The Hand But Not the Heart

T >> T.S. Arthur >> The Hand But Not the Heart

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13

"Dear! dear! what a strange child it is!" said Aunt Loring, as she
wiped off a tear which had fallen from Jessie's eyes upon her cheek.
"Just like her mother for all the world in some things"--the last
part of the sentence was in a qualifying tone--"though," she went
on, "her mother hadn't anything like her trials to endure. Oh, that
Dexter! if I only had my will of him!"

And Aunt Loring, in her rising indignation, actually clenched her
hand and shook it in the air.

"It has come to this at last," said Jessie as soon as she had gained
the sanctuary of her little chamber, where she could think without
interruption. "And I knew it must come; but oh, how I have dreaded
the event! Is he innocent in the sight of heaven? Ah, if I could
only have that question answered in the affirmative, a crushing
weight would be lifted from my soul. If he is not innocent, the
stain of his guilt rests upon my garments! He is not alone
responsible. Who can tell the consequences of a single false step in
life?"

From a small hanging shelf she took a Bible, and opening to a marked
page, read over three or four verses with earnest attention.

"I can see no other meaning," she said with a painful sigh, closing
the book and restoring it to its place on the shelf. It was all in
vain that Jessie Loring sought for light and comfort in this
direction. They were not found. When she joined her aunt, some hours
afterwards, her face had not regained its former placidity.

"Well, dear," said Mrs. Loring, speaking in what sounded to the ear
of her niece a light tone, "have you got it all right with
yourself?"

Jessie smiled faintly, and merely answered--

"It will take time. But I trust that all will come out truly
adjusted in the end."

She had never ventured to bring to her aunt's very external judgment
the real questions that troubled her. Mrs. Loring's prompt way of
sweeping aside these cobwebs of the brain, as she called the finer
scruples of conscience, could not satisfy her yearning desire for
light.

"Yes; time works wonders. He is the great restorer. But why not see
clearly at once; and not wait in suffering for time's slow
movements? I am a wiser philosopher than you are, Jessie; and try to
gain from the present all that it has to give."

"Some hearts require a severer discipline than others," said Jessie.
"And mine, I think, is one of them."

"All that is sickly sentiment, my dear child! as I have said to you
a hundred times. It is not shadow, but sunshine that your heart
wants--not discipline, but consolation--not doubt, but hope. You are
as untrue to yourself as the old anchorites. These self-inflicted
stripes are horrible to think of, for the pain is not salutary, but
only increases the morbid states of mind that ever demand new
flagellations."

"We are differently made, Aunt Phoebe," was the quiet answer.

"No, we are not, but we make ourselves different," replied Mrs.
Loring a little hastily.

"The world would be a very dead-level affair, if we were all made
alike," said Jessie, forcing a smile, and assuming a lighter air, in
order to lead her aunt's mind away from the thought of her as too
painfully disturbed by the announcement of Mr. Dexter's marriage.
And she was successful. The subject was changed to one of a less
embarrassing character. And this was all of the inner life of Jessie
Loring that showed itself on the surface.

CHAPTER XXV.

AND what of Paul Hendrickson during these years of isolation, in
which no intelligence could be gained of Jessie, beyond vague
rumors? For a time, he secluded himself. Then he returned to a few
of the old social circles, not much changed to the common eye. His
countenance was a little graver; his voice a little lower; his
manner a trifle more subdued. But he was a cheerful, intelligent
companion, and always a welcome guest.

To no one, not even to his old friend, Mrs. Denison, did he speak of
Mrs. Dexter. What right had he to speak of her? She was still the
lawful wife of another man, though separated from him by her own
act. But not to think of her was as impossible as not to think at
all--not to gaze upon her image as impossible as to extinguish the
inner vision. She was always by his side, in spirit; her voice
always in his ears; her dear face always before him. "The cup is
dashed to pieces at my feet, and the precious wine spilled!" How
many, many, many times, each day, did he hear these words uttered,
always in that sad, half-desponding voice that first brought them to
his ears; and they kept hope in the future alive.

The separation which had taken place Hendrickson regarded as one
step in the right direction. When the application for a divorce was
made, he hailed it with a degree of inward satisfaction that a
little startled himself. "It is another step in the right
direction," he said, on the instant's impulse.

Reflection a little sobered him. "Even if the divorce is granted,
what will be her views of the matter?"

There came no satisfactory answer to this query.

A thick curtain still veiled the future. Many doubts troubled him.

