in debate with herself. At
length she said--

"Dear Mrs. De Lisle! To you I have unveiled my heart more than to
any other human being. And I am constrained to draw the veil a
little farther aside. To speak will give relief; and as you are
wiser, help may come. At Saratoga, I confided to you something on
that most delicate of all subjects, my feelings towards my husband.
I have yet more to say! Shall I go farther in these painful, almost
forbidden revelations?"

"Say on," was the answer, "I shall listen with no vain curiosity."

"I am conscious," Mrs. Dexter began, "of a new feeling towards my
husband. I call it new, for, if only the fuller development of an
old impression, it has all the vividness of a new-born emotion.
Before my illness, I saw many things in him to which I could attach
myself; and I was successful, in a great measure, in depressing what
was repellant, and in magnifying the attractive. But now I seem to
have been gifted with a faculty of sight that enables me to look
through the surface as if it were only transparent glass; and I see
qualities, dispositions, affections, and tendencies, against which
all my soul revolts. I do not say that they are evil; but they are
all of the earth earthy. Nor do I claim to be purer and better than
he is--only so different, that I prefer death to union. It is in
vain to struggle against my feelings, and I have ceased to
struggle."

"You are still weak in body and mind," answered Mrs. De Lisle. "All
the pulses of returning life are feeble. Do not attempt this
struggle now."

"It must be now, or never," was returned. "The current is bearing me
away. A little while, and the most agonizing strife with wave and
tempest will prove of no avail."

"Look aloft, dear friend! Look aloft!" said Mrs. De Lisle. "Do not
listen to the maddening dash of waters below, nor gaze at the
shuddering bark; but upwards, upwards, through cloud-rifts, into
heaven!"

"I have tried to look upwards--I _have_ looked upwards--but the
sight of heaven only makes earth more terrible by contrast."

"Who have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the
Lamb?" asked Mrs. De Lisle, in a deep, earnest voice. A pause, and
then--"They who have come up through great tribulation! Think of
this, dear friend. Heaven may be beautiful in your eyes, but the way
to heaven is by earthly paths. You cannot get there, except by the
way of duty; and your duty is not to turn away from, but to your
husband, in the fulfillment of your marriage vows--to the letter. I
say nothing of the spirit, but the letter of this law you must keep.
Mr. Dexter is not an evil-minded man. He is a good citizen, and
desires to be a good husband. His life, to the world, is
irreproachable. The want of harmony in taste, feeling and character,
is no reason for disseverance. You cannot leave him, and be
guiltless in the eyes of God or man."

"I did not speak of leaving him," said Mrs. Dexter, looking up
strangely into the face of Mrs. De Lisle.

"But you have thought of it," was answered. A flush dyed the pale
face of Mrs. Dexter. "Oh, my friend, beware of evil counsellors!
Mrs. Anthony"--

"Has never looked into my heart. It is shut and fastened with clasps
of iron when she is near," returned Mrs. Dexter.

"The presence of such a woman suggests rebellion," said Mrs. De
Lisle; "her thoughts are communicated by another way than speech. Is
it not so?"

"Perhaps it is. I feel the spirit of antagonism rising whenever I am
with her. I grow restive--impatient of these bonds--indignant
towards my husband; though the subject is never mentioned."

"Be on your guard against her, my young friend. Her principles are
not religiously sound. This I say to you, because duty requires me
to say it. Placed in your position, and with your feelings towards
her husband, if no personal and selfish consideration came in to
restrain her, she would not hesitate at separation--nay, I fear, not
even at a guilty compact with another."

"You shock me!" said Mrs. Dexter.

"I speak to you my real sentiments; and in warning. In your present
state of mind, be very reserved towards her. You are not strong
enough to meet her quick intelligence, nor able to guard yourself
against her subtle insinuations. When was she here last?"

A sudden thought prompted the question.

"She left just before you came in," answered Mrs. Dexter.

"And your mind has been disturbed, not tranquillized, by her visit?"

"I am disturbed, as you see."

"On what subject did she speak?" asked Mrs. De Lisle.

"You know her usual theme?"

"Inharmonious marriages?"

"Yes."

"I do not wonder that you were disturbed. How could it be
otherwise?"

"She gives utterance to many truths," said Mrs. Dexter.

"But even truth may be so spoken as to have all the evil effect of
error," was promptly answered.

"Can truth ever do harm? Is it not the mind's light? Truth shows us
the way in which we may walk safely," said Mrs. Dexter, with some
earnestness of manner.

"Light, by which the eye sees, will become a minister of
destruction, if the eye is inflamed. A mind diseased cannot bear
strong gleams of truth. They will blind and deceive, rather than
illustrate. The rays must be softened. Of the many truths to which
Mrs. Anthony gave utterance this morning, which most affected your
mind?"

"She spoke," said Mrs. Dexter, after a little reflection, "of
natural affinities and repulsions, which take on sometimes the
extreme condition of idiosyncrasies. Of conjunctions of soul in true
marriages, and of disjunction and disgust where no true marriage
exists."

"Did she explain what she understood by a true marriage?" asked Mrs.
De Lisle.

"I do not remember any formal explanation. But her meaning was
obvious."

"What, then, did she mean?"

A little while Mrs. Dexter thought, and then answered--

"She thinks that men and women are born partners, and that only they
who are fortunate enough to meet are ever happy in marriage--are, in
fact, really married."

"How is a woman to know that she is rightly mated?" asked Mrs. De
Lisle.

"By the law of affinities. The instincts of our nature are never at
fault."

"So the thief who steals your watch will say the instincts of his
nature all prompted to the act. If our lives were orderly as in the
beginning, Mrs. Dexter, we might safely follow the soul's unerring
instincts. But, unfortunately, this is not the case; and instinct
needs the law of revelation and the law of reason for its guide."

"You believe in true, interior marriages?" said Mrs. Dexter.

"Yes, marriages for eternity."

"And that they are made here?"

Mrs. De Lisle did not answer immediately.

"The preparation for eternal marriage is here," she said, speaking
thoughtfully.

Mrs. Dexter looked at her like one in doubt as to the meaning of
what she heard. She then said:

"In a true marriage, souls must conjoin by virtue of an original
affinity. In a word, the male and the female must be born for each
other."

"There are a great many vague notions afloat on this subject," said
Mrs. De Lisle; "and a great deal of flippant talk. If there are men
and women born for each other, one thing is very certain, both need
a great deal of alteration before they can unite perfectly; and the
trial will, in most cases, not so fully prove this theory of quality
in sexual creation as you might suppose. 'Behold, I was shapen in
iniquity!' If this were not true of every one, there might be a
little more hope for happiness in marriage. Let us imagine the union
of two persons, born with that original containing affinity of which
you speak--and the existence of which I do not deny. We will suppose
that the man inherits from his ancestors certain evil and selfish
qualities; and that the woman inherits from her ancestors certain
evil and selfish qualities also. They marry young, and before either
is disciplined by right principle, or regenerated by Divine truth.
Now, this being the case, do you suppose that, in the beginning,
their pulses will beat in perfect harmony? That there will be no
jarring in the machinery of their lives?"

Mrs. De Lisle paused, but received no answer.

"In just the degree," she continued, "that each is selfish, and
fails to repress that selfishness, will the other suffer pain or
feel repulsion? And they will not come into the true accordance of
their lives until both are purified through a denial of self, and an
elevation of the spiritual above the natural. For it is in the
spiritual plane where true marriages take place; and only with those
who are regenerated. All that goes before is preparation."

Mrs. Dexter continued looking earnestly into the face of Mrs. De
Lisle.

"Does your thought follow me?" asked the latter.

"Yes," was all the answer.

"If true marriages are for eternity, each of the partners must be
born into spiritual life; and that birth is always with pain. The
husband, instead of being a mere natural and selfish man, must be a
lover of higher and purer things. He must be a seeker after Divine
intelligence, that he may be lifted with wisdom coming from the
infinite Source of wisdom. And the wife, elevating her affections
through self-denial and repression of the natural, must acquire a
love for the spiritual wisdom of her husband before her soul can
make one with his. Do you comprehend this?"

"Dimly. He must be wise in heavenly love; and she a lover of
heavenly wisdom."

"There must be something more," said Mrs. De Lisle.

"What more?"

"No two masculine souls are alike, and heavenly wisdom is infinite.
The finite mind receives only a portion of the Divine intelligence.
Each, therefore, is in the love of growing wise in a certain degree
or direction. The feminine soul, to make conjunction perfect, must
be a lover of wisdom in that degree, or direction."

"You bewilder me," said Mrs. Dexter.

"Let me rather enlighten. The great truth I wish to make clear to
you is that there can be no marriage in the higher sense without
spiritual regeneration. By nature we are evil--that is selfish; for
self love is the very essence of all evil--and until heavenly life
is born in us there can be no interior marriage conjunction. It is
possible, then--and I want you to look the proposition fairly in the
face--for two who are created for each other, to live very unhappily
together during the first years of their married life. Do you ask
why? Because both are selfish by nature; and self seeks its own
delight. I have sometimes thought," continued Mrs. De Lisle, "in
pondering this subject, that those who are born for each other are
not often permitted to struggle together in painful antagonism
during the stern ordeals through which so many have to pass ere self
is subdued, and the fires of Divine love kindled on the heart's
altars."

"Meeting life's discipline apart, or in strife with an alien," said
Mrs. Dexter.

"As you will. But the lesson, I trust, is clear. Only they who bear
the cross can wear the crown. The robes must be made white in the
blood of the Lamb. And now, dear friend! if you would be worthy of
an eternal marriage, take up your cross. If there is a noble, manly
soul to which you would be conjoined forever, set earnestly about
the task of preparation for that union. The wedding garment must be
wrought; the lamps trimmed and burning. Not in neglect of duty; not
in weak repinings, or helpless despondency is this work done; but in
daily duty. The soul of your husband is precious in the eyes of God
as your own. Never forget this. And it may be a part of your
heaven-assigned work--nay, is--to help him to rise into a higher
life. May you grow angel-minded in the good work!"

"How tranquil I have become," said Mrs. Dexter, a little while
afterwards. "The heavy pressure on heart and brain is removed."

"You have not been thinking of yourself; and that has brought a
change in your state of feeling. Cease to struggle in your bonds;
but rise up and go forward with brave heart, and be true as steel to
all your obligations. The way may look dark, the burdens heavy; but
fear not. Move on, and Divine light will fall upon your path; stoop
to the burden, and Divine strength will be given. So I counsel you,
dear sister! And I pray you heed the counsel."




CHAPTER XVIII.


ON the day after the interview with Mrs. De Lisle, Mrs. Dexter,
whose mind had been lifted quite above its morbid state, was sitting
alone at one of the parlor windows. She had been noting, with
curious interest, the types of character in faces that met her eyes,
and then disappeared to give place to others as singularly varied,
when a new countenance, on which her eyes fell, lighted up suddenly.
It was that of Hendrickson, whom she had not seen since their
parting at Newport. He paused, lifted his hat, bowed and went on. It
was no cold, formal recognition; but one full of earnest life, and
warm with sudden feeling. Mrs. Dexter was conscious of a quick
heart-throb that sent a glow to her pale cheeks.

Unfortunate coincidence! The next face, presenting itself almost in
the same instant of time, was that of her husband. It was full two
hours earlier than the period of his usual return home.

He had seen the expression of Hendrickson's countenance; and also
the responsive change in that of his wife. At once it occurred to
him that an understanding had been established between him and Mrs.
Dexter, and that this was the beginning of a series of interviews,
to be carried on during his absence. Mr. Dexter was an impulsive
man. Without giving himself time for reflection, he strode into the
parlor, and said with a cutting sneer--

"You have your own entertainments, I see, in your husband's absence.
But"--and his manner grew stern, while his tones were threatening,
"you must not forget that we are in America and not Paris; and that
I am an American, and not a French husband. You are going a step too
far, madam!"

