Such were the questions that thrust themselves upon her, and clamored for solution.
She had not solved them when the intelligence came of Mr. Dexter’s marriage in England.
“I have news that will surprise you,” said Mrs. Loring, coming into the sitting-room where Jessie was at work on a piece of embroidery.
“What is it?” she asked, looking up almost with a start, for something in her aunt’s manner told her that she had a personal interest in the news.
“Mr. Dexter is married!”
Instantly a pallor overspread Jessie’s face.
“Married to an English lady,” said Mrs. Loring.
Jessie looked at her aunt for a little while, but without a remark. She then turned her eyes again upon her embroidery, lifting it close to her face. But her hand trembled so that she could not take a stitch.
“I hope he’s satisfied now,” said Mrs. Loring. “He’s married an heiress—so the story goes; and is going to reside with her in England. I’m glad of that any how. It might not be so pleasant for you to meet them—sensitive thing that you are! But it wouldn’t trouble me. I could look them both in the face and not blink. Much joy may he have with his English bride! Bless me, child, how you do tremble!” she added, as she noticed the fingers of her niece trying in vain to direct the needle she held upon the face of the embroidery. “It’s nothing more than you had to expect. And, besides, what is Leon Dexter to you now? Only as another man?”
Jessie arose without speaking, and kissing her aunt in token of love, passed quickly from the room.
“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.”