Next, in the order of events, came the decision by which the
marriage contract between Dexter and his wife was annulled. On the
evening of the same day on which the court granted the petitioner's
prayer, Hendrickson called upon Mrs. Denison. She saw the moment he
came in that he was excited about something.

"Have you heard the news?" he inquired.

"What news?" Mrs. Denison looked at him curiously.

"Leon Dexter has obtained a divorce."

"Has he?"

"Yes. And so that long agony is over! She is free again."

Hendrickson was not able to control the intense excitement he felt.

Mrs. Denison looked at him soberly and with glances of inquiry.

"You understand me, I suppose?"

"Perhaps I do, perhaps not," she answered.

"Mrs. Denison," said the young man, with increasing excitement, "I
need scarcely say to you that my heart has never swerved from its
first idolatry. To love Jessie Loring was an instinct of my
nature--therefore, to love her once was to love her forever. You
know how cruelly circumstances came with their impassable barriers.
They were only barriers, and destroyed nothing. As brightly as ever
burned the fires--as ardently as ever went forth love's strong
impulses with every heart-beat. And her heart remained true to mine
as ever was needle to the pole."

"That is a bold assertion, Paul," said Mrs. Denison, "and one that
it pains me to hear you make."

"It is true; but why does it give you pain?" he asked.

"Because it intimates the existence of an understanding between you
and Mrs. Dexter, and looks to the confirmation of rumors that I have
always considered as without a shadow of foundation."

"My name has never been mentioned in connection with hers."

"It has."

"Mrs. Denison!"

"It is true."

"I never heard it."

"Nor I but once."

"What was said?"

"That you were the individual against whom Mr. Dexter's jealousy was
excited, and that your clandestine meetings with his wife led to the
separation."

"I had believed," said Hendrickson, after a pause, and in a voice
that showed a depression of feeling, "that busy rumor had never
joined our names together. That it has done so, I deeply regret. No
voluntary action of mine led to this result; and it was my opinion
that Dexter had carefully avoided any mention of my name, even to
his most intimate friends."

"I only heard the story once, and then gave it my emphatic denial,"
said Mrs. Denison.

"And yet it was true, I believe, though in a qualified sense. We did
meet, not clandestinely, however, nor with design."

"But without a thought, much less a purpose of dishonor," said Mrs.
Denison, almost severely.

"Without even a thought of dishonor," replied Hendrickson. "Both
were incapable of that. She arrived at Newport when I was there. We
met, suddenly and unexpectedly, face to face, and when off our
guard. I read her heart, and she read mine, in lightning glimpses.
The pages were shut instantly, and not opened again. We met once or
twice after that, but as mere acquaintances, and I left on the day
after she came, because I saw that the discipline was too severe for
her, and that I was not only in an equivocal, but dangerous, if not
dishonorable position. Dexter had his eyes on me all the while, and
if I crossed his path suddenly he looked as if he would have
destroyed me with a glance. The fearful illness, which came so near
extinguishing the life of Mrs. Dexter, was, I have never doubted, in
consequence of that meeting and circumstances springing directly
therefrom. A friend of mine had a room adjoining theirs at Newport,
and he once said to me, without imagining my interest in the case,
that on the day before Mrs. Dexter's illness was known, he had heard
her voice pitched to a higher key than usual, and had caught a few
words that too clearly indicated a feeling of outrage for some
perpetrated wrong. There was stern defiance also, he said, in her
tones. He was pained at the circumstance, for he had met Mrs. Dexter
frequently, he said, at Newport, and was charmed with her fine
intelligence and womanly attractions.

"Once after that we looked into each other's faces, and only once.
And then, as before, we read the secret known only to ourselves--but
without design. I was passing her residence--it was the first time I
had permitted myself even to go into the neighborhood where she
lived, since her return from Newport. Now something drew me that
way, and yielding to the impulse, I took the street on which her
dwelling stood, and ere a thought of honor checked my footsteps, was
by her door. A single glance at one of the parlor windows gave me
the vision of her pale face, so attenuated by sickness and
suffering, that the sight filled me with instant pity, and fired my
soul with a deeper love. What my countenance expressed I do not
know. It must have betrayed my feelings, for I was off my guard. Her
face was as the page of a book suddenly opened. I read it without
losing the meaning of a word. There was a painful sequel to this.
The husband of Mrs. Dexter, as if he had started from the ground,
confronted me on the instant. Which way he came--whether he had
followed me, or advanced by an opposite direction, I know not. But
there he stood, and his flashing eyes read both of our unveiled
faces. The expression of his countenance was almost fiendish.

