The Hand But Not the Heart | Page 9

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 (sic) physicial 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.