by T. S. Arthur
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 h
is 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 doo
r. “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!
