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

by T. S. Arthur

  “Jess—Mrs. Dexter!” the man checked the unguarded utterance of her familiar Christian name, and gave the other designation.

  “Mr. Hendrickson!”

  Only for an instant did Mrs. Dexter betray herself; but in that instant her heart was read, as if a blaze of lightning had flashed over one of its pages, long hidden away in darkness, and revealed the writing thereon in letters of gleaming fire.

  “You arrived to day?” Mr. Hendrickson also regained the even balance of mind which had momentarily been lost, and regained it as quickly as the lady. He spoke with the pleased air of an acquaintance—nothing more.

  “This afternoon,” replied Mrs. Dexter in a quiet tone, and with a smile in which no casual observer could have seen anything deeper than pleasant recognition.

  “How long will you remain?”

  “It is not certain; perhaps until the season closes.”

  Mrs. Dexter made a motion to pass on. Mr. Hendrickson raised his hat and bowed very respectfully; and thus the sudden interview ended.

  Mr. Dexter had followed his wife to the door of the parlor, and stood looking at her as she retired along the portico. This meeting with Hendrickson was therefore in full view. A sudden paleness overspread his countenance; and from his convulsed lips there fell a bitter imprecation.

  On reaching her apartments, Mrs. Dexter was so weak that she was forced to sit down upon the first chair she could obtain. A dead pallor was in her face.

  “Oh, give me strength—self control—motives to duty!”—in weakness and fear her quivering heart cried upwards.

  “Jessie!” How long she had been sitting thus Mrs. Dexter knew not. She started. It was the voice of her husband.

  “Not ready yet, I see!” His tones were rough—his manner excited. “And the carriage has stood at the door for ten minutes.”

  “I am ready!” she answered, starting up, and lifting her bonnet from the bed.

  “It is no matter now. The sun is setting, and I have ordered the carriage back to the stable. You only consented to go on my account; and I am impatient under mere acquiescence.”

  “You wrong me, Mr. Dexter,” said his wife, with unusual earnestness of manner. “I am ready to go with you at all times; and I strive in all things to give you pleasure. Did I hesitate a moment when you suddenly declared your wish to leave Saratoga for Newport?”

  “No, of course you did not; for you were too glad of the opportunity to get here.” There was a strange gleam in the eyes of Mr. Dexter as he said this; and his voice had in it an angry bitterness never before observed.

  “What do you mean, sir?” demanded the outraged wife, turning upon her husband abruptly, and showing an aspect so stern and fierce, that the astonished man retreated a pace or two as if in fear. Never before had he seen in that beautiful face the reflection of a spirit so wildly disturbed by passion.

  “Speak out, Leon Dexter! What do you mean?”

  And her eyes rested on his with a glance as steady as an eagle’s.

  “I saw your meeting a little while ago.”

  Mr. Dexter rallied a little.

  “What meeting?” There was no betraying sign in Mrs. Dexter’s face, nor the least faltering in her tones.

  “Your meeting with him.”

  “With whom? Speak out plainly, sir! I am in no mood for trifling, and in no condition for solving riddles.”

  “With Paul Hendrickson.” Dexter pronounced the name slowly, and with all the meaning emphasis he could throw into his voice.

  “Well, sir, what of that?” Still neither eye nor voice faltered.

  “Much! You see that I understand you!”

  “I see that you do not understand me,” was firmly answered. “And now, sir, will you suffer me to demand an explanation of your language just now. I want no evasion—no faltering—no holding back. ‘Too glad of an opportunity to get here!’ That was the sentence. Its meaning, sir?”

  The small head of Mrs. Dexter was erect; her nostrils distended; her lips closely laid upon each other; her eyes full fixed and almost fiery in their intense light. Suddenly she was transformed in the eyes of her husband from a yielding, gentle, though cold woman into the very spirit of accusation and defiance. He was silent; for he saw that he had gone too far.

  “That must be explained, sir!” She was not to be turned aside. “I have noted your capricious conduct; your singular glances at times; your strange moodiness without apparent cause. A little light has given a faint impression of their meaning. But I must have the full blaze of your thoughts. Nothing else will satisfy me now.”