Too much confounded for speech, Mrs. Dexter, into whose face the
blood had rushed, dying it to a deep crimson, sat looking at her
husband, an image, in his eyes, of guilt confessed.

"I warn you," he added, "not to presume on me in this direction! And
I further warn you, that if I ever catch that scoundrel in my house,
or in your company, I will shoot him down like a dog!"

Mrs. Dexter was too feeble for a shock like this. The crimson left
her face. While her husband yet glared angrily upon her, a deathly
hue overspread her features, and she fainted, falling forward upon
the floor. He sprung to catch her in his arms, but it was too late.
She struck with a heavy concussion, against temple and cheek,
bruising them severely.

When Mrs. Dexter recovered, she was in her own room lying upon her
bed. No one was there but her husband. He looked grave to sadness.
She looked at him a single moment, then shut her eyes and turned her
face away. Mr. Dexter neither moved nor spoke. A more wretched man
was scarcely in existence. He believed all against his wife that his
words expressed; yet was he conscious of unpardonable indiscretion--and
he was deeply troubled as to the consequences of his act. Mrs. Dexter
was fully restored to consciousness, and remembered distinctly, the
blasting intimations of her husband. But, she was wholly free from
excitement, and was thinking calmly.

"Will you send for my aunt?" Mrs. Dexter turned her face from the
wall as she said this, speaking in a low but firm voice.

"Not now. Why do you wish to see her?" Mr. Dexter's tones were low
and firm also.

"I shall return to her," said Mrs. Dexter.

"What do you mean?" Feeling betrayed itself.

"As I am a degraded being in your eyes, you do not, of course, wish
me to remain under your roof. And, as you have degraded me by foul
and false accusations, against the bare imagination of which my soul
revolts, I can no longer share your home, nor eat the bread which
your hand provides for me. Where there is no love on one side and no
faith on the other, separation becomes inevitable."

"You talk madly," said Mr. Dexter.

"Not madly, but soberly," she answered. "There is an unpardonable
sin against a virtuous wife, and you have committed it. Forgiveness
is impossible. I wish to see my aunt. Will you send for her, Mr.
Dexter?"

"It was a dark day for me, Jessie, when I first looked upon your
face," said Mr. Dexter.

"And darker still for me, sir. Yet, after my constrained marriage, I
tried, to the best of my ability, to be all you desired. That I
failed, was no fault of mine."

"Nor mine," was answered.

"Let us not make matters worse by crimination and recrimination,"
said Mrs. Dexter. "It will take nothing from our future peace to
remember that we parted in forbearance, instead of with passionate
accusation."

"You are surely beside yourself, Jessie!" exclaimed Mr. Dexter.

She turned her face away, and made no response.

Dexter was frightened. "Could it be possible," he asked himself,
"that his wife really purposed a separation?" The fact loomed up
before his imagination with all of its appalling consequences.

A full half hour passed, without a word more from the lips of
either. Then Mr. Dexter quietly retired from the room. He had no
sooner done this, than Mrs. Dexter arose from the bed, and commenced
making changes in her dress. Her face was very white, and her
movements unsteady, like the movements of a person just arisen from
an exhausting sickness. There was some appearance of hurry and
agitation in her manner.

About an hour later, and just as twilight had given place to
darkness, Mrs. Loring who was sitting with her daughters, lifted her
eyes from the work in her hands, and leaned her head in a listening
attitude. The door bell had rung, and a servant was moving along the
passage. A moment of suspense, and then light steps were heard and
the rustling of a woman's garments.

"Jessie!" exclaimed Mrs. Loring, as Mrs. Dexter entered the
sitting-room. She was enveloped in a warm cloak, with a hood drawn
over her head. As she pushed the latter from her partly hidden face,
her aunt saw a wildness about her eyes, that suggested, in
connection with this unheralded visit of the feeble invalid, the
idea of mental derangement. Starting forward, and almost encircling
her with her arms, she said--

"My dear child! what is the meaning of this visit? Where is Mr.
Dexter? Did he come with you?"

"I am cold," she answered, with a shiver. "The air is piercing." And
she turned towards the grate, spreading her hands to the genial
warmth.

"Did Mr. Dexter come with you?" Mrs. Loring repeated the question.

"No; I came alone," was the quietly spoken answer.

"You did not walk?"

"Yes."

"Why, Jessie! You imprudent child! Does Mr. Dexter know of this?"

There was no reply to this question.

"Aunt Phoebe," said Mrs. Dexter, turning from the fire, "can I see
you alone?"

"Certainly, dear," and placing an arm around her, Mrs. Loring went
with her niece from the room.

"You have frightened me, child," said the aunt, as soon as they were
alone. "What has happened? Why have you come at this untimely hour,
and with such an imprudent exposure of your health?"

"_I have come home, Aunt Phoebe_!" Mrs. Dexter stood and looked
steadily into the face of her aunt.

"Home, Jessie?" Mrs. Loring was bewildered.

"I have no other home in the wide world, Aunt Phoebe." The sadness
of Jessie's low, steady voice, went deep down into the worldly heart
of Mrs. Loring.

"Child! child! What _do_ you mean?" exclaimed the astonished woman.

"Simply, that I have come back to you again--to die, I trust, and
that right early!"

"Where is Mr. Dexter? What has happened? Oh, Jessie! speak plainly!"
said Mrs. Loring, much agitated.

"I have left Mr. Dexter, Aunt Phoebe." She yet spoke in a calm
voice. "And shall not return to him. If you will let me have that
little chamber again, which I used to call my own, I will bless you
for the sanctuary, and hide myself in it from the world. I do not
think I shall burden you a long time, Aunt Phoebe. I am passing
through conflicts and enduring pains that are too severe for me.
Feeble nature is fast giving way. The time will not be long, dear
aunt!"

"Sit down, child! There! Sit down." And Mrs. Loring led her niece to
a chair. "This is a serious business, Jessie," she added, in a
troubled voice. "I am bewildered by your strange language. What does
it mean? Speak to me plainly. I am afraid you are dreaming."

"I wish it were a dream, aunt. But no--all is fearfully real. For
causes of which I cannot now speak, I have separated myself from Mr.
Dexter, and shall never live with him again. Our ways have parted,
and forever."

"Jessie! Jessie! What madness! Are you beside yourself? Is this a
step to be taken without a word of consultation with friends?"

Mrs. Loring, as soon as her mind began clearly to comprehend what
her niece had done, grew strongly excited. Mrs. Dexter did not
reply, but let her eyes fall to the floor, and remained silent. She
had no defence to make at any human tribunal.

"Why have you done this, Jessie?" demanded her aunt.

"Forgive my reply, Aunt Phoebe; I can make no other now. _The reason
is with God and my own heart._ He can look deeper than any human
eyes have power to see; and comprehend more than I can put in words.
My cause is with Him. If my burdens are too heavy, He will not turn
from me because I fall fainting by the way."

"Jessie, what is the meaning of this?" Mrs. Loring spoke in a
suddenly changed voice, and coming close to her niece, looked
earnestly into her face. "Here is a bad bruise on your right cheek,
and another on the temple just above. And the skin is inflamed
around the edges of these bruises, showing them to be recent. How
came this, Jessie?"

"Bruises? Are you certain?"

"Why, yes, child! and bad ones, too."

Mrs. Dexter looked surprised. She raised her hand to her cheek and
temple, and pressing slightly, was conscious of pain.

"I believe I fainted in the parlor this afternoon," she said; "I
must have fallen to the floor."

"Fainted! From what cause?" asked Mrs. Loring.

Mrs. Dexter was silent.

"Was it from sudden illness?"

"Yes."

Mrs. Loring was not satisfied with this brief answer. Imagination
suggested some personal outrage.

"Was Mr. Dexter in the parlor when you fainted?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Why did he not save you from falling?"

"I am very cold, aunt; and my head turns. Let me lie down." Mrs.
Dexter made an effort to rise. As Mrs. Loring caught her arms, she
felt them shiver. Quickly leading her to the bed, she laid her in
among the warm blankets; but external warmth could not subdue the
nervous chill that shook her frame in every part.

"The doctor must be sent for," said Mrs. Loring--and she was about
leaving the bedside.

"No, no, aunt!" Mrs. Dexter caught her hand, and held her back. "I
want no physician--only quiet and seclusion. Have my own little room
prepared for me, and let me go there to-night."

Mrs. Loring sat down undecided, and in great perplexity of mind.

"Listen!" Some one had rung the door-bell violently.

"Aunt!" Mrs. Dexter started up and laid her hand on the arm of Mrs.
Loring. "If that is Mr. Dexter, remember that I positively refuse to
meet him. I am ill, as you can see; and I warn you that the
agitation of a forced interview may cost me my life."

"If it is Mr. Dexter, what shall I say? Hark! Yes! It is his step,
and his voice."

"Say that I cannot be seen, and that I have left him forever."

"But, Jessie"--

"Aunt Loring, remonstrance is vain! I have not taken this step
without a deep consciousness of being right; and no power on earth
can lead me to retrace it. Let him comprehend that, in its plain
significance; the sooner he does so the better will it be for both."

"Mr. Dexter wishes to see you," said a servant, coming to the door.

"Say that I will be down in a moment."

Mrs. Loring stood for some time, endeavoring to collect her thoughts
and calm her feelings. She then went down to the parlor.




CHAPTER XIX.


"Is Jessie here?" inquired Mr. Dexter, in a hurried manner.

"She is," replied Mrs. Loring.

"I wish to see her."

"Sit down, Mr. Dexter. I want to speak with you about Jessie."

Mr. Dexter sat down, though with signs of impatience.

"What is the meaning of this? What has happened, Mr. Dexter?"

"Only a slight misunderstanding. Jessie is over sensitive. But I
must see her immediately; and alone, if you please, Mrs. Loring."

"I am sorry, Mr. Dexter, but Jessie will not see you."

"Not see me!"

"No, Sir."

"Go and say that I am here, and that I must see her, if only for a
single moment."

"She knows you are here, Mr. Dexter; and her message is--'Say that I
cannot seen.'"

"Where is she?" Mr. Dexter moved towards the door; but Mrs. Loring,
who had taken it into her head that personal abuse--a blow,
perhaps--was the cause of Jessie's flight from the residence of her
husband--(she could understand and be properly indignant at such an
outrage), stepping before him said--

"Don't forget, sir, that this is my house! You cannot pass into any
of its apartments unless I give permission. And such permission is
now withheld. My niece is in no condition for exciting interviews.
There has been enough of that for one day, I should think."

"What do you mean? What has she said?" demanded Mr. Dexter, looking
almost fiercely at Mrs. Loring.

"Nothing!" was replied. "She refuses to answer my questions. But I
see that her mind is greatly agitated, while her person bears
evidence of cruel treatment."

"Mrs. Loring!" Dexter understood her meaning, and instantly grew
calm. "Evidences of cruel treatment!"

"Yes, sir! Her cheek and temple are discolored from a recent bruise.
How came this?"

"She fainted, and struck herself in falling."

"In your presence?"

"Yes."

"And you did not put forth a hand to save her!"

Mrs. Loring's foregone conclusions were running away with her.

"Excuse me madam," said Mr. Dexter, coldly, "you are going beyond
the record. I am not here at the confessional, but to see my wife.
Pray, do do not interpose needless obstacles."

There was enough of contempt in the tones of Mr. Dexter to wound the
pride and fire the self-love of Mrs. Loring; and enough of angry
excitement about him, to give her a new impression of his character.

"You cannot see Jessie to-night," she answered firmly. "She has
flown back to me in wild affright--the mere wreck of what she was,
poor child! when I gave her into your keeping--and the inviolable
sanctity of my house is around her. I much fear, Leon Dexter, that
you have proved recreant to your trust--that you have not loved,
protected, and cherished that delicate flower. The sweetness of her
life is gone?"

The woman of the world had actually warmed into sentiment.

