“Better come down into the sitting-room,” replied Mrs. Loring.
“No, aunt. You must let me have my way.”
“Willful, and like your mother,” said Mrs. Loring, as she arose.
“Was my mother willful?” inquired Jessie, looking at her aunt.
“Sometimes.”
“Was she happy?”
“No. I do not think she ever understood or rightly appreciated your father. But, I should not have said this. She was a beautiful, fascinating young creature, as I remember her, and your father was crazy to get her. But I don’t think they were very happy together. Where the blame lay I never knew for certain, and I will make no suggestions now.”
“They were uncongenial in their tastes, perhaps,” said Jessie.
“Dear knows what the reason was! But she died young, poor thing! and your father was in a sad way about it. I thought, of course, he would marry again. But he did not—living a widower until his death.”
“Is my mother’s picture very much like her, Aunt Phoebe?”
“Very like her; but not so handsome.”
“She was beautiful?”
“Oh, yes; and the reigning belle before her marriage.”
Jessie questioned no farther. Her aunt’s recollections of her mother were all too external to satisfy the yearnings of her heart towards that mother. Often had she sat gazing upon the picture which represented to her eyes the form and face of a parent she had never seen; and sought to comprehend some of the meanings in the blue orbs that looked down upon her so calmly. But ever had she turned away with vague, unquiet, restless feelings.
“If my mother had lived!” she would sometimes say to herself, “she could comprehend me. Into her ears I could speak words that now sleep on my lips in perpetual silence.
“Oh, if my mother were alive!” sobbed the unhappy girl, as the door closed on the retiring form of worldly- minded Aunt Phoebe. “If my mother were only alive!
“Affianced!” she said a little while after, as thought went back to the interview between herself and Mrs. Loring which had just closed. “Affianced! Yes, that was the word. ‘He regards you as affianced, and so do I!’ How completely has this web invested me! Is there no way of escape?” A slight shudder went through her frame. “Ah, well, well!”—low and mournfully—”It may be that my woman’s ideal has been too exalted, and above the standard of real men. Mr. Dexter is handsome; kind-hearted enough, no doubt; moderately well cultivated; rich, elegant in manner, though a little too demonstrative; and, most to be considered, loves me—or, at least, declares himself my lover. That he is sincere I cannot doubt. His was not the role of a skillful actor, but living expression. I ought to be flattered if not won by the homage he pays me.”
Then she sat down, and began looking into her heart again, her keen vision penetrating to its farthest recesses. A long fluttering sigh breathed at length through her lips, and starting up she said,
“I am weak and foolish! Life is a reality; not a cycle of dreamy romance. All poetry lies in the dim distance—a thing of memory or anticipation—the present is invariably prose. How these vague ideals do haunt the mind! Love! Love! I had imagined something deeper, purer, holier than anything stirring in my heart for Leon Dexter! Was I deceived? Is the poet’s song but jingling rhyme?—a play of words in trancing measure? Let me bind back into quietude these wildly leaping impulses, and clip the wings of these girlish fancies. They lead not the soul to happiness in a world like ours.”
Again her form drooped, and again she sat for a long period so lost in the mazes of her own thoughts, that time and place receded alike from her consciousness. Not until dinner-time did she join her aunt. Her cousins had returned from school, and she met them as usual at the table. Her exterior was carefully controlled, so that the only change visible was a slight pallor and a graver aspect. Mrs. Loring scrutinized her countenance closely. This she bore without a sign of embarrassment. She partook but lightly of food. After the meal closed she retired to her own room, once more to torture her brain in a fruitless effort to solve this great problem of her life.
CHAPTER V.
WHEN Paul Hendrickson left the house of Mrs. Loring, his mind was in a state of painful excitement. The inopportune appearance of Dexter had so annoyed him, that he had found it impossible to assume the easy, cheerful air of a visitor. He was conscious, therefore, of having shown himself in the eyes of Miss Loring to very poor advantage. Her manner at parting had, however, reassured him. As they stood for a moment in the vestibule he saw her in a new light. The aspect of her countenance was changed, the eyes, that fell beneath his earnest gaze, burned with a softened light, and he read there a volume of tender interest at a single glance.
“I shall be pleased to see you again, Mr. Hendrickson.” There was more than a parting compliment in her tones as she said these words. “I have never thought you stupid.” What pleasure he derived from repeating these sentences over and over again! Early in the evening he called upon his friend Mrs. Denison.
“I have come to talk with you again about Miss Loring,” said he. “I can’t get her out of my thoughts. Her presence haunts me like a destiny.”
Mrs. Denison smiled as she answered a little playfully:
“A genuine case of love; the infection taken at first sight. Isn’t it so, Paul?”
“That I love this girl, in spite of myself, is, I fear, a solemn fact,” said the young man, with an expression of face that did not indicate a very agreeable self-consciousness.
“Fear? In spite of yourself? A solemn fact? What a contradiction you are, Paul!” said Mrs. Denison.
“A man in love is an enigma. I have often heard it remarked, and I now perceive the saying to be true. I am an enigma. Yes, I love this girl in spite of myself; and the fact is a solemn one. Why? Because I have too good reason for believing that she does not love me in return. And yet, even while I say this, tones and words of hers, heard only to-day, come sighing to my ears, giving to every heart-beat a quicker impulse.”
“Ah! Then you have seen Miss Loring to-day?”
“Yes,” answered Hendrickson, in a quick, and suddenly excited manner. “I called upon her this morning, and
