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 think 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."
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.