"It is I who have suffered wrong," said Mr. Dexter. "Sit down, Mrs.
Loring, and hear me. If I cannot see my wife--if she willfully
persists in the step she has taken--then will I clear my skirts.
You, at least, if not the world, must know the truth. Sit down,
madam, and listen."

They moved back from the door, and crossing the parlor, sat down
together on a sofa.

"What is wrong?" asked Mrs. Loring, the manner and words of Mr.
Dexter filling her mind with vague fear.

"Much," was answered.

"Say on."

"Your niece, I have reason to believe, is not true to me," said
Dexter.

"Sir!" Astonishment and indignation blended in the tone of Mrs.
Loring's voice.

"I happened to come upon her unawares to-day, taking her in the very
act of encouraging the attentions of a man whose presence and
detected intimacy with her, at Newport, were the causes of her
illness there."

"It is false!"

Both Dexter and Mrs. Loring started to their feet.

There stood Jessie, just within the door at the lower end of the
parlor, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes bright with indignation.

"It is false, sir!" she repeated, in strong, clear tones.

Mr. Dexter, after the first moment of bewildering surprise, advanced
towards his wife.

"It is false--false as the evil spirit who suggested a thought of
your wife's dishonor!"

Saying this, Mrs. Dexter turned and glided away. Her husband made a
motion to follow, but Mrs. Loring laid her hand upon his arm.

"Light breaks into my mind," she said. "It was because you charged
her with dishonorable intent that she fled from you? A man should be
well fortified with proofs before he ventures so far. _I_ will
believe nothing against her, except on the clearest evidence. Can
you adduce it?"

There was a homely force in this mode of presenting the subject that
had the effect to open the eyes of Dexter a little to the unpleasant
aspect of his position. What proof had he of his wife's
infidelity--and yet he had gone so far as to say that he had reason
to believe her not true to him, and that she had been detected in
questionable intimacy with some one at Newport!

"Can you adduce the evidence, Mr. Dexter?" repeated Mrs. Loring.

"I may have been hasty," he said, moving back into the room. "My
words may have signified too much. But she has been imprudent."

"It is not true, sir!"

The voice of Jessie startled them again. She stood almost on the
spot from which they had turned a moment before.

"It is not true, sir!" she repeated her words. "Not true, in any
degree! All is but the ghost of a jealous fancy! And now, sir,
beware how you attempt to connect my name with evil reports or
surmises! I may be stung into demanding of you the proof, and in
another place than this! Never, even in thought, have I dishonored
you. That is a lower deep into which my nature can never fall; and
you should have known me well enough to have had faith. Alas that it
was not so!"

She passed from her husband's presence again, seeming almost to
vanish where she stood.

"What is to be done?" said Mr. Dexter, turning towards Mrs. Loring,
with a certain shame-facedness, that showed his own perception of
the aspect in which his hasty conduct had placed him.

"It is impossible to answer that question now," replied Mrs. Loring.
"These muddy waters must have time to run clear. As for Jessie, it
is plain that she needs seclusion, and freedom from all causes of
excitement. That you have wronged her deeply by your suspicions, I
have not the shadow of a doubt--how deeply, conceding her innocence,
you can say better than I."

"You will not encourage her in maintaining towards me her present
attitude, Mrs. Loring?"

"Not if I see any hope of reconciliation. But I must know more of
your lives during the past few months. I fear that you have wholly
misunderstood your wife, and so alienated her that oblivion of the
past is hopeless."

"Think of the exposure and disgrace," said Mr. Dexter.

"I do think of it; and the thought sickens me."

"You will surely advise her to return."

"I can promise nothing sir. Wait--wait--wait. I have no other advice
to offer. My poor child has passed through fearful trials--that is
plain; and she must have time for body and mind to recover
themselves. Oh, sir! how could you, knowing her feeble condition,
bear down upon her so heavily as you did this day. Your words must
have fallen like heavy blows; for it seems that they struck her down
senseless. A second attack of brain fever, should it unfortunately
follow this agitation, will certainly prove fatal."

Dexter was silent.

"We must keep our own counsel for the present," he said, at length.
"The public should know nothing of all this."

"In that we are agreed," answered Mrs. Loring. "My advice to you is,
to leave Jessie, for the time being at least, to her own will.
Serious prostration of all her faculties, I cannot but fear as a
consequence. To-morrow, she will in all probability need her
physician's care."

"How will you account for her condition, should his attendance be
deemed necessary?"

Mrs. Loring shook her head.

"Events," she answered, "are too recent, and my mind too much
bewildered to say what course I may deem it the wisest policy to
pursue. I must await the occasion, and govern myself accordingly."

"Be very prudent, madam," said Mr. Dexter. "A single error may wreck
everything."

"Her reputation is as dear to me as my own," replied Mrs. Loring,
"and you may be very sure, that I will guard it as a most precious
thing. The warning as to circumspection I pass to you."

Mr. Dexter made a movement to retire.

"I will see you in the morning," he said, "and in the meantime,
account for Jessie's absence, by saying that she paid you a visit,
going out imprudently, and found herself too much indisposed to
return."

Mrs. Loring merely inclined her head. A little while Dexter stood
looking at her, embarrassment and trouble written on every feature.
Then bowing coldly, he retired.




CHAPTER XX.


WHEN Mrs. Loring went back to her chamber, after Mr. Dexter withdrew
from the house, she found Jessie in bed, lying as still as if
asleep. She looked up when her aunt came to the bedside--at first
with stealthy, half-timid glances--then with more of trust, that
changed into loving confidence. Mrs. Loring bent down and kissed
her.

"Oh, Aunt Phoebe! that was very cruel in him."

"What was cruel, dear?"

The thoughts of Mrs. Loring went farther back than to the interview
in her parlor.

"He tried to ruin me even in your regard."

"But he failed, Jessie. I will not believe the lowest whisper of an
evil report against you."

"I am as pure in thought and as true in purpose, Aunt Phoebe, as
when I went out from you. I do not love Mr. Dexter--I never loved
him. Still that is no crime--only a necessity. He understood this in
the beginning, and took the risk of happiness--so did I. But he was
not satisfied with all that I could give. He wanted a heart, as well
as a hand--a living, loving spirit, as well as a body. These he
could not possess in me--for the heart loves not by compulsion. Then
jealousy was born in his soul, and suspicion followed. Both were
groundless. I felt a degrading sense of wrong; and at times, a
spirit of rebellion. But I never gave place to a wandering
thought--never gave occasion for wrong construction of my conduct.
Ah, Aunt Phoebe! that marriage was a sad mistake. A union unblessed
by love, is the commencement of a wretched life. It is the old
story; and never loses its tragic interest. It was folly in the
beginning, and it is madness now."

Mrs. Loring would have questioned her niece closely as to the
meaning of Mr. Dexter's allusion to a certain individual as having
been too intimate with his wife, but these closing remarks fell like
rebuke upon her ears. She remembered how almost like a victim-lamb,
Jessie had been led up to the marriage altar; and how she had
overruled all objections, and appealing to her honor, had almost
constrained her into the fulfillment of a promise that should never
have been extorted. And so she remained silent.

"I knew it must come to this sooner or later," Jessie went on; "I
knew that a time must arrive when the only alternative for me would
be death or separation. The separation has taken place sooner than I
had dared to hope; and for the act, I do not hold myself
responsible. He flung me off! To a spirit like mine, his language
was a strong repulsion; and I swept away from him with a force it
would have been vain to resist. We are apart now, and apart
forever."

"You are too much excited, Jessie," said Mrs. Loring, laying her
finger upon the lips of her niece, "and I must enjoin silence and
rest. I have faith in you. I will be your friend, though all the
world pass coldly on in scorn."

Tears glistened in the eyes of Mrs. Dexter as she lifted them, with
a thankful expression, to the face of her aunt, from whom she had
not dared to hope for so tender a reception. She knew Mrs. Loring to
be worldly-minded; she knew her to be a woman of not over delicate
feelings; and as one easily affected by appearances. That she would
blame, denounce, threaten, she had no doubt. A thought of approval,
sympathy, aid or comfort in this fearful trial had not stirred in
her imagination. This unlooked for kindness on the part of her aunt
touched her deeply.

The fact was, Mr. Dexter had gone a step too far. The grossness of
this outrage upon his wife, Mrs. Loring could appreciate, and it was
just of the kind to arouse all her womanly indignation. A more
refined act of cruelty she would not have understood; and might have
adjudged her niece as capricious.

"Thank you, dear Aunt Phoebe, for this love and kindness!" Jessie
could not help saying. "I need it; and, for all I have been as a
wife, am worthy to receive it. As pure in thought and act as when I
parted from you do I return; and now all I ask is to become again
the occupant of that little chamber I once called my own; there to
hide myself from all eyes--there to remain, forgotten by the gay
circles in which I moved for a brief season."

"Dear heart! will you not be quiet?" said Mrs. Loring; laying her
fingers once more upon her lips.

Mrs. Dexter sighed as her lashes drooped upon her cheeks. Very still
she lay after this, and as her aunt stood looking upon her white,
shrunken face and hollow eyes, and noted the purple stain on her
cheek and temple, tears of compassion filled her eyes, and tender
pity softened all her feelings.

That night Jessie slept in her aunt's room. Morning found her in a
calmer state, and with less prostration of body than Mrs. Loring had
feared would ensue. She did not rise until late, but met her cousins
while yet in bed, with a quiet warmth of manner that placed both
them and herself at ease with one another, They bad been frightened
witnesses of the exciting scenes in the parlor, when Mrs. Dexter
twice confronted her husband and met his intimations of wrong with
indignant denial. Beyond this their mother had informed them that
their cousin had left her home and might not again return to it. For
the present she enjoined silence as to what had occurred; and
reserve or evasion of questions should curious inquirers approach
them at school or elsewhere.

Before Jessie had arisen, Mr. Dexter called. He looked worn and
troubled. It was plain that his night had been sleepless.

"How is she?" he asked of Mrs. Loring, almost fearfully, as if
dreading the answer. He did not pronounce the name of his wife.

"Better than I had hoped," was replied.

"Has she required the attention of a physician?"

"No."

Mr. Dexter seemed relieved.

"What is her state of mind?"

"She is more tranquil than I had expected to find her."

Mrs. Loring's manner was cold.

"Have you conversed with her this morning?"

"But little."

"Will she see me?"

"I think not."

"Will you ask her?"

"Not now. She is too weak to bear a recurrence of agitating scenes."

Mr. Dexter bit his lips firmly as if striving with his feelings.

"When can I see her?"

"That question I am unable now to answer, Mr. Dexter. But my own
opinion is that it will be better for you to see her to-morrow than
to-day: better next week than to-morrow. You must give time for
calmness and reflection."

"She is my wife!" exclaimed Mr. Dexter, not able to control himself.
The manner in which this was said conveyed clearly his thought to
Mrs. Loring, and she replied with equal feeling--

"But not your slave to command!"

"Madam! I warn you not to enter into this league against me--not to
become a party in this wicked scheme! If you do, then you must bear
the consequences of such blind folly. I am not the man to submit
tamely. I will not submit."

"You are simply beating the air," replied Mrs. Loring. "There is no
league against you--no wicked scheme--nothing beyond your own
excited imagination; and I warn you, in turn, not to proceed one
step further in this direction."

"Madam! can I see my wife?" The attitude of Mr. Dexter was
threatening.

"No, sir. Not now," was the firmly spoken answer.

He turned to go.

"Mr. Dexter."

"Well? Say on."

"I do not wish you to call here again."

"Madam! my wife is harboring here."

"I will give my servant orders not to admit you!" said Mrs. Loring,
outraged by this remark.

For an instant Dexter looked as if he would destroy her, were it in
his power, by a single glance; then turning away he left the house,
muttering impotent threats.

And so the breach grew wider.

"I don't wonder that Jessie could not live with him," said Mrs.
Loring to herself. "Such a temper! Dear heart! Who can tell how much
she may have suffered?"




