Wives and Widows; or The Broken Life Part 45

This state of things could not continue without results. With feelings smouldering like the fire which turns wood into charcoal, this general irritation would break forth.

Jessie was the first to give way. For some time she had scarcely spoken to Mrs. Dennison, except in a grave, quiet fas.h.i.+on, which was as far from rudeness as it was from cordial hospitality. Sometimes this checked Mrs. Dennison's great flow of spirits, and she would take on a look of gentle martyrdom that must have had a peculiar fascination to one who did not understand her.

I do not know how it arose, for I had left the table; but one day Jessie came into the library, to which I had retreated, looking greatly excited; her eyes were full of troubled fire, and there was a stern pressure of the beautiful lips that I had never seen before. She did not speak, but walking up to the window, stood looking through it steadily, as if some beautiful landscape lay beyond, which she was examining through the gorgeous coloring, and which admitted of nothing beyond its own richness.

It was a gloomy day outside, and her face looked more sorrowfully sombre from all our surroundings.

I had arisen and was going toward her, when the door opened and Mr. Lee came in. How much the father and child looked alike at the moment! I had never seen either of them so imperial in their anger before.

Mr. Lee did not observe me, I think, but he walked across the library and laid one hand on Jessie's shoulder as she stood with her back toward him. She drew aside and looked up in her father's face.

"Jessie," he said, "what is the meaning of this? What have you been saying to wound Mrs. Dennison so terribly?"

Jessie struggled with herself; I could detect it by the blue veins that rose along her neck and forehead; but her countenance changed in nothing, and she answered his stern question steadily.

"I have done nothing that should wound Mrs. Dennison, father."

"But I left you at the breakfast-table with our guest tranquil as usual.

When I came back, you were gone, and I found her in tears."

"I cannot answer for the lady's tears, father. She was shedding none when I came out of the breakfast-room."

"This is an evasion, Jessie. I insist upon knowing what pa.s.sed between you and our guest after I left the room."

"You have a right to question me, father; but indeed I cannot tell you.

Mrs. Dennison said something about what we should do next winter; and I looked at her a moment, in displeasure perhaps, for she has already stayed far beyond the time usual for our guests; and I am not aware that any one has extended a second invitation to her. I certainly have not."

Mr. Lee's face darkened.

"And is this what you have done?--given her one of your haughty looks, and at my table, Jessie Lee?"

"Father!"

"Do not call me father. Do not speak to me again until you have apologized to the lady for this rudeness."

Mr. Lee's voice was stern, almost cruel, as he said this. Jessie grew pale as death.

"Father, I cannot apologize for anything I have done; it is impossible when the lady entered a complaint to you--"

Mr. Lee interrupted her.

"Mrs. Dennison entered no complaint."

"Oh, father! and you were ready to condemn me without a word. When was this so before?"

"When were you rebellious before?"

Jessie's lips began to quiver.

"When did we have trouble like this? When was it that we became a divided family?" she said. "Never till I was unhappy enough to invite this lady here."

"She was your own guest, and you have treated her cruelly," said Mr.

Lee, softening a little.

"No, father, not cruelly; coldly, perhaps, but not cruelly!"

"And why coldly?"

"Because I do not like Mrs. Dennison."

"And why, pray?"

"Because she comes between you and your own child--between you and your own wife--because--"

"Jessie," I said, rising from my seat, and for the first time becoming visible to Mr. Lee,--"Jessie--"

"It is well, Martha, that you are here to check her. Another word, and she would have been no longer a daughter of mine."

He was white as marble. Never in my life had I seen him so agitated.

Jessie looked at him sorrowfully. There was something more than anger in his face--a wild, troubled doubt, that made him tremble. Jessie laid her hand on his arm, and her lips quivered into a smile.

"Oh, father! listen to me. Let this lady go; take us back to your heart again; her influence here has been terrible."

He shook off her hand, drew himself up, and spoke with proud calmness,--

"Jessie, be careful, if you would not forfeit my love--at once be careful."

Jessie drew back, and leaned on my shoulder, trembling from head to foot. The idea that her father could ever really turn against her had entered her heart for the first time. She was so white that her very face terrified me.

"Speak to him," she whispered,--"speak to him."

I was about to say something, but Mr. Lee waved his hand, silencing me with a haughty gesture. Jessie stood up, and spoke in a low, sad voice,--

"Father, if I have done wrong, tell me how to atone for it, and I will obey you."

Mr. Lee turned away, walking the room three or four times before he answered. Then he took Jessie's cold hand, with some degree of returning kindness, while she stood, with downcast eyes, waiting for the humiliation his words would convey.

"Be yourself, my child; conquer your unreasonable prejudice against the lady who has been of great service to your mother, and is in every way estimable. I do not ask any unnecessary humiliation of my daughter; but be your own gracious self again, Jessie, and she will understand that you are sorry."

Jessie bent her bowed face a little lower, in token of acquiescence, and, bending his grand head, Mr. Lee kissed her. Then, turning to me, he said, with stern significance,--

"You will remember, Miss Hyde, these scenes are not to be renewed."

When he was gone, Jessie threw herself on the floor, and, folding her arms in the seat of an easy-chair, moaned piteously. She did not cry--the pain at her proud heart seemed too hot for tears. I tried to console her; but she only murmured,--

"You were right; I am not fit to be trusted with such things. They burn me like fire."