"I passed on, without pause or start. Nothing more than the
answering glances he had seen was betrayed. But the consequences
were final. It was on that day that Mrs. Dexter left her husband,
never again to hold with him any communication. I have scarcely
dared permit myself to imagine what transpired on that occasion. The
outrage on his part must have been extreme, or the desperate
alternative of abandonment would never have been taken by such a
woman.

"There, my good friend and aforetime counsellor," added Hendrickson,
"you have the unvarnished story. A stern necessity drew around each
of us bands of iron. Yet we have been true to ourselves--and that
means true to honor. But now the darker features of the case are
changed. She is no longer the wife of Leon Dexter. The law has
shattered every link of the accursed chain that held her in such a
loathsome bondage."

He paused, for the expression of Mrs. Denison's countenance was not
by any means satisfactory.

"Right, so far," said Mrs. Denison. "I cannot see that either was
guilty of wrong, or even, imprudence. But I am afraid, Paul, that
you are springing to conclusions with too bold a leap."

"Do not say that, Mrs. Denison."

He spoke quickly, and with a suddenly shadowed face.

"Your meaning is very plain," was answered. "It is this. A divorce
having been granted to the prayer of Mr. Dexter, his wife is now
free to marry again."

"Yes, that is my meaning," said Hendrickson, looking steadily into
the face of Mrs. Denison. She merely shook her head in a grave,
quiet way.

Hendrickson drew a long breath, then compressed his lips--but still
looked into the face of his friend.

"There are impediments yet in the way," said Mrs. Denison.

"I know what you think. The Divine law is superior to all human
enactments."

"Is it not so, Paul?"

"If I was certain as to the Divine law," said Hendrickson.

"The record is very explicit."

"Read in the simple letter, I grant that it is. But"--

"Paul! It grieves me to throw an icy chill over your ardent
feelings," said Mrs. Denison, interrupting him. "But you may rest
well assured of one thing: Jessie Loring, though no longer Mrs.
Dexter, will not consider herself free to marry again."

"Do you know her views on this subject?" asked the young man,
quickly.

"I think I know the woman. In the spirit of a martyr she took up her
heavy cross, and bore it while she had strength to stand. The martyr
spirit is not dead in her. It will not die while life remains. In
the fierce ordeals through which she has passed, she has learned to
endure; and now weak nature must yield, if in any case opposed to
duty."

"Have you met her of late?" inquired the young man, curiously.

"No, but I talked with Mrs. De Lisle about her not long ago. Mrs. De
Lisle is her most intimate friend, and knows her better, perhaps,
than any other living person."

"And what does she say? Have you conversed with her on this
subject?"

"No; but I have learned enough from her in regard to Jessie's views
of life and duty, as well as states of religious feeling, to be
justified in saying that she will not consider a court's decree of
sufficient authority in the case. Alas! my young friend, I cannot
see cause for gratulation so far as you are concerned. To her, the
act of divorce (sic) way give a feeling of relief. A dead weight is
stricken from her limbs. She can walk and breathe more freely; but
she will not consider herself wholy untrammelled. Nor would I. Paul,
Paul! the gulf that separates you is still impassable! But do not
despair! Bear up bravely, manfully still. Six years of conflict,
discipline, and stern obedience to duty have made you more worthy of
a union with that pure spirit than you were when you saw her borne
from your eager, outstretched arms. Her mind is ripening
heavenward--let yours ripen in that direction also. You cannot mate
with her, my friend, in the glorious hereafter, unless you are of
equal purity. Oh, be patient, yet hopeful!"

Hendrickson had bowed his head, and was now sitting with his eyes
upon the floor. He did not answer after Mrs. Denison ceased
speaking, but still sat deeply musing.

"It is a hard saying!" He had raised his eyes to the face of his
maternal friend. "A hard saying, and hard to bear. Oh, there is
something so like the refinement of cruelty in these stern events
which hold us apart, that I feel at times like questioning the laws
that imposed such fearful restrictions. We are one in all the
essentials of marriage, Mrs. Denison. Why are we thus sternly held
apart?"

"It is one of the necessities of our fallen nature," Mrs. Denison
replied, in her calm, yet earnest voice, "that spiritual virtues can
only have birth in pain. We rise into the higher regions of heavenly
purity only after the fires have tried us. Some natures, as you
know, demand a severer discipline than others. Yours, I think, is
one of them. Jessie's is another. But after the earthly dross of
your souls is consumed, the pure gold will flow together, I trust,
at the bottom of the same crucible. Wait, my friend; wait longer.
The time is not yet."

