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

by T. S. Arthur

  “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 lo
oked 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.