by T. S. Arthur
“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 m
ost 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,” a
pprised 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.