  She paused. Mr. Dexter had indeed gone a step too far, a fact of which he was painfully aware. He had conjured up a spirit that it might not be easy to lay.

  “You are too excited. Calm yourself,” he said.

  Turning from her husband, Mrs. Dexter crossed the room, and seating herself upon a sofa, said, in a quiet way—

  “Sit down beside me, Mr. Dexter. I am calm. Sit down and speak; for your recent language must be explained. Evasion will be fruitless—I will not accept of it.”

  “I spoke hastily. Forget my words.”

  Mr. Dexter sat down beside his wife, and spoke in a gentle soothing manner.

  “It is all in vain, Mr. Dexter! All in vain! Yours were no idle words; and I can never forget them. You have greatly misapprehended your wife, I see; and the quicker you know this the better it will be for both of us. The time has come for explanation—and it shall be made! Why did I wish to come to Newport?”

  “You knew that Paul Hendrickson was here,” said Mr. Dexter; “that was the reason!”

  “It is false, sir!” was the quick and sharp rejoinder.

  “Jessie! beware how you speak!” The angry blood mounted to the very brow of the husband.

  “It is false, sir!” she repeated, even more emphatically, if that were possible. “Of his movements I am as ignorant as you are!”

  “I cannot tamely bear such words,” said Mr. Dexter, still much excited.

  “And I will not bear such imputations,” was firmly rejoined.

  Mr. Dexter arose, and commenced the unsatisfactory movement of pacing the floor. Mrs. Dexter remained sitting firmly erect, her eyes following the form of her husband.

  “We will drop the subject now and forever,” said the former, stopping, at length, in front of his wife.

  Mrs. Dexter did not reply.

  “I may have been too hasty.”

  “May have been!” There was contempt on the lip, and indignation in the voice of Mrs. Dexter.

  “Yes, may. We are certain of nothing in this world,” said her husband, coldly; “and now, as I said, we will drop the subject.”

  “It is easier to say than to unsay, Mr. Dexter. The sentiment is very trite, but it involves a world of meaning sometimes, and”—she paused, then added, with marked emphasis—”does now!”

  Mr. Dexter made no response, and there the matter ended for the time; each of the ill-assorted partners farther from happiness than they had yet been since the day of their unfortunate union.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  AN hour later: Scene, the public parlor.

  “Mrs. Dexter.”

  The lady rose, a pleasant smile animating her face, and returned the gentleman’s courteous greeting.

  “Mr. Hendrickson.” Yes, that was the name on her lips.

  “You arrived to-day,” he said, and he took a place at the other end of the tete-a-tete.

  “Yes.”

  “From Saratoga, I believe?”

  “Yes. How long have you been at Newport?”

  “I arrived only this morning. You are looking very well, Mrs. Dexter.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes. Time lays his hands upon you lightly!”

  The shadow of another’s presence came between them.

  “Mr. Dexter, my husband; Mr. Hendrickson, from B—,” said Mrs. Dexter, with the most perfect ease of manner, presenting the two gentlemen. They had met before, as the reader knows, and
had good reason for remembering each other. They touched hands, Dexter frowning, and Hendrickson slightly embarrassed. Mrs. Dexter entirely herself, smiling, talkative, and with an exterior as unruffled as a mountain lake.

  “How long will you remain?” she asked, speaking to Mr. Hendrickson.

  “Several days.”

  “Ah! I am pleased to hear you say so. I left some very pleasant friends at Saratoga, but yours is the only familiar face I have yet seen here.”

  “I saw Mr. and Mrs. Florence just now,” said Mr. Dexter.

  “Did you?”

  “Yes. There they are, at the lower end of the parlor. Do you see them?”

  Mrs. Dexter turned her eyes in the direction indicated by her husband, and replied in an indifferent manner:

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Mrs. Florence is looking at you now. Won’t you go over and see her?”

  “After a while,” replied Mrs. Dexter. Then turning to Mr. Hendrickson, she said:

  “These summer resorts are the dullest places imaginable without congenial friends.”

  “So I should think. But you can scarcely know the absence of these. I heard of you at Saratoga, as forming the centre of one of the most agreeable and intelligent circles there.”

  “Ah!” Mrs. Dexter was betrayed into something like surprise.