A sadder man than when he came, did Mr. Hendrickson leave the house
of Mrs. Denison on that day. She had failed to counsel him according
to his wishes; but her words, though they had not carried full
conviction to his clouded understanding, had shown him a goal still
far in advance, towards which all of true manhood in him felt the
impulse to struggle.

CHAPTER XXVI.

WHEN the news of Mr. Dexter's second marriage reached Mr.
Hendrickson, he said:

"Now she is absolved!" but his friend Mrs. Denison, replied:

"I doubt if she will so consider it. No act of Mr. Dexter's can
alter her relation to the Divine law. I am one of these who cannot
regard him as wholly innocent. And yet his case is an extreme one;
for his wife's separation was as final as if death had broken the
bond. But I will not judge him; he is the keeper of his own
conscience, and the All-Wise is merciful in construction."

"I believe Jessie Loring to be as free to give her hand as before
her marriage."

"With her will rest the decision," was Mrs. Denison's answer.

"Have you seen her?" inquired Hendrickson.

"No."

"Has she been seen outside of her aunt's dwelling?"

"If so I have never heard of it."

"Do you think, if I were to call at Mrs. Loring's, she would see
me?"

"I cannot answer the question."

"But what is your opinion?"

"If I were you," said Mrs. Denison, "I would not call at present."

"Why."

"This act of her former husband is too recent. Let her have time to
get her mind clear as to her new relation. She may break through her
seclusion now, and go abroad into society again. If so you will meet
her without the constraint of a private interview."

"But she may still shut herself out from the world. Isolation may
have become a kind of second nature."

"We shall see," replied Mrs. Denison. "But for the present I think it
will be wiser to wait."

Weeks, even months, passed, and Paul Hendrickson waited in vain. He
was growing very impatient.

"I must see her! Suspense like this is intolerable!" he said, coming
in upon Mrs. Denison one evening.

"I warn you against it," replied Mrs. Denison.

"I cannot heed the warning."

"Her life is very placid, I am told by Mrs. De Lisle. Would you
throw its elements again into wild disturbance?"

"No; I would only give them their true activity. All is stagnation
now. I would make her life one thrill of conscious joy."

"I have conversed with Mrs. De Lisle on this subject," said Mrs.
Denison.

"You have? And what does she say?"

"She understands the whole case. I concealed nothing--was I right?"

"Yes. But go on."

"She does not think that Jessie will marry during the lifetime of
Mr. Dexter," said Mrs. Denison.

Hendrickson became pale.

"I fear," he remarked, "that I did not read her heart aright. I
thought that we were conjoined in spirit. Oh, if I have been in
error here, the wreck is hopeless!"

He showed a sudden and extreme depression.

"I think you have not erred, Paul. But if Jessie regards the
conditions of divorce, given in Matthew, as binding, she is too pure
and true a woman ever to violate them. All depends upon that. She
could not be happy with you, if her conscience were burdened with
the conviction that your marriage was not legal in the Divine sense.
Don't you see how such an act would depress her? Don't you see that,
in gaining her, you would sacrifice the brightest jewel in her crown
of womanhood?"

"Does Mrs. De Lisle know her views on this subject?" he asked.

"Yes."

A quick flush mantled Hendrickson's face.

"Well, what are they?" He questioned eagerly, and in a husky voice.

"She reads the law in Matthew and in Luke, literally."

"The cup is indeed broken, and the precious wine spilled!" exclaimed
the unhappy man, rising in strong agitation.

"Paul," said Mrs. Denison, after this agitation had in a measure
passed away; "all this I can well understand to be very hard for one
who has been so patient, so true, so long suffering. But think
calmly; and then ask yourself this question: Would you be willing to
marry Jessie Loring while she holds her present views?"

Hendrickson bent his head to think.

"She believes," said Mrs. Denison, "that such a marriage would be
adulterous. I put the matter before you in its plainest shape. Now,
my friend, are you prepared to take a woman for your wife who is
ready to come to you on such terms? I think not. No, not even if her
name be Jessie Loring."

"I thank you, my friend, for setting me completely right," said
Hendrickson. He spoke sadly, yet with the firmness of a true man. "I
have now but one favor to ask. Learn from her own lips, if possible,
her real sentiments on this subject."