CHAPTER XXI.


ONCE more Jessie found herself alone in the little chamber where her
gentle girlish life, had strengthened towards womanhood. Many times
had she visited this chamber since her marriage, going to it as to
some pilgrim-shrine, but never with the feelings that now crowded
upon her heart. She had returned as a dove, to the ark from the wild
waste of waters, wing-weary, faint, frightened--fluttering into this
holy place, conscious of safety. She was not to go out again.
Blessed thought! How it warmed the life-blood in her heart, and sent
the currents in more genial streams through every vein.

But alas! memory could not die. Lethe was only a fable of the olden
times. A place of safety is not always a place of freedom from pain.
It could not be so in this instance. Yet, for a time, like the
exhausted prisoner borne back from torture to his cell, the crushed
members reposed in delicious insensibility. The hard pallet was a
heaven of ease to the iron rack on which the quivering flesh had
been torn, and the joints wrenched, until nature cried out in agony.

Dear little room! Though its walls were narrow, and its furniture
simple even to meagreness, it was a palace in her regard to the
luxurious chambers she had left. It was all her own. She need not
veil her heart there. No semblances were required. No intrusion
feared. It seemed to her, for a time, as if she had been so lifted
out of the world, as to be no longer a part of it. The hum and shock
of men were far below her. She had neither part nor lot in common
humanity.

But this could not last. She had formed relations with that world
not to be cast off lightly. She was a wife, violently separated from
her husband; and setting at defiance the laws which had bound them
together.

On the third day Mrs. Dexter received a communication from her
husband. It was imperative, reading thus:


"MRS. DEXTER--I have twice sought to gain an interview, and twice
been repelled with insult. I now write to ask when and where you
will see me. We must meet, Jessie. This rash step, I fear, is going
to involve consequences far more disastrous than you have imagined.
It is no light thing for a woman to throw herself beyond the pale of
her husband's protection.--Something is owed to the world--something
to reputation--something to your good name; and much to your
husband. I may have been hasty, but I was sincere. There are some
things that looked wrong; _they look wrong still_, and will _always
look wrong_ if your present attitude is maintained. I wish to see
you, that we may, together, review these unhappy questions, and out
of a tangled skein bring even threads, if possible. Let me hear from
you immediately.

"YOUR HUSBAND."


Twice Mrs. Dexter read this letter, hurriedly at first, but very
slowly the second time; weighing each word and sentence carefully.
She then laid it aside, and almost crouching down in her chair, fell
into such deep thought that she seemed more like one sleeping than
awake. She did not attempt an answer until the next day. Then she
penned the following:


"To LEON DEXTER--In leaving your house and your protection, I was
not governed by caprice or impulse. For some time I have seen that,
sooner or later, it must come to this; that the cord uniting us was
too severely strained, and must snap. I did not suppose the time so
near at hand--that you would drag upon it now with such a sudden
force. But the deed is done, and we are apart forever. I cannot live
with you again--your presence would suffocate me. There was a mutual
wrong in our marriage; but I was most to blame; for I knew that I
did not and never could love you as I believed a husband should be
loved. But you had extorted from me a promise of marriage, and I
believed it to be my duty to fulfill that promise. Young,
inexperienced, blind to the future, I took up the burdens you laid
at my feet, and believed myself strong enough to carry them all the
days of my life. It was a fatal error. How painfully I have
struggled on--how prayerfully, how patiently, how self-denyingly,
you can never know. Yet, without avail. I have fallen by the way,
and there is not strength enough in me to lift the burdens again. I
know this, and One besides; and I am content to rest the case with
Him. The world will blame--the church censure--the law condemn. Let
it be so. All that is light to the sufferings I have endured, and
from which I have fled.

"I cannot see you, Mr. Dexter--_I will not see you_. Our ways in
this world have parted, and forever. The act was not mine, but
yours. You flung me off with a force that overcame all scruple--all
question of right--all effort to cling to you as my husband. I was
trying, in my feeble way--for not much power remained--to be a
dutiful wife, when you extinguished all hope of success by a charge
as false as the evil spirit who whispered in your too willing ears a
suspicion of infidelity against one who had never permitted a
thought of wrong towards her husband to enter even the outermost
portal of her mind. I had not seen the person to whom you allude
since my accidental meeting with him at Newport, so basely construed
into design; and his passing my window at the moment you returned
home, was as unexpected to me as to you.

"I had hoped that my previous solemn assurances were sufficient to
give you confidence in my integrity. But this was an error. You had
no faith in me; and assailed me with violence when my thoughts were
as true to honor as ever were yours. Did you imagine that I could
lie passive at your feet, so trampled down and degraded? No, sir!
God gave me a higher consciousness--a purer spirit--a nobler
individuality! You should have mated one of a different stamp from
me!

"And yet I pity you, Leon Dexter! This web of trouble, which your
own hands have woven around your life, will fetter and gall you at
every step in your future journey. I have not left you in a spirit
of retaliation; but simply because the natural strain of repulsion
was stronger than all the attractive forces that held us together. I
only obeyed a law against which weak nature strove in vain. Were it
in my power, I would make all your future bright with the warmest
sunshine. But over your future I have no control--yet, sadly enough,
are our destinies linked, and the existence of each will be a thorn
in the other's heart.

"I have not much strength left. The contest has nearly extinguished
my life. This is the last struggle I shall have with you. My first
weak thought was to return your letter without a word in reply. But
that would have been a wrong to both; and so I have made you this
communication, and you must regard it as final. Farewell, unhappy
Leon Dexter! I would have saved you from this calamity, but you
would not let me! May He who has permitted you thus to drag down the
temple of domestic happiness, and bury yourself amid the ruins, give
you, in this direful calamity, a higher than human power of
endurance. May the fierce flames of this great ordeal, find gold in
your character beyond the reach of fire. Farewell, forever! and may
God bless and keep you! The prayer is from a heart yet free from
guile, and the lips that breathe it upward are as pure as when you
laid upon them the marriage kiss! God keep them as guileless and as
pure! Amen!

"JESSIE."


Dexter accepted the decision of his wife as final. What else was
left for him? He would have been the dullest of men not to have seen
the spirit of this answer, shining everywhere through the letter.
Something more than feebly dawned the conviction in his mind, that
he had foully wronged his wife, and that the fearful calamity which
had overtaken him in the morning of his days, was of his own
creating. He did not again attempt to see her; made no further
remonstrance; offered no kind of annoyance. A profound respect for
the suffering woman who had abandoned him, took the place of
indignation against her. In silence he sat down amid his crushed
hopes and broken idols, and waited for light to guide him and
strength to walk onward. Like thousands of other men, he had
discovered that a human soul was not a plaything, nor a piece of
machinery to wind up and set in motion at will; and like thousands
of other men, he had made this discovery too late.




CHAPTER XXII.


WITHOUT a note of warning, the public were startled by the news that
Mrs. Dexter had left her husband. Wisely, sober second thought laid
upon the lips of Mr. Dexter the seal of silence. He gave no reason
for the step his wife had taken, and declined answering all
inquiries, even from his nearest friends. From a man of impulse, he
seemed changed at once into a man of deliberate purpose. His elegant
home was not given up, though he lived in it a kind of half hermit
life. Abroad, he was reserved; while everything about him gave signs
of a painful inward conflict.

Of course, the social air was full of rumors, probable and
improbable, but none of them exactly true. Mrs. Dexter was wholly
silent, except to her wisest and truest friend, Mrs. De Lisle--and
her discretion ever kept her guarded. Mrs. Loring simply alleged
"incompatibility of temper"--that vague allegation which covers with
its broad mantle so wide a range of domestic antagonisms. And so the
public had its appetite piqued, and the nine days' wonder became the
wonder of a season. Hints towards the truth were embellished by
gossips' ready imaginations, and stories of wrong, domestic
tyranny, infidelity, and the like, were passed around, and related
with a degree of circumstantiality that gave them wide credence. Yet
in no instance was the name of Hendrickson connected with that of
Mrs. Dexter. So transient had been their intercourse, that no eye
but that of jealousy had noted their meeting as anything beyond the
meeting of indifferent acquaintances.

It was just one week from the day Paul Hendrickson caught an
unexpected glimpse of Mrs. Dexter's face at the window, and passed
on with her image freshened in his heart, that he called in at the
Ardens', after an unusually long absence, to spend an evening. Miss
Arden's countenance lighted with a sudden glow on his appearance,
the rich blood dyeing her cheeks, and giving her face a heightened
charm; and in the visitor's eyes there was something gentler and
softer in her beauty than he had before observed. He probably
guessed the cause; and the thought touched his feelings, and drew
his heart something nearer to her.

"That is a painful story about Mrs. Dexter," said Mrs. Arden, almost
as soon as the young man came in. The recently heard facts were
uppermost in her thoughts.

"What story? I have not heard anything." Hendrickson was on his
guard in a moment; though he betrayed unusual interest.

"It is dreadful to think of!" said Miss Arden. "What a wretched
creature she must be! I always thought her one of the best of women.
Though I must own that at Saratoga last summer, she showed rather
more fondness for the society of other men than she did for that of
her husband."

"I am still in the dark," said Mr. Hendrickson, with suppressed
excitement.

"Then you haven't heard of it? Why, it's the town talk."

"No."

"There's been a separation between Mrs. Dexter and her husband,"
remarked Mrs. Arden. "She left him several days ago, and is now with
her aunt, Mrs. Loring."

"A separation! On what ground?" Hendrickson's breathing oppressed
him.

"Something wrong with Mrs. Dexter, I am told. She had too many
admirers--so the story goes; and, worse still--for admiration she
couldn't help--one lover."

It was Mrs. Arden who said this.

"Who was the lover?" asked Mr. Hendrickson. His voice was so quiet,
and his tones so indifferent, that none suspected the intense
interest with which he was listening.

"I have not heard his name," replied Mrs. Arden.

"Does he live in this city?"

"I believe not. Some new acquaintance, made at Newport, I think. You
remember that she was very ill there last summer?"

"Yes."

"Well, the cause of that illness is now said to have been a
discovery by Mr. Dexter of some indiscretion on her part, followed
by angry remonstrance on his."

"That is the story?"

"Yes."

"And what caused the separation which has just taken place?"

"A renewal of this intimacy," said Mrs. Arden.

"A very serious charge; and, I believe without foundation in truth,"
replied Hendrickson. He spoke slowly, yet not with strong emphasis.
His auditors did not know that he was simply controlling his voice
to hide his agitation.

"Oh, there is no doubt as to its truth," said Mrs. Arden. "The facts
have been substantiated; so Mrs. Anthony told me to-day; and she has
been one of Mrs. Dexter's most intimate friends."

"What facts?" inquired Hendrickson.

"Facts, that if they do not prove crime against Mrs. Dexter, show
her to have been imprudent to the verge of crime."

"Can you particularize?" said the young man.

"Well, no I can't just do that. Mrs. Anthony ran on at such a rate
that I couldn't get the affair adjusted in my mind. But she asserts
positively that Mrs. Dexter has gone considerably beyond the
boundary of prudence; and she is no friend of Dexter's, I can assure
you. As far as I can learn, there have been frequent meetings
between this lover and Mrs. Dexter during the husband's absence. An
earlier return home, a few days ago, led to a surprise and an
exposure. The result you know."

"I must make bold to pronounce this whole story a fabrication," said
Mr. Hendrickson, with rising warmth; "It is too improbable."

"Worse things than that have happened, and are happening every day,"
remarked Mrs. Arden.

"Still I shall disbelieve the story," said Mr. Hendrickson, firmly.

"What else would justify him in sending her home to her aunt?" asked
Mrs. Arden.

"He sent her home, then? That is the report?" remarked Hendrickson.

"Some say one thing and some another."

"And a story loses nothing in the repetition."

"You are very skeptical," said Miss Arden.