  “Yes. I saw Miss Arden in New York, as I came through. She had been to Saratoga.”

  “Miss Arden? I don’t remember her,” said Mrs. Dexter.

  “She resides in B—.”

  “Miss Arden? Miss Arden?” Mrs. Dexter seemed curious. “What is her appearance?”

  “Tall, with a very graceful figure. Complexion dark enough to make her pass for a brunette. Large black eyes and raven hair.”

  “In company with her mother?” said Mrs. Dexter.

  “Yes.”

  “I remember her now. She was quite the belle at Saratoga. But I was not so fortunate as to make her acquaintance. She sings wonderfully. Few professional artists are so gifted.”

  “You have used the right word,” said Mr. Hendrickson. “Her musical powers are wonderful. I wish you knew her, she is a charming girl.”

  “You must help me to that knowledge on our return to B—.”

  “Nothing would give me more pleasure. I am sure you will like each other,” said Hendrickson, warmly.

  From that point in the conversation Mrs. Dexter began to lose her self-possession, and free, outspoken manner. The subject was changed, but the airiness of tone and lightness of speech was gone. Just in time, Mrs. Florence came across the room, joined the circle, and saving her from a betrayal of feelings that she would not, on any account, have manifested.

  Mrs. Florence was a woman of taste. She had been in New York a few days previously, whither she had gone to hear a celebrated European singer, whose fame had preceded her. Her allusion to this fact led to an introduction of the subject of music. Hendickson made some remarks that arrested her attention, when quite an animated conversation sprung up between them. Mrs. Dexter did not join in it; but sat a closely observant listener. The young man’s criticisms on the art of music surprised her. They were so new, so analytical, and so comprehensive. He had evidently studied the subject, not as an artist, but as a philosopher—but with so clear a comprehension of the art, that from the mere science, he was able to lead the mind upward into the fullest appreciation of the grander ideal.

  Now and then as he talked, Mr. Dexter passed in a brief sentence; but to the keen, intelligent perception of his wife, what mere sounding words were his empty common-places! The contrast between him and Hendrickson was painful. It was in vain that she tried not to make this contrast. It thrust itself upon her, in spite of all resistance.

  Mr. Florence had crossed the room with his wife, and joined the little circle. He did not take part in the conversation, and now said, rising as he spoke.

  “Come, Dexter; let’s you and I have a game of billiards.”

  He laid his band familiarly on the arm of Mr. Dexter, and that individual could not refuse to accept the invitation. They left the room together. This withdrawal of Mr. Dexter put both his wife and Mr. Hendrickson more at their ease. Both felt his absence as a relief. For a time the conversation was chiefly conducted by the latter and Mrs. Florence, only an occasional remark falling from the lips of Mrs. Dexter, and that almost extorted by question or reference. But gradually she was drawn in, and led on, until she was the talker and they the listeners.

  When interested in conversation, a fine enthusiasm always gave to the manners of Mrs. Dexter a charming grace, and to her beautiful countenance a higher beauty. She was almost fascinating. Never had Hendrickson felt her power as he felt it now, while looking into her animated face, and listening to sentiment, description, criticism or anecdote, flowing from her lips in eloquent language, and evincing a degree of taste, discrimination, refinement and observation he could scarcely have imagined in one of her age.

  He was leaning towards her, and listening with rapt interest, his countenance and eyes full of admiration, when a quick, impatient ahem caused him to look up. As he did so, he encountered the severe face and piercing eyes of Mr. Dexter. The sudden change in the expression of his countenance warned Mrs. Dexter of the presence of her husband, who had approached quietly, and was standing a pace or two behind his wife. But not the slightest consciousness of this presence did her manner exhibit. She kept on talking as before, and talking to Mr. Hendrickson.

  “Will you go with me now, Mrs. Dexter?” said her husband, coming forward, and making a motion as if about to offer his arm.

  “Not yet if you please, Mr. Dexter,” was smilingly answered. “I am too much interested in this good company. Come, sit down here,” and she made room for him on the sofa.

  But he stood still.

  “Then amuse yourself a little longer,” said his wife, in a gay voice. “I will be ready to go with you after a while.”

