The Hand but Not the Heart, Or, the Life-Trials of Jessie Loring...

by T. S. Arthur

  “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.”