"I wish all men and women were more skeptical than they are, in
touching the wrong doings of others," replied the young man. "The
world is not so bad as it seems. Now I am sure that if the truth of
this affair could really be known, we should find scarcely a single
fact in agreement with the report. I have heard that Mr. Dexter is
blindly jealous of his wife."

"Oh, as to that, Mrs. Anthony says that he made himself ridiculous
by his jealousy at Saratoga last summer. And I now remember that he
used to act strangely sometimes," said Mrs. Arden.

"A jealous man," returned Hendrickson, "is a very bad judge of his
wife's conduct; and more likely to see guilt than innocence in any
circumstance that will bear a double explanation. Let us then lean
to the side of charity, and suppose good until the proof of evil
stares us in the very face; as I shall do in this instance. I have
always believed Mrs. Dexter to be the purest of women; and I believe
so still."

Both Mrs. Arden and her daughter seemed annoyed at this defence of a
woman against whom they had so readily accepted the common rumor.
But they said nothing farther. After that an unusual embarrassment
marked their intercourse. As early as he could, with politeness,
retire, Hendrickson went away. He did not err in his own elucidation
of the mystery; for he remembered well the vision of Mrs. Dexter's
face at the window--her instant sign of feeling--his own quick but
not meditated response--and the sudden appearance of her husband,
whose clouded countenance was full of angry suspicion.

"To this!--and so soon!" said Hendrickson to himself, as he left the
house of Mrs. Arden. "Oh, that I could stretch out my hand to save
her!--That I could shield her from the tempests!--That I could
shelter her from the burning heats! But I cannot. There is a great
gulf between us, and I may not pass to her, nor she to me. Oh, my
soul! is this separation to be for all time?"

There was rebellion in the heart of Paul Hendrickson when he reached
his home; and a wild desire to overleap all barriers of separation.

"There will be a divorce in all probability," so he began talking
with himself. "Jessie will never return to him after this violent
separation; and he, after a time, will ask to have the marriage
annulled. He will not be able to bring proof of evil against
her--will, I am sure, not even attempt it; for no evidence exists.
But her steady refusal to live with him as his wife, will enable
him, it may be, to get a divorce. And then!"

There was a tone of exultation in his voice at the closing words.

"And whosoever marrieth her which is put away, committeth adultery."

Hendrickson started to his feet, his face as pale as ashes, and
glanced almost fearfully about the room. The voice seemed spoken in
the air--but it was not so. The warning had reached his sense of
hearing by an inner way.

Then he sat down, and pondered this new question, so suddenly
presented for solution, turning it towards every light--viewing it
now from the side of human feeling and human reason--and now with
the light of Divine Revelation shining upon it. But he was not
satisfied. The letter of the record was against him; but nature
cried out for some different reading. At length he made an effort to
thrust the subject aside.

"What folly is this?" he said, still talking with himself. "Wait!
wait! wait!--the time is not yet. Separation only exists. There is
no divorce. The great, impassable gulf is yet between us. I cannot
go to her. She cannot come to me. I must wait, hopefully, if not
patiently, the issue of events."

The thoughts of Hendrickson had once more been turning themselves
towards Miss Arden, and he had felt the glow of warmer feelings. He
had even begun to think again of marriage.

"Let that illusion go!" he said. "It must no longer tempt me to the
commission of an act that reason and conscience both pronounce
wrong. I do not love Mary Arden; therefore, I will not marry her. I
settle that matter now, and forever."

And the decision was final. He did not visit her again for many
months, and then only after her engagement to another.




CHAPTER XXIII.


THERE were plenty of intrusive friends to give Mr. Dexter advice as
to how he should act towards the unhappy woman who had fled from him
in her despair. He was rich, good-hearted--as the world
goes--honorable, domestic in his feelings and habits; everything, in
fact, that society requires in the composition of a good husband.
The blame, therefore, among the friends of Mr. Dexter, was all on
the side of his wife.

"You will, of course, if she persists in this unwarrantable conduct,
demand a legal separation," said one.

"That is just what she wants," suggested another. "You could not
grant her a higher favor."

"Wait--wait," was the advice of a third.

And so the changes were rung. Dexter listened, pondered, suffered;
but admitted no one into the council chamber of his heart. There
were some things known only to himself and the one he had driven
from him, which he did not care to reveal. The shock of separation
had rent away a few scales from his eyes, and his vision was
clearer; but the clearer vision did not lessen his misery--for
self-upbraidings crowded in with the illustrating light.

For a while, jealous suspicion kept him watchfully alive to the
movements of Paul Hendrickson. In order to gain the most undoubted
information in regard to him, he secured the services of an
intelligent policeman, who, well paid for his work, kept so sharp an
eye upon him, that he was able to report his whereabouts for almost
every hour of the day and evening.

Days, weeks, months even passed, and the policeman's report varied
scarcely a sentence. The range of Hendrickson's movements was from
his place of business to his lodgings. Once a week, perhaps, he went
out in the evening; but never were his steps directed to the
neighborhood in which the object of his waking and dreaming thoughts
resided.

In part, this knowledge of Hendrickson's mode of living relieved the
mind of Dexter; yet, when viewed in certain lights, it proved a
cause of deeper disturbance. His conclusions in the case were near
the truth. Hendrickson's withdrawal of himself from society--his
hermit-like life--his sober face and musing aspect--seemed only so
many evidences of his undying love for Mrs. Dexter. That an
impassable barrier existed between them--that, as things were,
even a friendly intercourse would be next to crime--Hendrickson
felt; and Dexter's clearer perceptions awarded him a just conclusion
in this particular.

So far as Mrs. Dexter was concerned, the heavy curtain that fell so
suddenly between her and the world was not drawn aside--not
uplifted--even for a moment. Her deep seclusion of herself was
nun-like. Gradually new objects of interest--new causes of
excitement--pressed the thought of her aside, and her name grew a
less and less familiar sound in fashionable and family circles. Some
thought of her as a wronged woman--some as a guilty woman--yet all
with a degree of sympathy.

A year Mr. Dexter waited for some sign from his wife. But if the
grave had closed over her, the isolation from him could not have
been more perfect. He then sold his house, removed to a hotel, and
made preparations for an absence in Europe of indefinite
continuance. He went, and was gone for over two years.--Returned,
and almost immediately on his arrival, took legal steps for
procuring a divorce. Mrs. Dexter received due notice of these
proceedings, based simply on her abandonment of her husband, and
refusal to live with him as a wife. But she remained entirely
passive. The proceedings went on, and in due time Mr. Dexter
obtained what he sought, a divorce. Within a month after the decree
in his favor, he returned across the Atlantic.

The publication of this decree awakened a brief interest in Mrs.
Dexter--or rather in plain Jessie Loring, as she was now in legal
aspect. But the curious public were not able to acquire any
satisfactory information in regard to her. The world in which she
lived was a _terra incognita_ to them.

The next exciting news which came in this connection, was the
announcement of Dexter's marriage with an English heiress. He did
not return with her to the United States; but remained in England,
where he established a foreign branch of the mercantile house in
which he was a partner, and took up his permanent residence beyond
the sea.




CHAPTER XXIV.


Six years from the day Jessie Loring laid her bleeding heart on the
marriage altar had passed. For over three years of that time she had
not stepped beyond the threshold of her aunt's dwelling, and only at
rare intervals was she seen by visitors. She had not led an idle
life, however; else would her days long ere this have been numbered.
To her aunt and cousins she had, from the day of her return, devoted
herself, in all things wherein she could aid, counsel, minister, or
sustain; and that with so much of patient cheerfulness, and loving
self-devotion, that she had become endeared to them beyond any
former attachment. There was an odor of goodness about her life that
made her presence an incentive to right action.

Long before this period, Mrs. Loring had ceased all efforts to lead
Jessie out of her self-imposed seclusion.

"Not yet, dear aunt! Not yet," was the invariable answer.

The day on which she received formal notice that her husband had
applied for a divorce, she shut herself up in her room, and did not
leave it, nor hold communion with any one, until the next morning.
Then, with the exception of a wearied look, as if she had not slept
well, and a shade of sadness about her lips, no change was
discernible. When the decree, annulling the marriage between her and
Dexter, was placed in her hands, she seemed bewildered for a time,
as if she found it almost impossible to realize her new position.

"I congratulate you, Jessie Loring!" said her aunt, speaking from
her external view of the case. "You are free again. Free as the
wind!"

"This does not place me where I was," Jessie replied.

"Why not? The law has cancelled your marriage!" said Mrs. Loring.
"You stand in your old relation to the world."

"But not to myself," Jessie answered with a deep sigh; and leaving
her aunt, she went away to her little chamber, there to sit in
solemn debate over this new aspect of affairs in her troubled life.

No--no. She did not stand in her old relation to herself. She was
not a maiden with lips free from the guile of a false marriage
promise; but a divorced wife. A thing questionably recognized, both
in human opinion and divine law. Deeply and solemnly did this
conviction weigh upon her thoughts. View the case in any of the
lights which shone into her mind, she could not discover an aspect
that gave her real comfort. It is true she was free from all legal
obligations to her former husband, and that was something gained.
But what of that husband's position under the literal reading of the
divine law? No doubt he contemplated marriage. But could he marry,
conscience clear? Had not her false vows cursed both their
lives?--imposed on each almost impossible necessities?

Such were the questions that thrust themselves upon her, and
clamored for solution.

She had not solved them when the intelligence came of Mr. Dexter's
marriage in England.

"I have news that will surprise you," said Mrs. Loring, coming into
the sitting-room where Jessie was at work on a piece of embroidery.

"What is it?" she asked, looking up almost with a start, for
something in her aunt's manner told her that she had a personal
interest in the news.

"Mr. Dexter is married!"

Instantly a pallor overspread Jessie's face.

"Married to an English lady," said Mrs. Loring.

Jessie looked at her aunt for a little while, but without a remark.
She then turned her eyes again upon her embroidery, lifting it close
to her face. But her hand trembled so that she could not take a
stitch.

"I hope he's satisfied now," said Mrs. Loring. "He's married an
heiress--so the story goes; and is going to reside with her in
England. I'm glad of that any how. It might not be so pleasant for
you to meet them--sensitive thing that you are! But it wouldn't
trouble _me_. _I_ could look them both in the face and not blink.
Much joy may he have with his English bride! Bless me, child, how
you do tremble!" she added, as she noticed the fingers of her niece
trying in vain to direct the needle she held upon the face of the
embroidery. "It's nothing more than you had to expect. And, besides,
what is Leon Dexter to you now? Only as another man?"

Jessie arose without speaking, and kissing her aunt in token of
love, passed quickly from the room.

"Dear! dear! what a strange child it is!" said Aunt Loring, as she
wiped off a tear which had fallen from Jessie's eyes upon her cheek.
"Just like her mother for all the world in some things"--the last
part of the sentence was in a qualifying tone--"though," she went
on, "her mother hadn't anything like her trials to endure. Oh, that
Dexter! if I only had my will of him!"

And Aunt Loring, in her rising indignation, actually clenched her
hand and shook it in the air.

"It has come to this at last," said Jessie as soon as she had gained
the sanctuary of her little chamber, where she could think without
interruption. "And I knew it must come; but oh, how I have dreaded
the event! Is he innocent in the sight of heaven? Ah, if I could
only have that question answered in the affirmative, a crushing
weight would be lifted from my soul. If he is not innocent, the
stain of his guilt rests upon my garments! He is not alone
responsible. Who can tell the consequences of a single false step in
life?"

From a small hanging shelf she took a Bible, and opening to a marked
page, read over three or four verses with earnest attention.

"I can see no other meaning," she said with a painful sigh, closing
the book and restoring it to its place on the shelf. It was all in
vain that Jessie Loring sought for light and comfort in this
direction. They were not found. When she joined her aunt, some hours
afterwards, her face had not regained its former placidity.

"Well, dear," said Mrs. Loring, speaking in what sounded to the ear
of her niece a light tone, "have you got it all right with
yourself?"

