The Hand But Not the Heart | Page 7

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