by T. S. Arthur
“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 thin
k 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.”