Jessie smiled faintly, and merely answered--

"It will take time. But I trust that all will come out truly
adjusted in the end."

She had never ventured to bring to her aunt's very external judgment
the real questions that troubled her. Mrs. Loring's prompt way of
sweeping aside these cobwebs of the brain, as she called the finer
scruples of conscience, could not satisfy her yearning desire for
light.

"Yes; time works wonders. He is the great restorer. But why not see
clearly at once; and not wait in suffering for time's slow
movements? I am a wiser philosopher than you are, Jessie; and try to
gain from the present all that it has to give."

"Some hearts require a severer discipline than others," said Jessie.
"And mine, I think, is one of them."

"All that is sickly sentiment, my dear child! as I have said to you
a hundred times. It is not shadow, but sunshine that your heart
wants--not discipline, but consolation--not doubt, but hope. You are
as untrue to yourself as the old anchorites. These self-inflicted
stripes are horrible to think of, for the pain is not salutary, but
only increases the morbid states of mind that ever demand new
flagellations."

"We are differently made, Aunt Phoebe," was the quiet answer.

"No, we are not, but we make ourselves different," replied Mrs.
Loring a little hastily.

"The world would be a very dead-level affair, if we were all made
alike," said Jessie, forcing a smile, and assuming a lighter air, in
order to lead her aunt's mind away from the thought of her as too
painfully disturbed by the announcement of Mr. Dexter's marriage.
And she was successful. The subject was changed to one of a less
embarrassing character. And this was all of the inner life of Jessie
Loring that showed itself on the surface.




CHAPTER XXV.


AND what of Paul Hendrickson during these years of isolation, in
which no intelligence could be gained of Jessie, beyond vague
rumors? For a time, he secluded himself. Then he returned to a few
of the old social circles, not much changed to the common eye. His
countenance was a little graver; his voice a little lower; his
manner a trifle more subdued. But he was a cheerful, intelligent
companion, and always a welcome guest.

To no one, not even to his old friend, Mrs. Denison, did he speak of
Mrs. Dexter. What right had he to speak of her? She was still the
lawful wife of another man, though separated from him by her own
act. But not to think of her was as impossible as not to think at
all--not to gaze upon her image as impossible as to extinguish the
inner vision. She was always by his side, in spirit; her voice
always in his ears; her dear face always before him. "The cup is
dashed to pieces at my feet, and the precious wine spilled!" How
many, many, many times, each day, did he hear these words uttered,
always in that sad, half-desponding voice that first brought them to
his ears; and they kept hope in the future alive.

The separation which had taken place Hendrickson regarded as one
step in the right direction. When the application for a divorce was
made, he hailed it with a degree of inward satisfaction that a
little startled himself. "It is another step in the right
direction," he said, on the instant's impulse.

Reflection a little sobered him. "Even if the divorce is granted,
what will be her views of the matter?"

There came no satisfactory answer to this query.

A thick curtain still veiled the future. Many doubts troubled him.

Next, in the order of events, came the decision by which the
marriage contract between Dexter and his wife was annulled. On the
evening of the same day on which the court granted the petitioner's
prayer, Hendrickson called upon Mrs. Denison. She saw the moment he
came in that he was excited about something.

"Have you heard the news?" he inquired.

"What news?" Mrs. Denison looked at him curiously.

"Leon Dexter has obtained a divorce."

"Has he?"

"Yes. And so that long agony is over! She is free again."

Hendrickson was not able to control the intense excitement he felt.

Mrs. Denison looked at him soberly and with glances of inquiry.

"You understand me, I suppose?"

"Perhaps I do, perhaps not," she answered.

"Mrs. Denison," said the young man, with increasing excitement, "I
need scarcely say to you that my heart has never swerved from its
first idolatry. To love Jessie Loring was an instinct of my
nature--therefore, to love her once was to love her forever. You
know how cruelly circumstances came with their impassable barriers.
They were only barriers, and destroyed nothing. As brightly as ever
burned the fires--as ardently as ever went forth love's strong
impulses with every heart-beat. And her heart remained true to mine
as ever was needle to the pole."

"That is a bold assertion, Paul," said Mrs. Denison, "and one that
it pains me to hear you make."

"It is true; but why does it give you pain?" he asked.

"Because it intimates the existence of an understanding between you
and Mrs. Dexter, and looks to the confirmation of rumors that I have
always considered as without a shadow of foundation."

"My name has never been mentioned in connection with hers."

"It has."

"Mrs. Denison!"

"It is true."

"I never heard it."

"Nor I but once."

"What was said?"

"That you were the individual against whom Mr. Dexter's jealousy was
excited, and that your clandestine meetings with his wife led to the
separation."

"I had believed," said Hendrickson, after a pause, and in a voice
that showed a depression of feeling, "that busy rumor had never
joined our names together. That it has done so, I deeply regret. No
voluntary action of mine led to this result; and it was my opinion
that Dexter had carefully avoided any mention of my name, even to
his most intimate friends."

"I only heard the story once, and then gave it my emphatic denial,"
said Mrs. Denison.

"And yet it was true, I believe, though in a qualified sense. We did
meet, not clandestinely, however, nor with design."

"But without a thought, much less a purpose of dishonor," said Mrs.
Denison, almost severely.

"Without even a thought of dishonor," replied Hendrickson. "Both
were incapable of that. She arrived at Newport when I was there. We
met, suddenly and unexpectedly, face to face, and when off our
guard. I read her heart, and she read mine, in lightning glimpses.
The pages were shut instantly, and not opened again. We met once or
twice after that, but as mere acquaintances, and I left on the day
after she came, because I saw that the discipline was too severe for
her, and that I was not only in an equivocal, but dangerous, if not
dishonorable position. Dexter had his eyes on me all the while, and
if I crossed his path suddenly he looked as if he would have
destroyed me with a glance. The fearful illness, which came so near
extinguishing the life of Mrs. Dexter, was, I have never doubted, in
consequence of that meeting and circumstances springing directly
therefrom. A friend of mine had a room adjoining theirs at Newport,
and he once said to me, without imagining my interest in the case,
that on the day before Mrs. Dexter's illness was known, he had heard
her voice pitched to a higher key than usual, and had caught a few
words that too clearly indicated a feeling of outrage for some
perpetrated wrong. There was stern defiance also, he said, in her
tones. He was pained at the circumstance, for he had met Mrs. Dexter
frequently, he said, at Newport, and was charmed with her fine
intelligence and womanly attractions.

"Once after that we looked into each other's faces, and only once.
And then, as before, we read the secret known only to ourselves--but
without design. I was passing her residence--it was the first time I
had permitted myself even to go into the neighborhood where she
lived, since her return from Newport. Now something drew me that
way, and yielding to the impulse, I took the street on which her
dwelling stood, and ere a thought of honor checked my footsteps, was
by her door. A single glance at one of the parlor windows gave me
the vision of her pale face, so attenuated by sickness and
suffering, that the sight filled me with instant pity, and fired my
soul with a deeper love. What my countenance expressed I do not
know. It must have betrayed my feelings, for I was off my guard. Her
face was as the page of a book suddenly opened. I read it without
losing the meaning of a word. There was a painful sequel to this.
The husband of Mrs. Dexter, as if he had started from the ground,
confronted me on the instant. Which way he came--whether he had
followed me, or advanced by an opposite direction, I know not. But
there he stood, and his flashing eyes read both of our unveiled
faces. The expression of his countenance was almost fiendish.

"I passed on, without pause or start. Nothing more than the
answering glances he had seen was betrayed. But the consequences
were final. It was on that day that Mrs. Dexter left her husband,
never again to hold with him any communication. I have scarcely
dared permit myself to imagine what transpired on that occasion. The
outrage on his part must have been extreme, or the desperate
alternative of abandonment would never have been taken by such a
woman.

"There, my good friend and aforetime counsellor," added Hendrickson,
"you have the unvarnished story. A stern necessity drew around each
of us bands of iron. Yet we have been true to ourselves--and that
means true to honor. But now the darker features of the case are
changed. She is no longer the wife of Leon Dexter. The law has
shattered every link of the accursed chain that held her in such a
loathsome bondage."

He paused, for the expression of Mrs. Denison's countenance was not
by any means satisfactory.

"Right, so far," said Mrs. Denison. "I cannot see that either was
guilty of wrong, or even, imprudence. But I am afraid, Paul, that
you are springing to conclusions with too bold a leap."

"Do not say that, Mrs. Denison."

He spoke quickly, and with a suddenly shadowed face.

"Your meaning is very plain," was answered. "It is this. A divorce
having been granted to the prayer of Mr. Dexter, his wife is now
free to marry again."

"Yes, that is my meaning," said Hendrickson, looking steadily into
the face of Mrs. Denison. She merely shook her head in a grave,
quiet way.

Hendrickson drew a long breath, then compressed his lips--but still
looked into the face of his friend.

"There are impediments yet in the way," said Mrs. Denison.

"I know what you think. The Divine law is superior to all human
enactments."

"Is it not so, Paul?"

"If I was certain as to the Divine law," said Hendrickson.

"The record is very explicit."

"Read in the simple letter, I grant that it is. But"--

"Paul! It grieves me to throw an icy chill over your ardent
feelings," said Mrs. Denison, interrupting him. "But you may rest
well assured of one thing: Jessie Loring, though no longer Mrs.
Dexter, will not consider herself free to marry again."

"Do you know her views on this subject?" asked the young man,
quickly.

"I think I know the woman. In the spirit of a martyr she took up her
heavy cross, and bore it while she had strength to stand. The martyr
spirit is not dead in her. It will not die while life remains. In
the fierce ordeals through which she has passed, she has learned to
endure; and now weak nature must yield, if in any case opposed to
duty."

"Have you met her of late?" inquired the young man, curiously.

"No, but I talked with Mrs. De Lisle about her not long ago. Mrs. De
Lisle is her most intimate friend, and knows her better, perhaps,
than any other living person."

"And what does she say? Have you conversed with her on this
subject?"

"No; but I have learned enough from her in regard to Jessie's views
of life and duty, as well as states of religious feeling, to be
justified in saying that she will not consider a court's decree of
sufficient authority in the case. Alas! my young friend, I cannot
see cause for gratulation so far as you are concerned. To her, the
act of divorce may give a feeling of relief. A dead weight is
stricken from her limbs. She can walk and breathe more freely; but
she will not consider herself wholly untrammelled. Nor would I. Paul,
Paul! the gulf that separates you is still impassable! But do not
despair! Bear up bravely, manfully still. Six years of conflict,
discipline, and stern obedience to duty have made you more worthy of
a union with that pure spirit than you were when you saw her borne
from your eager, outstretched arms. Her mind is ripening
heavenward--let yours ripen in that direction also. You cannot mate
with her, my friend, in the glorious hereafter, unless you are of
equal purity. Oh, be patient, yet hopeful!"

Hendrickson had bowed his head, and was now sitting with his eyes
upon the floor. He did not answer after Mrs. Denison ceased
speaking, but still sat deeply musing.

"It is a hard saying!" He had raised his eyes to the face of his
maternal friend. "A hard saying, and hard to bear. Oh, there is
something so like the refinement of cruelty in these stern events
which hold us apart, that I feel at times like questioning the laws
that imposed such fearful restrictions. We are one in all the
essentials of marriage, Mrs. Denison. Why are we thus sternly held
apart?"

"It is one of the necessities of our fallen nature," Mrs. Denison
replied, in her calm, yet earnest voice, "that spiritual virtues can
only have birth in pain. We rise into the higher regions of heavenly
purity only after the fires have tried us. Some natures, as you
know, demand a severer discipline than others. Yours, I think, is
one of them. Jessie's is another. But after the earthly dross of
your souls is consumed, the pure gold will flow together, I trust,
at the bottom of the same crucible. Wait, my friend; wait longer.
The time is not yet."

