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

by T. S. Arthur

  How suddenly were Mrs. Dexter’s wifely, unselfish and self-denying purposes in regard to her husband scattered upon the winds! She had come to Newport, resolved to be all to him that it was possible for her to be—even to the withdrawing of herself more from social circles in which attractive men formed a part. The admonitions of Mrs. De Lisle sunk deeply into her heart. She saw her relation to her husband in a new aspect. He had larger claims upon her than she had admitted heretofore. If she had been partly coerced into the compact, he had been deceived by her promises at the altar into expecting more than it was in her power to give. She owed him not only a wife’s allegiance, but a wife’s tender consideration.

  Alas! how suddenly had all these good purposes been withered up, like tender flowers in the biting frost! And now there was strife between them—bitterness, anger, scorn, alienation. The uneasiness which her husband had manifested for some months previously, whenever she was in free, animated conversation with gentlemen, annoyed her slightly; but she had never regarded it as a very serious affection on his part, and, conscious of her own purity, believed that he would ere long see the evidence thereof, and cease to give himself useless trouble. His conduct at Saratoga, followed by the conversations with Mrs. De Lisle and Mrs. Anthony, aroused her to a truer sense of his actual state of mind. His singular, stealthy scanning of her countenance, immediately after their arrival at Newport, following, as she rightly concluded, his unexpected meeting with Hendrickson, considerably disturbed the balance of mind she had sought to gain, and this dimmed her clear perceptions of duty. His direct reference to Mr. Hendrickson, after her hurried meeting with him, filled her with indignation, and simply prepared the way for this last defiant position. She felt deeply outraged, and wholly estranged.

  Icy reserve and distant formality now marked the intercourse of Mr. and Mrs. Dexter. It was all in vain that he sought to win back that semblance of affection which he had lost. Mrs. Dexter was too sincere a woman—too earnest and true—for broad disguises. She could be courteous, regardful, attentive to all the needs of her husband; but she could not pretend to love, when daily her heart experienced new occasions of dislike.

  On the next morning, Mrs. Dexter, on going into one of the parlors, met Mr. Hendrickson. From his manner, it was evident that he had been waiting there in hopes to gain an interview. Mrs. Dexter felt displeased. She was a lawful wife, and it struck her as an implication on his part of possible dishonor on hers. He came forward to meet her as she entered the room, with a pleased smile on his face, but she gave his warm greeting but a cold return. An instant change in his manner, showed the effect upon his feelings.

  “I shall leave to-day,” he said.

  “So soon? I thought you purposed remaining for several days.”

  “So I did. But I have a letter this morning from the brother of Miss Arden, of whom I spoke last evening. He leaves her at Albany to-day, and asks me to join her to-morrow. They were on their way to Niagara; but unexpected business—he is a lawyer—requires him to return home; and I am to be the young lady’s escort. So they have arranged the matter, and I cannot decline, of course.”

  “Why should you?” Mrs. Dexter schooled her voice. Its natural expression, at that time, might have betrayed a state of feeling that it would have been treason to exhibit.

  “True. Why should I? The lady is charming. I was going to say that she has not her peer.”

  “Why not say it?” remarked Mrs. Dexter.

  “Because,” replied Mr. Hendrickson, as his eyes withdrew themselves from the face of Mrs. Dexter, “I do not believe it. She has her peer.”

  “She must be a lovely woman so to captivate your fancy,” said Mrs. Dexter.

  “Did I say that she had captivated my fancy?” asked Hendrickson.

  “If not in so many formally spoken words, yet in a language that we ladies can read at a glance,” replied Mrs. Dexter, affecting a gay smile. “Well,” she added, “as you are to be so largely the gainer by this sudden withdrawal from Newport, we quiet people, who cannot but miss your pleasant company, have nothing left but acquiescence. I hope to make Miss Arden’s acquaintance on our return to B—.”