"I will do so."

"Without delay?"

"Yes. To-morrow I will see Mrs. De Lisle, and confer with her on the
subject, and then at the earliest practical moment call with her
upon Jessie."

Two days afterwards, Mr. Hendrickson received a note from his
friend, asking him to call.

"You have seen her?"

The young man was paler than usual, but calm. His voice was not
eagerly expectant, but rather veiled with sadness, as if he had
weighed all the chances in his favor, and made up his mind for the
worst.

"I have," replied Mrs. Denison.

"She is much changed, I presume?"

"I would scarcely have known her," was answered.

"In what is she changed?"

"She has been growing less of the earth earthy, in all these years
of painful discipline. You see this in her changed exterior; your
ear perceives it in the tones of her voice; your mind answers to it
in the pure sentiments that breathe from her lips. Her very presence
gives an atmosphere of heavenly tranquillity."

It was some moments before Hendrickson made further remark. He then
said:

"How long a time were you with her, Mrs. Denison?"

"We spent over an hour in her company."

"Was my name mentioned?"

"No."

"Nor the subject in which I feel so deep an interest?"

"Yes, we spoke of that!"

"And you were not in error as to her decision of the case?"

Hendrickson manifested no excitement.

"I was not."

He dropped his eyes again to the floor, and sat musing for some
time.

"She does not consider herself free to marry again?"

He looked up with a calm face.

"No."

There was a sigh; a falling of the eyes; and a long, quiet silence.

"I was prepared for it, my friend," he said, speaking almost
mournfully. "Since our last interview, I have thought on this
subject a great deal, and looked at it from another point of vision.
I hare imagined myself in her place, and then pondered the Record.
It seemed more imperative. I could not go past it, and yet regard
myself innocent, or pure. It seemed a hard saying--but it was said.
The mountain was impassable. And so I came fortified for her
decision."

"Would you have had it otherwise?" Mrs. Denison asked.

Hendrickson did not answer at once. The question evidently disturbed
him.

"The heart is very weak," he said at length.

"But virtue is strong as another Samson," Mrs. Denison spoke
quickly.

"Her decision does not produce a feeling of alienation. I am not
angry. She stands, it is true, higher up and further off, invested
with saintly garments. If she is purer, I must be worthier. I can
only draw near in spirit--and there can be no spiritual nearness
without a likeness of quality. If the stain of earth is not to be
found on her vesture, mine must be white as snow."

"It is by fire we are purified, my friend," answered Mrs. Denison,
speaking with unusual feeling.

Not many weeks after this interview with Mrs. Denison, she received
a communication from Hendrickson that filled her with painful
surprise. It ran thus:

"MY BEST FRIEND:--When this comes into your hands, I shall be away
from B--. It is possible that I may never return again. I do not
take this step hastily, but after deep reflection, and in the firm
conviction that I am right. If I remain, the probabilities are that
I shall meet Jessie Loring, who will come forth gradually from her
seclusion; and I am not strong enough, nor cold enough for that. Nor
do I think our meeting would make the stream of her life more
placed. It has run in wild waves long enough--the waters have been
turbid long enough--and mine is not the hand to swirl it with a
single eddy. No--no. My love, I trust, is of purer essence. I would
bless, not curse--brighten, not cloud the horizon of her life.

"And so I recede as she comes forth into the open day, and shall
hide myself from her sight. As she advances by self denials and holy
charities towards celestial purity, may I advance also, fast enough
at least not to lose sight of her in the far off distance.

"You will meet her often, from this time, dear, true, faithful
friend! And I pray you to keep my memory green in her heart. Not
with such bold reference as shall disturb its tranquil life. Oh, do
not give her pain! But with gentle insinuations; so that the thought
of me have no chance to die. I will keep unspotted from the world;
yet will I not withdraw myself, but manfully take my place and do
battle for the right.

"And now, best of friends, farewell! I go out into the great world,
to be absorbed from observation in the crowd. But my heart will
remain among the old places, and beat ever faithful to its early
loves.

"PAUL HENDRICKSON."

He had withdrawn himself from all business connections, and sold his
property. With his small fortune, realized by active, intelligent
industry, and now represented by Certificates of Deposit in three of
the city banks, he vanished from among those who had known and
respected him for years, and left not a sign of the direction he had
taken. Even idle rumor, so usually unjust, did him no wrong. He had
been, in all his actions, too true a man for even suspicion to touch
his name.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13