  Mr. Dexter moved away, disappointed, and commenced pacing the floor of the long parlor. At every turn his keen eyes took in the aspect of the little group, and particularly the meaning of his wife’s face, as it turned to Mr. Hendrickson, either in the play of expression or warm with the listener’s interest. The sight half maddened him. Three times, in the next half hour, he said to his wife, as he paused in his restless promenade before her—

  “Come, Jessie.”

  But she only threw him a smiling negative, and became still more interesting to her friends. At last, and of her own will, she arose, and bowing, with a face all smiles and eyes dancing in light, to Mr. Hendrickson and Mrs. Florence, she stepped forward, and placing her hand on the arm of her husband, went like a sunbeam from the room.

  CHAPTER XV.

  “MADAM!”

  They had reached their own apartments, and Mrs. Dexter was moving forward past her husband. The stern imperative utterance caused her to pause and turn round.

  “We leave for home in the morning!” said Mr. Dexter.

  “We?” His wife looked at him fixedly as she made the simple interrogation.

  “Yes, we!” was answered, and in the voice of one who had made up his mind, and did not mean to be thwarted in his purpose.

  “Mr. Dexter!” his wife stood very erect before him; her eyes did not quail beneath his angry glances; nor was there any sign of weakness in her low, even tones. “Let me warn you now—and regard the warning as for all time—against any attempt to coerce me into obedience to your arbitrary exactions. Your conduct to-night was simply disgraceful—humiliating to yourself, and mortifying and unjust to your wife. Let us have no more of this. There is a high wall between us, Mr. Dexter—high as heaven and deep as—.” Her feelings were getting the rein and she checked herself. “Your own hands have built it,” she resumed in a colder tone, “but your own hands, I fear, have not the strength to pull it down. Love you I never did, and you knew it from the beginning; love you I never can. That is a simple impossibility. But true to you as steel to the magnet in all
the externals of my life, I have been and shall continue to be, even to the end of this unhappy union. As a virtuous woman, I could be nothing less. The outrage I have suffered this day from your hands, is irreparable. I never imagined it would come to this. I did not dream that it was in you to charge upon your wife the meditation of a crime the deepest it is possible for a woman to commit. That you were weakly jealous, I saw; and I came here in cheerful acquiescence to your whim, in order to help you to get right. But this very act of cheerful acquiescence was made the ground of a charge that shocked my being to the inmost and changed me towards you irrevocably.”

  The stern angry aspect of Mr. Dexter was all gone. It seemed as if emotion had suddenly exhausted itself.

  “We had better go home to-morrow.” He spoke in a subdued voice. “Neither of us can find enjoyment here.”

  “I shall not be ready to morrow, nor the next day either,” was the outspoken reply. “To go thus hurriedly, after your humiliating exhibition of distrust, would only be to give free rein to the tongue of scandal; and that I wish to avoid.”

  “It has free rein already,” said Mr. Dexter. “At Saratoga I heard your name lightly spoken and brought you away for that very reason. You are not chary enough of yourself in these public places. I know men better than you do.”

  “If a light word was spoken of me, sir, at Saratoga or anywhere else, you alone are to blame. My conduct has warranted no such freedom of speech. But I can easily imagine how men will think lightly of a woman when her husband shows watchfulness and suspicion. It half maddens me, sir, to have this disgrace put upon me. To-morrow week I will go home if you then desire it—not a day earlier. And I warn you against any more such exhibitions as we have had to-night. If you cannot take pleasure in society that is congenial to my taste, leave me to my enjoyment, but don’t mar it with your cloudy presence. And set this down as a truism—the wife that must be watched, is not worth having.”

  For utterances like these, Mr. Dexter was not prepared. They stunned and weakened him. He felt that he had a spirit to deal with that might easily be driven to desperation. A man, if resolute, he had believed might control the actions of almost any woman—that woman being his wife. And he had never doubted the result of marital authority, should he at any time deem it necessary to lay upon Mrs. Dexter an iron hand. The occasion, as he believed, had arrived; the hand was put forth; the will was resolute; but his vice-like grip closed upon the empty air! The spirit with which he had to deal was of subtler essence and more vigorous life than he had imagined.