“No—no, Jessie! Not if you are so fatigued. I had forgotten our journey to-day,” interposed Mr. Dexter.
“A ride in the bracing salt air will do me good, perhaps. I am, at least, disposed to make the trial. So order the carriage, and I will be with you in a moment.”
Mrs. Dexter spoke with a suddenly outflashing animation, and then left her husband to make preparations for accompanying him in the drive. She had passed through the parlor door on to one of the long porticoes of the building, and was moving rapidly, when, just before reaching the end, where another door communicated with a stairway, she suddenly stood still, face to face with a man who had stepped from that door out upon the portico.
“Jess—Mrs. Dexter!” the man checked the unguarded utterance of her familiar Christian name, and gave the other designation.
“Mr. Hendrickson!”
Only for an instant did Mrs. Dexter betray herself; but in that instant her heart was read, as if a blaze of lightning had flashed over one of its pages, long hidden away in darkness, and revealed the writing thereon in letters of gleaming fire.
“You arrived to day?” Mr. Hendrickson also regained the even balance of mind which had momentarily been lost, and regained it as quickly as the lady. He spoke with the pleased air of an acquaintance—nothing more.
“This afternoon,” replied Mrs. Dexter in a quiet tone, and with a smile in which no casual observer could have seen anything deeper than pleasant recognition.
“How long will you remain?”
“It is not certain; perhaps until the season closes.”
Mrs. Dexter made a motion to pass on. Mr. Hendrickson raised his hat and bowed very respectfully; and thus the sudden interview ended.
Mr. Dexter had followed his wife to the door of the parlor, and stood looking at her as she retired along the portico. This meeting with Hendrickson was therefore in full view. A sudden paleness overspread his countenance; and from his convulsed lips there fell a bitter imprecation.
On reaching her apartments, Mrs. Dexter was so weak that she was forced to sit down upon the first chair she could obtain. A dead pallor was in her face.
“Oh, give me strength—self control—motives to duty!”—in weakness and fear her quivering heart cried upwards.
“Jessie!” How long she had been sitting thus Mrs. Dexter knew not. She started. It was the voice of her husband.
“Not ready yet, I see!” His tones were rough—his manner excited. “And the carriage has stood at the door for ten minutes.”
“I am ready!” she answered, starting up, and lifting her bonnet from the bed.
“It is no matter now. The sun is setting, and I have ordered the carriage back to the stable. You only consented to go on my account; and I am impatient under mere acquiescence.”
“You wrong me, Mr. Dexter,” said his wife, with unusual earnestness of manner. “I am ready to go with you at all times; and I strive in all things to give you pleasure. Did I hesitate a moment when you suddenly declared your wish to leave Saratoga for Newport?”
“No, of course you did not; for you were too glad of the opportunity to get here.” There was a strange gleam in the eyes of Mr. Dexter as he said this; and his voice had in it an angry bitterness never before observed.
“What do you mean, sir?” demanded the outraged wife, turning upon her husband abruptly, and showing an aspect so stern and fierce, that the astonished man retreated a pace or two as if in fear. Never before had he seen in that beautiful face the reflection of a spirit so wildly disturbed by passion.
“Speak out, Leon Dexter! What do you mean?”
And her eyes rested on his with a glance as steady as an eagle’s.
“I saw your meeting a little while ago.”
Mr. Dexter rallied a little.
“What meeting?” There was no betraying sign in Mrs. Dexter’s face, nor the least faltering in her tones.
“Your meeting with
“With whom? Speak out plainly, sir! I am in no mood for trifling, and in no condition for solving riddles.”
“With Paul Hendrickson.” Dexter pronounced the name slowly, and with all the meaning emphasis he could throw into his voice.
“Well, sir, what of that?” Still neither eye nor voice faltered.
“Much! You see that I understand you!”
“I see that you do not understand me,” was firmly answered. “And now, sir, will you suffer me to demand an explanation of your language just now. I want no evasion—no faltering—no holding back. ‘Too glad of an opportunity to get here!’ That was the sentence. Its meaning, sir?”
The small head of Mrs. Dexter was erect; her nostrils distended; her lips closely laid upon each other; her eyes full fixed and almost fiery in their intense light. Suddenly she was transformed in the eyes of her husband from a yielding, gentle, though cold woman into the very spirit of accusation and defiance. He was silent; for he saw that he had gone too far.
“That must be explained, sir!” She was not to be turned aside. “I have noted your capricious conduct; your singular glances at times; your strange moodiness without apparent cause. A little light has given a faint impression of their meaning. But I must have the full blaze of your thoughts. Nothing else will satisfy me now.”