A sadder man than when he came, did Mr. Hendrickson leave the house
of Mrs. Denison on that day. She had failed to counsel him according
to his wishes; but her words, though they had not carried full
conviction to his clouded understanding, had shown him a goal still
far in advance, towards which all of true manhood in him felt the
impulse to struggle.




CHAPTER XXVI.


WHEN the news of Mr. Dexter's second marriage reached Mr.
Hendrickson, he said:

"Now she is absolved!" but his friend Mrs. Denison, replied:

"I doubt if she will so consider it. No act of Mr. Dexter's can
alter her relation to the Divine law. I am one of these who cannot
regard him as wholly innocent. And yet his case is an extreme one;
for his wife's separation was as final as if death had broken the
bond. But I will not judge him; he is the keeper of his own
conscience, and the All-Wise is merciful in construction."

"I believe Jessie Loring to be as free to give her hand as before
her marriage."

"With her will rest the decision," was Mrs. Denison's answer.

"Have you seen her?" inquired Hendrickson.

"No."

"Has she been seen outside of her aunt's dwelling?"

"If so I have never heard of it."

"Do you think, if I were to call at Mrs. Loring's, she would see
me?"

"I cannot answer the question."

"But what is your opinion?"

"If I were you," said Mrs. Denison, "I would not call at present."

"Why."

"This act of her former husband is too recent. Let her have time to
get her mind clear as to her new relation. She may break through her
seclusion now, and go abroad into society again. If so you will meet
her without the constraint of a private interview."

"But she may still shut herself out from the world. Isolation may
have become a kind of second nature."

"We shall see," replied Mrs. Denison. "But for the present I think it
will be wiser to wait."

Weeks, even months, passed, and Paul Hendrickson waited in vain. He
was growing very impatient.

"I must see her! Suspense like this is intolerable!" he said, coming
in upon Mrs. Denison one evening.

"I warn you against it," replied Mrs. Denison.

"I cannot heed the warning."

"Her life is very placid, I am told by Mrs. De Lisle. Would you
throw its elements again into wild disturbance?"

"No; I would only give them their true activity. All is stagnation
now. I would make her life one thrill of conscious joy."

"I have conversed with Mrs. De Lisle on this subject," said Mrs.
Denison.

"You have? And what does she say?"

"She understands the whole case. I concealed nothing--was I right?"

"Yes. But go on."

"She does not think that Jessie will marry during the lifetime of
Mr. Dexter," said Mrs. Denison.

Hendrickson became pale.

"I fear," he remarked, "that I did not read her heart aright. I
thought that we were conjoined in spirit. Oh, if I have been in
error here, the wreck is hopeless!"

He showed a sudden and extreme depression.

"I think you have not erred, Paul. But if Jessie regards the
conditions of divorce, given in Matthew, as binding, she is too pure
and true a woman ever to violate them. All depends upon that. She
could not be happy with you, if her conscience were burdened with
the conviction that your marriage was not legal in the Divine sense.
Don't you see how such an act would depress her? Don't you see that,
in gaining her, you would sacrifice the brightest jewel in her crown
of womanhood?"

"Does Mrs. De Lisle know her views on this subject?" he asked.

"Yes."

A quick flush mantled Hendrickson's face.

"Well, what are they?" He questioned eagerly, and in a husky voice.

"She reads the law in Matthew and in Luke, literally."

"The cup is indeed broken, and the precious wine spilled!" exclaimed
the unhappy man, rising in strong agitation.

"Paul," said Mrs. Denison, after this agitation had in a measure
passed away; "all this I can well understand to be very hard for one
who has been so patient, so true, so long suffering. But think
calmly; and then ask yourself this question: Would you be willing to
marry Jessie Loring while she holds her present views?"

Hendrickson bent his head to think.

"She believes," said Mrs. Denison, "that such a marriage would be
adulterous. I put the matter before you in its plainest shape. Now,
my friend, are you prepared to take a woman for your wife who is
ready to come to you on such terms? I think not. No, not even if her
name be Jessie Loring."

"I thank you, my friend, for setting me completely right," said
Hendrickson. He spoke sadly, yet with the firmness of a true man. "I
have now but one favor to ask. Learn from her own lips, if possible,
her real sentiments on this subject."

"I will do so."

"Without delay?"

"Yes. To-morrow I will see Mrs. De Lisle, and confer with her on the
subject, and then at the earliest practical moment call with her
upon Jessie."

Two days afterwards, Mr. Hendrickson received a note from his
friend, asking him to call.

"You have seen her?"

The young man was paler than usual, but calm. His voice was not
eagerly expectant, but rather veiled with sadness, as if he had
weighed all the chances in his favor, and made up his mind for the
worst.

"I have," replied Mrs. Denison.

"She is much changed, I presume?"

"I would scarcely have known her," was answered.

"In what is she changed?"

"She has been growing less of the earth earthy, in all these years
of painful discipline. You see this in her changed exterior; your
ear perceives it in the tones of her voice; your mind answers to it
in the pure sentiments that breathe from her lips. Her very presence
gives an atmosphere of heavenly tranquillity."

It was some moments before Hendrickson made further remark. He then
said:

"How long a time were you with her, Mrs. Denison?"

"We spent over an hour in her company."

"Was my name mentioned?"

"No."

"Nor the subject in which I feel so deep an interest?"

"Yes, we spoke of that!"

"And you were not in error as to her decision of the case?"

Hendrickson manifested no excitement.

"I was not."

He dropped his eyes again to the floor, and sat musing for some
time.

"She does not consider herself free to marry again?"

He looked up with a calm face.

"No."

There was a sigh; a falling of the eyes; and a long, quiet silence.

"I was prepared for it, my friend," he said, speaking almost
mournfully. "Since our last interview, I have thought on this
subject a great deal, and looked at it from another point of vision.
I hare imagined myself in her place, and then pondered the Record.
It seemed more imperative. I could not go past it, and yet regard
myself innocent, or pure. It seemed a hard saying--but it was said.
The mountain was impassable. And so I came fortified for her
decision."

"Would you have had it otherwise?" Mrs. Denison asked.

Hendrickson did not answer at once. The question evidently disturbed
him.

"The heart is very weak," he said at length.

"But virtue is strong as another Samson," Mrs. Denison spoke
quickly.

"Her decision does not produce a feeling of alienation. I am not
angry. She stands, it is true, higher up and further off, invested
with saintly garments. If she is purer, I must be worthier. I can
only draw near in spirit--and there can be no spiritual nearness
without a likeness of quality. If the stain of earth is not to be
found on her vesture, mine must be white as snow."

"It is by fire we are purified, my friend," answered Mrs. Denison,
speaking with unusual feeling.

Not many weeks after this interview with Mrs. Denison, she received
a communication from Hendrickson that filled her with painful
surprise. It ran thus:


"MY BEST FRIEND:--When this comes into your hands, I shall be away
from B--. It is possible that I may never return again. I do not
take this step hastily, but after deep reflection, and in the firm
conviction that I am right. If I remain, the probabilities are that
I shall meet Jessie Loring, who will come forth gradually from her
seclusion; and I am not strong enough, nor cold enough for that. Nor
do I think our meeting would make the stream of her life more
placed. It has run in wild waves long enough--the waters have been
turbid long enough--and mine is not the hand to swirl it with a
single eddy. No--no. My love, I trust, is of purer essence. I would
bless, not curse--brighten, not cloud the horizon of her life.

"And so I recede as she comes forth into the open day, and shall
hide myself from her sight. As she advances by self denials and holy
charities towards celestial purity, may I advance also, fast enough
at least not to lose sight of her in the far off distance.

"You will meet her often, from this time, dear, true, faithful
friend! And I pray you to keep my memory green in her heart. Not
with such bold reference as shall disturb its tranquil life. Oh, do
not give her pain! But with gentle insinuations; so that the thought
of me have no chance to die. I will keep unspotted from the world;
yet will I not withdraw myself, but manfully take my place and do
battle for the right.

"And now, best of friends, farewell! I go out into the great world,
to be absorbed from observation in the crowd. But my heart will
remain among the old places, and beat ever faithful to its early
loves.

"PAUL HENDRICKSON."


He had withdrawn himself from all business connections, and sold his
property. With his small fortune, realized by active, intelligent
industry, and now represented by Certificates of Deposit in three of
the city banks, he vanished from among those who had known and
respected him for years, and left not a sign of the direction he had
taken. Even idle rumor, so usually unjust, did him no wrong. He had
been, in all his actions, too true a man for even suspicion to touch
his name.




CHAPTER XXVII.


As Hendrickson had rightly supposed, Jessie Loring came forth from
her seclusion of years. Not all at once, but by gradual intrusions
upon the social life around her. At first she went abroad on a
mission of charity. Then her friend Mrs. De Lisle, drew her to her
house, and there a new face that interested her awakened a new
impulse in her mind. And so the work went on, and ere long she was
in part restored to society. But how different from the one who had
withdrawn from it years before! Suffering and discipline had left
upon her their unmistakable signs. The old beauty of countenance had
departed. The elegant style--the abounding grace of manner--the
fascinating speech--all were gone. Only those to whom she had been
most familiar, recognized in the pale, serene countenance, retiring
grace and gentle speech of Jessie Loring, the once brilliant Mrs.
Dexter.

And quite as different was the effect she produced upon those who
came within the sphere of her chastened thoughts. Before, all
admired her; now, all who could draw close enough, found in her
speech an inspiration to good deeds. Some were wiser--all were
better in right purposes--who met her in familiar intercourse. And
the more intimately she was known, the more apparent became the
higher beauty into which she had arisen; a celestial beauty, that
gave angelic lustre at times to her countenance.

To no one did she mention the name of Hendrickson. If she missed him
from the circles which had again opened to receive her, none knew
that her eyes had ever looked for his presence. No one spoke to her
of him, and so she remained for a time in ignorance of his singular
disappearance. A caution from Mrs. De Lisle to Mrs. Loring, made
that not over-cautious individual prudent in this case.

One day Jessie was visiting Mrs. Denison, to whom she had become
warmly attached. She did not show her accustomed cheerfulness, and
to the inquiries of Mrs. Denison as to whether she was as well as
usual, replied, as it seemed to that lady, evasively. At length she
said, with a manner that betrayed a deep interest in the subject:

"I heard a strange story yesterday about an old acquaintance whom I
have missed--Mr. Hendrickson."

"What have you heard?" was inquired.

"That he left the city in a mysterious manner several months ago,
and has not been heard of since."

"It is true," said Mrs. Denison.

"Was there anything wrong in his conduct?" asked Jessie Loring, her
usually pale face showing the warmer hues of feeling.

"Nothing. Not even the breath of suspicion has touched his good
name."

"What is the explanation?"

"Common rumor is singularly at fault in the case," replied Mrs.
Denison. "I have heard no reason assigned that to me had any
appearance of truth."

"Had he failed in business?" asked Miss Loring.

"No. He was in a good business, and accumulating property. But he
sold out, and converting all that he was worth into money, took it
with him, and left only his memory behind."

"Had he trouble with any one?"

"No."

Jessie looked concerned--almost sad.

"I would like to know the reason." She spoke partly to herself.

"I alone am in possession of the reason," said Mrs. Denison, after a
silence of more than a minute.

"You!"

Thrown off her guard, Jessie spoke eagerly and with surprise.

"Yes. He wrote me a letter at the time, stating in the clearest
terms the causes which led to so strange a course of conduct.

"Did you approve of his reasons?" Miss Loring had regained much of
her usual calm exterior.

"I accepted them," was answered. "Under all the circumstances of the
case, his course was probably the wisest that could have been
taken."

"Are you at liberty to state the reasons?" asked Miss Loring.

Mrs. Denison thought for some time.

"Do you desire to hear them?" she then asked, looking steadily into
the face of her visitor.

"I do," was firmly answered.

"Then I will place his letter to me in your hands. But not now. When
you leave, it will be time enough. You must read it alone."