  The voice of Mrs. Dexter had a faint huskiness and there were signs of depression which she was not able to conceal. These the watchful eyes of Mr. Hendrickson detected. But so far from taking any advantage thereof, he made an effort to divert both her mind and his own by the introduction of a more indifferent subject. They conversed for half an hour longer, but no further reference was made to Miss Arden. Then Mr. Hendrickson excused himself. Mrs. Dexter did not see him again.

  He left for Boston soon after, on his way to join Miss Arden at Albany.

  From the parlor Mrs. Dexter returned to her own rooms, and did not leave them during the day. She had felt feverish on rising, and was conscious of a pressure on the brain, accompanied by a feeling of lassitude that was unusual. This condition of the system increased, as the day wore on. At dinner-time, her husband urged her to go with him to the table; but she had a loathing for food, and declined. He ordered a servant to take tea, with toast and some delicacies, to her room; but when he came up again, he found them untasted.

  “Was this a disease of mind or body?” Mr. Dexter asked himself the question, and studied over the solution. Notwithstanding the disturbed interview with his wife on the previous evening, he had kept his eyes on her, and noticed her meeting with Hendrickson in the parlor. Her warning, however, had proved effectual in preventing his intrusion upon them. He saw Hendrickson leave her, and noticed that she sat in deep abstraction for some time afterwards, and that when she arose, and went up to her own apartments, her face wore an expression that was unusual. Much to his surprise, he saw Hendrickson leave soon after for Boston. On examining the register, he learned that his destination was Albany.

  A momentary relief was experienced at this departure; but soon mystery was suggested, and a mutual understanding between his wife and Hendrickson imagined. And so fuel was heaped on the fires of jealousy, which blazed up again as fiercely as ever. The seclusion of herself in her own room by Mrs. Dexter, following as it did immediately on the departure of Hendrickson, confirmed him in the impression that she was deeply interested in her old lover. How else could he interpret her conduct? If she were really sick, conflict of feeling, occasioned by his presence, was the cause. That to his mind was clear. And he was not so far wrong; for, in part, here lay the origin of her disturbed condition of mind and body. Still, his conclusions went far beyond the truth.

  Mrs. Dexter was lying on the bed when her husband came up from dinner. She did not stir on his entrance. Her face was turned away, and partly hidden by the fringe of a pillow.

  “You must eat something,” he said, speaking kindly. But she neither moved nor replied.

  “Jessie.” No motion or response.

  “Jessie!” Mr. Dexter stood a few feet from the bed, looking at her.

  “She may be sleeping,” he thought, and stepping forward, he bent down and laid his fingers lightly on her cheek. It was unnaturally hot. “Jessie”—he uttered her name again—”are you asleep?”

  “No.” She replied in a feeble murmur.

  “Won’t you have a cup of tea?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sick?”

  She did not answer. He laid his hand upon her cheek again.

  “You have fever.”

  A low sigh was the only response.

  “Does your head ache?”

  Something was said in reply, but the ear of Mr. Dexter could not make out the words.

  “Jessie! Jessie! Why don’t you answer me? Are you sick?”

  Mr. Dexter spoke with rising impatience. Still and silent as an effigy she remained. For a moment or two he strode about the room, and then went out abruptly. He came back in half an hour.

  There lay his wife as he had left her, and without the appearance of having stirred. A shadow of deeper concern now fell upon his spirits. Bending over the bed, and laying his ha
nd upon her face again, he perceived that it was not only flushed, but hotter than before. He spoke, but her ears seemed shut to his voice.

  “Jessie! Jessie!” He moved her gently, turning her face towards him. Her eyes were closed, her lips shut firmly, and wearing an expression of pain, her forehead slightly contracted.

  “Shall I call a physician?” he asked.

  But she did not reply. Sudden alarm awakened in the heart of Mr. Dexter. Going to the bell, he rang it violently. To the servant who came he said, hurriedly—

  “Go and find Dr. G—, and tell him that I wish to see him immediately.”

