“Will you waive the subject, at present, dear aunt?” said Jessie, with a pleading look, at the same time glancing covertly towards her cousins, who were drinking in every word with girlish eagerness.
“Oh, by all means,” answered Mrs. Loring, “if it is in the least annoying. I was forgetting myself in the interest felt for your welfare.”
“And so Mr. Dexter showed you marked attentions last evening?” said Jessie’s aunt, joining her in the sitting-room, after Amanda and Dora had left for school.
“Did I say so, aunt?” inquired Jessie, looking into her relative’s face.
“You said enough to make the inference clear, my child.”
“Well, Aunt Phoebe, he was attentive—more so, by a great deal, than I desired!”
“Than you desired!” There was unfeigned surprise in the voice of Mrs. Loring. “What do you mean, Jessie?”
“The man’s position is all well enough; but the man himself is not altogether to my liking.”
“You must have grown remarkably fastidious all at once. Why, girl! there isn’t a handsomer man to be found anywhere. He is a noble looking fellow! Where are your eyes?”
“The man that a wife has to deal with, is the man of the spirit, Aunt Phoebe—the real man. The handsome outside is nothing, if the inner man is not beautiful!” Jessie spoke with a sudden glow of feeling.
“Stuff and nonsense, child!” said Mrs. Loring, impatiently. “Stuff and nonsense!” she repeated, seeing that her niece looked steadily into her face. “What do you know of the man of the spirit, as you call it? And, moreover, what possesses you to infer that Mr. Dexter’s inner man is not as beautiful as the outer?”
“The soul looks forth from the eyes, and manifests its quality in the tones of the voice,” replied Jessie, a fine enthusiasm illuminating her beautiful face. “No man can hide from us his real character, unless we let self-love and self-interest draw an obscuring veil.”
“You are a strange girl, Jessie—a very strange girl!” Mrs. Loring was fretted. “What can you mean? Here, a splendid fortune promises to be poured into your lap, and you draw your garments aside, hesitating and questioning as to whether the golden treasure is worth receiving! I am half amazed at your conduct!”
“Are you weary of my presence here, Aunt Phoebe?” said Jessie, a tremor in her low failing tones.
“Now give me patience with the foolish girl!” exclaimed Mrs. Loring, assuming an angry aspect. “What has come over you, Jessie? Did I say anything about being wearied with your presence? Because I manifest an unusual degree of interest in your future welfare, am I to be charged with a mean, selfish motive? I did not expect this of you.”
“Dear aunt! forgive me!” said Jessie, giving way to tears. “My feelings are unusually disturbed this morning. Late hours and the excitement of company have made me nervous. As for Mr. Dexter, let us pass him by for the present. He has not impressed me as favorably as you seem to desire.”
“But Jessie.”
“Spare me, dear aunt! If you press the subject on me now, you will only excite disgust where you hope to create a favorable impression. I have had many opportunities of close observation, and failed not to improve them. The result is—”
Jessie paused.
“What?” queried her aunt.
“That the more narrowly I scan him the less I like him. He is superficial, vain and selfish.”
“How do you know?”
“I cannot make manifest to your eyes the signs that were clear to mine. But so I have read him.”
“And read him with the page upside down, my, word for it, Miss Jessie Loring!”
Jessie answered only with a sigh, and when her aunt still pressed her on the subject, she begged to be spared, as she felt nervous and excited. So, leaving the sitting room, she retired to her own apartment, to gather up, and unravel, if possible, the tangled thread of thought and feeling.
CHAPTER III.
“THERE is a gentleman in the parlor, Miss Jessie,” said Mary, the chambermaid, opening the door and presenting her plain, but pleasant face. It was an hour after Miss Loring had left her aunt in the sitting room.
“Who is it, Mary?”
The girl handed her a card.
On it was engraved, PAUL HENDRICKSON. The heart of Jessie Loring gave a sudden leap, and the blood sprung reddening to her very temples.
“Say that I will be with him in a few minutes.”
The servant retired, and Jessie, who had arisen as she received the card, sat down, so overcome by her feelings, that she felt all bodily strength depart.
“Paul Hendrickson!” she said, whispering the name. “How little did I expect a visit from him! After our first interview last evening, he seemed studiously to avoid me.”
Then she arose hastily, but in a tremor, and made some hurried changes in her dress. She was about leaving her room, when Mary again presented herself.
“Another gentleman has called,” and she handed another card. Jessie took it and read LEON DEXTER!
Could anything have been more inopportune! Jessie felt a double embarrassment.
“The fates are against me I believe!” she murmured, as, after a few moments of vigorous expression of feeling, she left her room, and descended to the parlor, entering with a light but firm tread. Dexter stepped quickly forward, giving his hand in the most assured style, and putting both her and himself entirely at ease. She smiled upon him blandly, because she felt the contagion of his manner. Hendrickson was more formal and distant, and showed some embarrassment. He was not at ease himself, and failed to put Jessie at ease.
After all were seated, Dexter talked freely, while Hendrickson sat, for the most part silent, but, as Jessie felt, closely observant. Light and playful were the subjects introduced by Mr. Dexter, and his remarks caused a perpetual ripple of smiles to sparkle over the countenance of Miss Loring. But whenever Mr. Hendrickson spoke to her, the smiles faded, and she turned upon him a face so changed in expression that he felt a chill pervade his feelings. She did not mean to look grave; she did not repress the smiles purposely; there was neither coldness nor repulsion in her heart. But her sentiments touching Mr. Hendrickson were so different from those entertained for Mr. Dexter; and her estimation of his character so widely variant that she could not possibly treat him with the smiling familiarity shown towards the other. Yet all the while she was painfully conscious of being misunderstood. If she had met Mr. Hendrickson alone, she felt that it must have been different. A degree of embarrassment might have existed, but she would not have been forced to put on two opposite exteriors, as now, neither of which, correctly interpreted her state of mind, or did justice to her character.
“I did not see much of you last evening, Mr. Hendrickson. What were you doing with yourself?” she remarked, trying to be more familiar, and giving him a look that set his pulses to a quicker measure. Before he could answer, Dexter said, gaily, yet with covert sarcasm.
“Oh, Mr. Hendrickson prefers the society of elderly ladies. He spent the evening in sober confabulation with Mrs. Denison. I have no doubt she was edified. I prefer maid to matron, at any time. Old women are my horror.”
Too light and gay were the tones of Dexter to leave room for offence. Hendrickson tried to rally himself, and retort with pleasant speech. But his heart was too deeply interested,—and his mood too serious for sport. His smile did not improve the aspect of his countenance; and if he meant his words for witticisms, they were perceived as sarcasms. Jessie was rather repelled than attracted—all of which he saw.
Conscious that he was wholly misrepresenting himself in the young lady’s eyes, and feeling, moreover, that he was only spoiling pleasant company, Hendrickson, after a brief call, left the field clear to his rival. Jessie accompanied him to the door.