Alas for Leon Dexter! He had caged his beautiful bird; but her song had lost, already, its ravishing sweetness.
CHAPTER XII.
THE first year of trial passed. If the young wife’s heart-history for that single year could be written, it would make a volume, every pages of which the reader would find spotted with his tears. No pen but that of the sufferer could write that history; and to her, no second life, even in memory, were endurable. The record is sealed up—and the story will not be told.
It is not within the range of all minds to comprehend what was endured. Wealth, position, beauty, admiration, enlarged intelligence, and highly cultivated tastes, were hers. She was the wife of a man who almost worshipped her, and who ceased not to woo her with all the arts he knew how to practise. Impatient he became, at times, with her impassiveness, and fretted by her coldness. Jealous of her he was always. But he strove to win that love which, ere his half-coercion of her into marriage, he had been warned he did not possess—but his strivings were in vain. He was a meaner bird, and could not mate with the eagle.
To Mrs. Dexter, this life was a breathing death. Yet with a wonderful power of endurance and self-control, she moved along her destined way, and none of the people she met in society—nor even her nearest friends—had any suspicion of her real state of mind. As a wife, her sense of honor was keen. From that virtuous poise, her mind had neither variableness nor shadow of turning. No children came with silken wrappings to hide and make softer the bonds that held her to her husband in a union that only death could dissolve; the hard, icy, galling links of the chain were ever visible, and their trammel ever felt. Cold and desolate the elegant home remained.
In society, Mrs. Dexter continued to hold a brilliant position. She was courted, admired, flattered, envied—the attractive centre to every circle of which she formed a part. Rarely to good advantage did her husband appear, for her mind had so far outrun his in strength and cultivation, that the contrast was seriously against him—and he felt it as another barrier between them.
One year of pride was enough for Mr. Dexter. A beautiful, brilliant, fashionable wife was rather a questionable article to place on exhibition; there was danger, he saw, in the experiment. And so he deemed it only the dictate of prudence to guard her from temptation. An incident determined him. They were at Newport, in the mid-season; and their intention was to remain there two weeks. They had been to Saratoga, where the beauty and brilliancy of Mrs. Dexter drew around her some of the most intelligent and attractive men there. All at once her husband suggested Newport.
“I thought we had fixed on next week,” said Mrs. Dexter, in reply.
“I am not well,” was the answer. “The sea air will do me good.”
“We will go to-morrow, then,” was the unhesitating response. Not made with interest or feeling; but promptly, as the dictate of wifely duty.
Just half an hour previous to this brief interview, Mr. Dexter was sitting in one of the parlors, and near him were two men, strangers, in conversation. The utterance by one of them of his wife’s name, caused him to be on the instant all attention.
“She’s charming!” was the response.
“One of the most fascinating women I have ever met! and my observation, as you know, is not limited. She would produce a sensation in Paris.”
“Is she a young widow?”
“No—unfortunately.”
“Who, or what is her husband?” was asked.
“A rich nobody, I’m told.”
“Ah! He has taste.”
“Taste in beautiful women, at least,” was the rejoinder.
“Is he here?”
“I believe so. He would hardly trust so precious a jewel as that out of his sight. They say he is half-maddened by jealousy.”
“And with reason, probably. Weak men, with brilliant, fashionable wives, have cause for jealousy. He’s a fool to bring her right into the very midst of temptation.”
“Can’t help himself, I presume. It might not be prudent to attempt the caging system.”
A low, chuckling laugh followed. How the blood did go rushing and seething through the veins of Leon Dexter!
“I intend to know more of her,” was continued. “Where do they live?”
“In B—.”
“Ah! I shall be there during the winter.”
“She sees a great deal of company, I am told. Has weekly or monthly ‘evenings’ at which some of the most intellectual people in the city may be found.”
“Easy of access, I suppose?”
“No doubt of it.”
Dexter heard no more. On the next day he started with his wife for Newport. The journey was a silent one. They had ceased to converse much when alone. And now there were reasons why Mr. Dexter felt little inclination to intrude any common-places upon his wife.
They were passing into the hotel, on their arrival, when Mr. Dexter, who happened to be looking at his wife, saw her start, flush, and then turn pale. It was the work of an instant. His eyes followed the direction of hers, but failed to recognize any individual among the group of persons near them as the one who thus affected her by his presence. He left her in one of the parlors, while he made arrangements for rooms. In a few minutes he returned. She was sitting as he had left her, seeming scarcely to have stirred during his absence. Her eyes were on the floor, and when he said, “Come, Jessie!” she started and looked up at him, in a confused way.
“Our apartments are ready; come.”
He had to speak a second time before she seemed to comprehend his meaning. She arose like one in deep thought, and moved along by her husband’s side, leaving the parlor, and going up to the rooms which had been assigned to them. The change in her countenance and manner was so great, that her husband could not help remarking upon it.
“Are you not well, Jessie?” he asked, as she sat down with a weary air.
“Not very well,” she answered—yet with a certain evasion of tone that repelled inquiry.
Mr. Dexter scanned her countenance sharply. She lifted her eyes at the moment to his face, and started slightly at the unusual meaning she saw therein. A flush betrayed her disturbed condition; and a succeeding pallor gave signs of unusual pain.
“Will you see a physician!”
“No—no!” she answered, quickly; “it was a momentary sickness—but is passing off now.” She arose as she said this, and commenced laying aside her travelling garments. Mr. Dexter sat down, and taking a newspaper from his pocket, pretended to read; but his jealous eyes looked over the sheet, and rested with keen scrutiny on the face of his wife whenever it happened to be turned towards him. That she scarcely thought of his presence, was plain from the fact that she did not once look at him. Suddenly, as if some new thought had crossed his mind, Mr. Dexter arose, and after making some slight changes in his dress, left the apartment and went down stairs. He was evidently in search of some one; for he passed slowly, and with wary eyes, along the passages, porticos and parlors. The result was not satisfactory. He met several acquaintances, and lingered with each in conversation; but the watchful searching eyes were never a moment at rest.
The instant Mr. Dexter left the room, there was a change in his wife. The half indifferent, almost listless manner gave place to one that expressed deep struggling emotions. Her bent form became erect, and she stood for a little while listening with her eyes upon the door, as if in doubt whether her husband would not return. After the lapse of two or three minutes, she walked to the door, and placing her fingers on the key, turned it, locking herself in. This done, she retired slowly towards a lounge by the window, nearly every trace of excitement gone, and sitting down, was soon so entirely absorbed in thought as scarcely to show a sign of external life.