  The servant departed, and Dexter went back to the bed. No change had occurred in his wife. She still lay, to all appearance, in a stupor. It was nearly a quarter of an hour before Dr. G— came; the waiter had been at some trouble to find him.

  “My wife seems quite ill,” said Mr. Dexter, as he entered, “and, I think requires medical attention.”

  Dr. G— went to the bedside and stood looking at the flushed face of Mrs. Dexter for some moments. Then he laid his hand against her cheek, and then took hold of her wrist. Mr. Dexter, whose eyes were on him, thought he saw him start and change countenance at the first stroke of the pulse that played against his fingers.

  “How long has she been in this condition?” asked the doctor, turning with a serious aspect to Mr. Dexter.

  “She has not seemed well since morning” was replied. “I noticed that she scarcely tasted food at breakfast, and she has kept her room for most of the day, lying down for a greater part of the time. I left her on the bed when I went to dinner. She did not complain of indisposition, but seemed listless and out of spirits. I ordered tea sent up, but, as you perceive, it has not been tasted. On my return, I found her in the condition in which she now lies—apparently in a heavy sleep.”

  The physician did not seem to get any light from this statement. He turned his eyes again upon the face of Mr. Dexter, and stood in thought for almost a minute. Then he examined her pulse again. It had a strong, rapid, wiry beat. Stooping, he looked very closely at the condition of her skin; then shook his head, and said something in an under tone.

  “Do you think her seriously ill?” inquired Mr. Dexter.

  “Has there been any unusual exposure; or any strong mental disturbance?” asked the doctor, not seeming to have heard the question.

  “There has been mental disturbance,” said Mr. Dexter.

  “Of a violent character?”

  “She was strongly agitated last night, at something that happened.”

  “Was it of a nature to leave a permanent impression on her feelings?”

  “Yes.” The answers were made with evident reluctance.

  “Her condition is an unusual one,” said the doctor, musing; and he resumed his examination of the case.

  “Dr. R—, from Boston, arrived to-day;” he looked up, and presented a very grave face to the now seriously alarmed husband. “I think he had better be consulted.”

  “Oh, by all means,” said Mr. Dexter. “Shall I go in search of him?”

  “Do you know him?”

  “I do not.”

  “I will go then. It may save time, and that is important.”

  The doctor went out hurriedly, and in less than five minutes returned with Doctor R—. The two physicians conferred for some time, speaking in under tones. Mr. Dexter heard the words “congestion of the brain” and “brain fever,” with increasing alarm.

  “Well, doctors, how do you decide the case?” he inquired anxiously, as their conference terminated.

  “There is a strong tendency to congestion of the brain,” was replied by Doctor G—, “but, it is our opinion that we can check this tendency. Your wife, Mr. Dexter, is seriously ill. An experienced nurse must be had without delay. And every possible attention given, so as to second at all points the treatment under which she will be placed. A favorable result will doubtless crown our efforts. I present the case as a serious one, because it is so in its requirement of skill and unfailing attention.”

  The doctors did not err in their estimate of the case. The illness of Mrs. Dexter proved to be very serious. It was a brain fever. Four weeks elapsed before she was able to be removed from Newport to her home, and then she was so feeble in body and mind as to present but the shadowy semblance of her former self.

  Very slowly did health flow back through her exhausted system. But a cheerful mind did not come with returning vigor. Her, spirit had bowed itself towards the earth; and power to rise again into the bracing atmosphere and warm sunshine, was not restored for a long period.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  AT Albany, Mr. Hendrickson found Miss Arden awaiting him. The warmth of her reception showed that he was more in her eyes than a pleasant friend. And in his regard she held the highest place—save one.

  The meeting with Mrs. Dexter at Newport was unfortunate. Hendrickson had looked right down into her heart; reading a page, the writing on which she would have died rather than have revealed. Her pure regard for him was her own deeply hidden secret. It was a lamp burning in the sepulchre of buried hope. She could no more extinguish the sacred fire than quench her own existence.

