permitted myself to experience just a shade of annoyance. If I have seemed ill-natured, pardon me. It is not my nature to find fault, or to criticise. I rather prefer looking upon the bright side. Like Sir Joshua Reynolds, ‘I am a wide liker.’ There are times, you know, in which we are all tempted to act in a way that gives to others a false impression of our real characters.”
“No one is more conscious of that than I am,” replied Miss Loring. “Indeed, it seems often, as if I were made the sport of adverse influences, and constrained to act and to appear wholly different from what I desire to seem. There are some of life’s phenomena, Mr. Dexter, that puzzle at times my poor brain sorely.”
“Don’t puzzle over such things, Miss Loring,” said Mr. Dexter; “I never do. Leave mysteries to philosophers; there is quite enough of enjoyment upon the surface of things without diving below, into the dark caverns of doubt and vague speculation. I never liked the word phenomenon.”
“To me it has ever been an attraction. I always seem standing at some closed door, hearkening to vague sounds within and longing to enter. The outer life presents itself to me as moving figures in a show, and I am all impatient, at times, to discover the hidden machinery that gives such wonderful motion.
“Morbid; all morbid!” answered Dexter, in a lively manner. “Dreams in the place of realities, Miss Loring. Don’t philosophize; don’t speculate; don’t think—at least not seriously. Your thinkers are always miserable. Take life as it is—full of beauty, full of pleasure. The sources of enjoyment are all around us. Let us drink at them and be thankful.”
“You are a philosopher, I perceive,” said Miss Loring, with a smile, “and must have been a thinker, in some degree, to have formed a theory.”
“I am a cheerful philosopher.”
“Are you always cheerful, Mr. Dexter?” inquired Miss Loring.
“Always.”
“Never feel the pressure of gloomy states? Have no transitions of feeling—sudden, unaccountable; as if the shadow of a cloud had fallen over your spirit?”
“Never.”
“You are singularly fortunate.”
“Am I, Miss Loring?” and the young man’s voice grew tender as he leaned nearer to the maiden.
“I am blessed with a cheerful temper,” he added, “and I cultivate the inheritance. It is a good gift—blessing both the inheritor and his companions. Neither men nor women are long gloomy in my presence.”
“I have often noticed your smiling face and pleasant words,” said Jessie, “and wondered if you moved always in a sunny atmosphere.”
“You are answered now,” he replied.
A little while there was silence. Jessie did not feel the repulsion which had at first made Dexter’s presence annoying; and as he drew his chair closer, and leaned still nearer, there was on her part no instinctive receding.
“Yes,” she murmured softly, almost dreamily, “I am answered.”
“Jessie.” The young man’s breath was on her cheek—his hand touching her hand. She remained sitting very still—still as an effigy.
“Jessie.” How very low, and loving, and musical was the voice that thrilled along the chords of feeling! “Jessie; forgive me if I have mistaken the signs.” His hand tightened upon hers. She felt spell-bound. She wished to start up and flee. But she could not. There was a strange, overshadowing, half paralyzing power in the man’s presence. Without a purpose to do so, she returned the pressure of his hand. It was enough.
“Thanks, dear one!” he murmured. “I was sure I had not mistaken the signs. The heart has language all its own.”
Still the maiden’s form was motionless; and her hand lay passive in the hand that now held it with a strong clasp. Yet, how wildly did her heart beat! How tumultuous were all her feelings! How delicious the thrill that pervaded her being!
“I love you, Jessie! Dear one! Angel! And by this token you are mine!” said Dexter, his voice full of passion’s fine enthusiasm. And he raised her hand to his lips, kissing it half-wildly as he did so.
“The gods have made this hour propitious!” he added, as he drew her head down against his bosom, and laid his ardent lips to hers. “Bless you, darling! Bless you!” he went on. “My life is crowned this hour with its chiefest delight! Mine! mine!”
Yet, not a word had parted the maiden’s lips, thus spirited away, as it were, out of herself, and strangely betrayed into consenting silence. She had neither given her yea nor her nay—and dared as little to speak the one as the other.
Almost bereft of physical power, she sat with her face hidden on the bosom of this impulsive lover, for many minutes. At last, thought cleared itself a little, and, with a more distinct self-consciousness, were restored individuality and strength. She raised herself, moved back a little, and looked up into the face of Mr. Dexter. The aspect of her own was not just what the young man had expected to see. He did not look upon a countenance blushing in sweet confusion; nor into eyes radiant with loving glances; but upon a pale face, and eyes whose meanings were a mystery. Slowly, yet persistently, did she withdraw her hand from his clasp, while slowly her form arose, until it gained an erect position.
“You have taken me off my guard, Mr. Dexter,” she said, a tremor running through her voice.
“Say not a word, Jessie! say not a word! I am only too happy to have taken your heart captive. You are none the less my own, whether the means were force or stratagem.”
“Speak not too confidently, sir. Have I”—
Mr. Dexter raised his hand quickly, and uttered a word of warning. But were silent again. Then the young man said, his manner growing deferential, and his voice falling to a low and subdued tone—
“Miss Loring, I here offer you heart and hand; and in making this offer, do most solemnly affirm that you are