A sudden gleam shot across the face of Jessie. But it died like a
transient meteor.

"I will return home now, Mrs. Denison," she said, with a manner that
showed a great deal of suppressed feeling. "You will excuse me, of
course."

"Cannot you remain longer? I shall regret your going," said her kind
friend.

"Not in my present state of mind. I can see from your manner that I
have an interest in the contents of that letter, and I am impatient
to know them."

It was all in vain that Jessie Loring sought to calm her feelings as
she returned homeward with the letter of Paul Hendrickson held
tightly in her hand. The suspense was too much for her. On entering
the house of her aunt, she went with unusual haste to her own room,
and without waiting to lay aside any of her attire, sat down and
opened the letter. There was scarcely a sign of life while she read,
so motionless did she sit, as if pulsation were stilled. After
reading it to the last word she commenced folding up the letter, but
her hands, that showed a slight tremor in the beginning, shook so
violently before she was done, that the half closed sheet rattled
like a leaf in the wind. Then tears gushed over the letter, falling
upon it like rain.

There was no effort on the part of Jessie to repress this wild rush
of feeling. Her heart had its own way for a time. In the deep hush
that followed, she bowed herself, and kneeled reverently, lifting a
sad face and tear-filled eyes upwards with her spirit towards
Heaven. She did not ask for strength or comfort--she did not even
ask for herself anything. Her soul's deep sympathies were all for
another, towards whom a long cherished love had suddenly blazed up,
revealing the hidden fires. But she prayed that at all times, in all
places, and under all circumstances, _he_ might be kept pure.

"Give him," she pleaded, "patient endurance and undying hope. Oh,
make his fortitude like the rock, but his humanities yielding and
all pervading as the summer airs laden with sweetness. Sustain him
by the divine power of truth. Let Thy Word be a staff in his hand
when travel-worn, and a sword when the enemy seeks his life. In his
own strength he cannot walk in this way; in his own strength he
cannot battle with his foes--but in Thy strength he will be strong
as a lion, and as invincible as an army."

After rising from her knees, Miss Loring, over whose spirit a deep
quietude had fallen, re-opened Hendrickson's letter and read it
again; and not once only but many times, until every word and
sentence were written on her memory.

"The way may be rough, and our feet not well shod for the long
journey," she said, almost with a smile on her pure face, "the sky
may be sunless and moonless, and thick clouds may hide even the
stars--but there are soft green meadows beyond, and glorious
sunshine. If I am not to meet him here, I shall be gathered lovingly
into his arms there, and God will bless the union!"

When next Mrs. Denison saw this young martyr, there was even a
serener aspect in her countenance than before. She was in possession
of a secret that gave a new vitality to her existence. Until now,
all in regard to Hendrickson had been vague and uncertain. Their few
brief but disastrous meetings had only revealed an undying interest;
but as to the quality of his love, his sentiments in regard to her,
and his principles of life, she knew literally nothing. Now all was
made clear; and her soul grew strong within her as she looked
forward into the distance.

"I will keep that letter," she said to Mrs. Denison, in so firm a
voice that her friend was surprised. "It is more really addressed to
me than it is to you; and it was but fair that it should come into
my possession. He is one of earth's nobler spirits."

"You say well, Miss Loring. He is one of earth's nobler spirits. I
know him. How he would stand the fire, I could not tell. But I had
faith in him; and my faith was but a prophecy. He has come out
purified. I was not at first satisfied with this last step; but on
close reflection, I am inclined to the belief that he was right. I
do not think either of you are strong enough yet to meet. You would
be drawn together by an attraction that might obscure your higher
perceptions, and lead you to break over all impediments. That, with
your views, would not be well. There would be a cloud in the sky of
your happiness; a spot on your marriage garments; a shadow on your
consciences."

"There would--there would!" replied Miss Loring with sudden feeling.
Then, as the current grew placid again, she said:

"I can hardly make you comprehend the change which that letter has
wrought in me. All the thick clouds that mantled my sky, have lifted
themselves from the horizon, showing bright gleams of the far away
blue; and sunrays are streaming down by a hundred rifts. Oh, this
knowledge that I am so deeply, purely, faithfully loved, trammelled
as I am, and forbidden to marry, fills my soul with happiness
inexpressible. We shall be, when the hand of our wise and good
Father leads us together, and His smile falls unclouded upon our
union, more blessed a thousand fold than if, in the eagerness of
natural impulses, we had let our feelings have sway."

"If you are both strong enough, you will have the higher blessing,"
was the only answer made by Mrs. Denison.

From that period a change in Jessie Loring was visible to all eyes.
There came into her countenance a warmer hue of health; her bearing
was more erect, yet not self-confident; her eyes were brighter, and
occasionally the flash of old-time thought was in them. Everywhere
she went, she attracted; and all who came into familiar intercourse
with her, felt the sweetness of her lovely character. The secret of
this change was known to but few, and they kept it sacred. Not even
Mrs. Loring, the good-hearted aunt, who loved her with a mother's
maternal fondness, was admitted into her confidence, for she felt
that mere worldliness would bruise her heart by contact. But the
change, though its causes were not seen, was perceived as something
to love, by Aunt Phoebe, who felt for her niece a daily increasing
attachment.

And so the weeks moved on; and so the years came and went. Little
change was seen in Jessie Loring; except, that the smile which had
been restored, gradually grew less, though it did not bear away the
heavenly sweetness from her countenance. In all true charities that
came within her sphere of action, whether the ministration were to
bodily necessities, or moral needs, she was an angel of mercy; and
few met her in life's daily walk, but had occasion to think of her
as one living very near the sources of Divine love.




CHAPTER XXVIII.


TEN years had glided away, yet not in all that time had Jessie
Loring received a word of intelligence from Paul Hendrickson. He had
passed from sight like a ship when darkness falls upon the
ocean--the morning sees her not again, and the billows give no
record of the way she went. But still Jessie bore his image at her
heart; still her love was undimmed, and her confidence unshaken--and
still she felt herself bound by the old shackles, which no human
hand could break from her fettered limbs.

One day, about this time, as Mrs. Denison sat reading, a servant
came into her room and handing her a card, said:

"There is a gentleman waiting in the parlor to see you."

She looked at the card, and started with surprise. It bore the name
of PAUL HENDRICKSON.

"My dear friend!" she exclaimed, grasping both of his hands, as she
stood facing him a few moments afterwards.

"My best friend!" was the simple response, but in a voice tremulous
with feeling.

A little while they stood, gazing curiously yet with affectionate
interest, into each other's face.

"You are not much changed; and nothing for the worse," said Mrs.
Denison.

"And you wear the countenance of yesterday," he replied, almost
fondly. "How many thousands of times since we parted, have I desired
to stand looking into your eyes as I do now! Dear friend! my heart
has kept your memory fresh as spring's first offerings."

"Where have you been, in all these years of absence?" Mrs. Denison
asked, as they sat down, still holding each other's hands tightly.

"Far away from here; but of that hereafter. You have already guessed
the meaning of my return to the old places."

"No."

"What! Have you not heard of Mr. Dexter's decease?"

"Paul! is that so?" Mrs. Denison was instantly excited.

"It is. I had the information from a correspondent in London, who
sent me a paper in which was a brief obituary. He died nearly three
months ago, of fever contracted in a hospital, where he had gone to
visit the captain of one of his vessels, just arrived from the coast
of Africa. The notice speaks of him as an American gentleman of
wealth and great respectability."

"And the name is Leon Dexter?" said Mrs. Denison.

"Yes. There is no question as to the identity. And now, my good
friend, what of Jessie Loring? I pray you keep me not longer in
suspense."

So wholly absorbed were they, that the ringing of the street door
bell had not been heard, nor the movement of the servant along the
passage. Ere Mrs. Denison could reply, the parlor door was pushed
quietly open, and Miss Loring entered.

"She stands before you!" said Mrs. Denison, starting up and
advancing a step or two.

"Jessie Loring!"

Mr. Hendrickson uttered the name slowly, but in a voice touched with
the profoundest emotion. He had arisen, but did not advance. She
stood suddenly still, and held her breath, while a paleness
overspread her features. But her long training had given her great
self-control.

"Mr. Hendrickson," she said, advancing across the room.

He grasped her hand, but she did not return the ardent pressure,
though the touch went thrilling to her heart. But the paleness had
left her face.

At this moment Mrs. Denison came forward, and covering their clasped
hands with hers, said in a low, but very emphatic voice:

"There is no impediment! God has removed the last obstruction, and
your way is plain."

Instantly the whole frame of Miss Loring seemed jarred as by a heavy
stroke; and she would have fallen through weakness, if Hendrickson
had not thrown an arm around her. Bearing her to a sofa, he laid
her, very tenderly, in a reclining position, with her head resting
against Mrs. Denison. But he kept one of her hands tightly within
his own; and she made no effort to withdraw it.

"There is no obstruction now, dear friends," resumed Mrs. Denison.
"The long agony is over--the sad error corrected. The patience of
hope, the fidelity of love, the martyr-spirit that could bear
torture, yet not swerve from its integrity, are all to find their
exceeding great reward. I did not look for it so soon. Far in
advance of the present I saw the long road each had to travel, still
stretching its weary length. But suddenly the pilgrimage has ended.
The goal is won while yet the sun stands at full meridian--while yet
the feet are strong, and the heart brave for endurance or battle.
Heroes are ye, and this is my greeting!"

With eyes still closed, Jessie lay very still upon the bosom of this
dear friend. But oh, what a revelation of joy was in the sweet,
half-formed smile that arched her lips with beauty! Hendrickson
stood, still grasping her hand, and looking down into her pure,
tranquil face, with such a rapture pervading his soul, that he
seemed as if entering upon the felicities of heaven.

"This is even better than my hopes," he said, speaking at length,
but in a subdued voice.

Jessie opened her eyes, and now gazed at him calmly, but lovingly.
What a manly presence was his! How wonderfully he was
changed!--Thought, suffering, endurance, virtue, honor, had all been
at work upon his face, cutting away the earthly and the sensual,
until only the lines of that imperishable beauty which is of the
spirit, remained. Every well-remembered feature was there; but the
expression of his whole face was new.

A moment or two only did she look at him--but she read a volume in
love's history at a glance--then closed her eyes again, and, as she
did so, gave back to the hand that still held hers, an answering
pressure.

The long, long trial of faith, love and high religious principle was
over, and they were now standing at the open door of blessing.

And so the reward came at last, as come it always does, to the true,
the faithful, the pure, and the loving--if not in this world,
assuredly in the next--and the great error of their lives stood
corrected.

But what a lesson for the heart! Oh, is there a more fearful
consummation of error in the beginning of life than a wholly
discordant marriage! This mating of higher and lower natures--of
delicacy with coarseness--of sensuality with almost spiritual
refinement--of dove-like meekness with falcon cruelty--of the lamb
with the bear! It makes the very heart bleed to think of the undying
anguish that is all around us, springing from this most frightful
cause of misery!

In less than a month Paul Hendrickson again departed from B--, but
this time not alone, nor with his destination involved in mystery.
His second self went with him, and their faces were turned towards a
southern island, where the earth was as rich in blossom and verdure
as the bride's heart in undying love. Here his home had been for years;
and here his name was an honored word among the people--synonymous
with manly integrity, Christian virtue, and true benevolence.

After the long, fierce battle, peace had come with its tranquil
blessings. After the storm, the sunshine had fallen in glorious
beauty. After the night of suffering, morning had broken in joy.

We stand and gaze, with rapt interest, upon the river when it leaps
wildly over the cataract, or sweeps foaming down perilous rapids, or
rushes through mountain gorges; but turn away from its quiet beauty
when it glides pleasantly along through green savannahs. Such is our
interest in life. And so we drop the curtain, and close our history
here.




THE END.









End of Project Gutenberg's The Hand But Not the Heart, by T. S. Arthur

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