  But thrown suddenly off her guard, she had betrayed this secret to unlawful eyes. Hendrickson had read it. And she too had read his heart. After the lapse of more than a year they had met; and without wrong on either side had acknowledged a mutual inextinguishable love.

  “You are not well, Mr. Hendrickson.” Many times, and with undisguised concern, was this said by Miss Arden, during the journey to Niagara.

  “Only a slight headache;” or, “I’m well enough, but feel dull;” or, “The trip from Newport fatigued me,” would be answered, and an effort made to be more companionable. But the task was difficult, and the position in which the young man found himself particularly embarrassing. His thoughts were not with Miss Arden, but with Mrs. Dexter. Before the unexpected meeting at Newport, he had believed himself so far released from that entanglement of the heart, as to be free to make honorable advances to Miss Arden. But he saw his error now. With him marriage was something more than a good matrimonial arrangement, in which parties secure external advantages. To love Miss Arden better than any other living woman, he now saw to be impossible—and unless he could so love her, he dared not marry her. That was risking a great deal too much. His position became, therefore, an embarrassing one. Her brother was an old friend. They had been college companions. The sister he had known for some years, but had never been particularly interested in her until within a few months. Distancing his observation, her mind had matured; and the graces of art, education and accomplishment, had thrown their winning attractions around her. First, almost as a brother, he began to feel proud of her beauty and intelligence; admiration followed, and, before he was aware of the tendency of his feelings, they had taken on a warmer than fraternal glow.

  All things tended to encourage this incipient regard; and, as Miss Arden herself favored it, and ever turned towards Hendrickson the sunniest side of her character, he found himself drawn onwards almost imperceptibly; and had even begun to think seriously of her as his wife, when the meeting with Mrs. Dexter revealed the existence of sentiments on both sides that gave the whole subject a new aspect.

  A very difficult problem now presented itself to the mind of Mr. Hendrickson, involving questions of duty, questions of honor, and questions of feeling. It is not surprising that Miss Arden found a change in her travelling companion, nor that her visit to Niagara proved altogether unsatisfactory. No one could have been kindlier, more attentive, or more studious to make her visit attractive. But his careful avoidance of all compliments, and the absence of every thing lover-like, gave her heart the alarm. It was in vain that she put forth every chaste, womanly allurement; his eyes did not brighten, nor his cheeks glow, nor his tones become warmer. He was not to be driven from the citadel of his honor. A weaker, more selfish, and more external man, would have yielded. But Hendrickson, like the wom
an he had lost, was not made of “common clay,” nor cast in any of humanity’s ruder moulds. He was of purer essence and higher spiritual organization than the masses; and principle had now quite as much to do with his actions as feeling. He could be a martyr, but not a villain.

  Two days were spent at Niagara, and then Hendrickson and Miss Arden returned, and went to Saratoga. It did not, of course, escape the notice of Hendrickson, that his manner to his travelling companion was effecting a steady change in her spirits; and he was not lacking in perception as to the cause. It revealed to him the sincerity of her regard; but added to the pain from which he was suffering, increasing it almost to the point where endurance fails.

  It was a relief to Hendrickson when he was able to place Miss Arden under the care of her mother, who had remained at Saratoga. On the evening after his arrival, he was sitting alone in one of the drawing-rooms, when a lady crossed from the other side, and joined another lady near him.

  “Mrs. De Lisle,” said the latter, as she arose.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Anthony!” and the ladies sat down together.

  “I have just received a sad letter from Newport,” said Mrs. De Lisle.

  “Indeed! What has happened there?”

  “Our sweet young friend is dangerously ill.”

  “Who? Mrs. Dexter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mrs. De Lisle! She was in perfect health, to all appearance, when she left here.”

  “So I thought. But she has suddenly been stricken down with a brain fever, and her physicians regard her condition as most critical.”