Dexter.”
Just then the two persons of whom they were speaking passed near to them, Miss Loring on the arm of Dexter, her face radiant with smiles. He was saying something to which she was listening, evidently pleased with his remarks. The sight chafed the mind of Hendrickson, and he said, sarcastically—
“Like all the rest, Mrs. Denison! Gold is the magnet.”
“You are in a strange humor to-night, Paul,” answered his friend, “and your humor makes you unjust. It is not fair to judge Miss Loring in this superficial way. Because she is cheerful and social in a company like this, are you to draw narrow conclusions touching her heart-preferences?”
“Why was she not as cheerful and as social with me, as she is now with that fellow?” said the young man, a measure of indignation in the tones of his voice. “Answer me that, if you please.”
“The true reason is, no doubt, wide of your conclusions,” answered Mrs. Denison. “Genuine love, when it first springs to life in a maiden’s heart, has in it a high degree of reverence. The object rises into something of superiority, and she draws near to it with repressed emotions, resting in its shadow, subdued, reserved, almost shy, but happy. She is not as we saw Miss Loring just now, but more like the maiden you describe as treating you not long ago with a strange reserve, which you imagined coldness.”
“Woman is an enigma,” exclaimed Hendrickson, his thoughts thrown into confusion.
“And you must study, if you would comprehend her,” said Mrs. Denison. “Of one thing let me again assure you, my young friend, if you expect to get a wife worth having, you have got to show yourself in earnest. Other men, not half so worthy as you may be, have eyes quite as easily attracted by feminine loveliness, and they will press forward and rob you of the prize unless you put in a claim. A woman desires to be loved. Love is what her heart feeds upon, and the man who appears to love her best, even if in all things he is not her ideal of manhood, will be most apt to win her for his bride. You can win Miss Loring if you will.”
“It may be so,” replied the young man, almost gloomily. “But, for all you say, I must confess myself at fault. I look for a kind of spontaneity in love. It seems to me, that hearts, created to become one, should instinctively respond to each other. For this reason, the idea of wooing, and contending, and all that, is painfully repugnant.”
“It may be,” said Mrs. Dunham [Denison?], “that your pride is as much at fault in the case, as your manhood. You cannot bend to solicit love.”
“I cannot—I will not!” The gesture that accompanied this was as passionate as the surroundings would admit.
“It was pride that banished Lucifer from Heaven,” said Mrs. Denison, “and I am afraid it will keep you out of the heaven of a true marriage here. Beware, my young friend! you are treading on dangerous ground. And there is, moreover, a consideration beyond your own case. The woman who can be happy in marriage with you, cannot be happy with another man. Let us, just to make the thing clear, suppose that Jessie Loring is the woman whose inner life is most in harmony with yours. If your lives blend in a true marriage, then will she find true happiness; but, if, through your failure to woo and win, she be drawn aside into a marriage with one whose life is inharmonious, to what a sad, weary, hopeless existence may she not be doomed. Paul! Paul! There are two aspects in which this question is to be viewed. I pray to Heaven that you may see it right.”
Further conversation was prevented by the near approach of others.
“Let me see you, and early, Paul,” said Mrs. Denison. It was some hours later, and the company were separating. “I must talk with you again about Miss Loring.”
Hendrickson promised to call in a day or two. As he turned from Mrs. Denison, his eyes encountered those of the young lady whose name had just been uttered. She was standing beside Mr. Dexter, who was officiously attentive to her up to the last moment. He was holding her shawl ready to throw it over her shoulders as she stepped from the door to the carriage that awaited her. For a moment or two the eyes of both were fixed, and neither had the power to move them. Then, each with a slight confusion of manner, turned from the other. Hendrickson retired into the nearly deserted parlors, while Miss Loring, attended by Dexter, entered the carriage, and was driven away.
CHAPTER II.
IT was past the hour of two, when Jessie Loring stepped from the carriage and entered her home. A domestic admitted her.
“Aunt is not waiting for me?” she said in a tone of inquiry.
“No; she has been in bed some hours.”
“It is late for you to be sitting up, Mary, and I am sorry to have been the cause of it. But, you know, I couldn’t leave earlier.”
She spoke kindly, and the servant answered in a cheerful voice.
“I’ll sit up for you, Miss Jessie, at any time. And why shouldn’t I? Sure, no one in the house is kinder or more considerate of us than you; and it’s quite as little as a body can do to wait up for you once in a while, and you enjoying yourself.”
“Thank you, Mary. And now get to bed as quickly as possible, for you must be tired and very sleepy. Good- night.”
“Good night, and God bless you!” responded the servant, warmly. “She was the queen there, I know?” she added, proudly, speaking to herself as she moved away.
It was a night in mid-October. A clear, cool, moon-lit radiant night. From her window, Jessie could look far away over the housetops to a dark mass of forest trees, just beyond the city, and to the gleaming river that lay sleeping at their feet. The sky was cloudless, save at the west, where a tall, craggy mountain of vapor towered up to the very zenith. After loosening and laying off some of her garments, Miss Loring, instead of retiring, sat down by the window, and leaning her head upon her hand looked out upon the entrancing scene. She did not remark upon its beauty, nor think of its weird attractions; nor did her eyes, after the first glance, convey any distinct image of external objects to her mind. Yet was she affected by them. The hour, and the aspect of nature wrought their own work upon her feelings.
She sat down and leaned her head upon her hand, while the scenes in which she had been for the past few hours an actor, passed before her in review with almost the vividness of reality. Were her thoughts pleasant ones? We fear not; for every now and then a faint sigh troubled her breast, and parted her too firmly closed lips. The evening’s entertainment had not satisfied her in something. There was a pressure on her feelings that weighed them down heavily.
“There is more in one sentence of his than in a a page of the other’s wordy utterances.” Her lips moved in the
