The Hand but Not the Heart, Or, the Life-Trials of Jessie Loring...

earnestly.

“You must explain that meaning, as referring to Jessie Loring.”

“It is this, only. She can be deceived by appearances. Her eyes are not penetrating enough to look through the tinsel and glitter with which wealth conceals the worthlessness of the man.”

“Ah! you are jealous. There is a rival.”

“You, alone, can use those words, and not excite my anger,” said Hendrickson.

“Forgive me if they have fallen upon your ears unpleasantly.”

“A rival, Mrs. Denison!” the young man spoke proudly. “That is something I will never have. The woman’s heart that can warm under the smile of another man, is nothing to me.”

“You are somewhat romantic, Paul, in your notions about matrimony. You forget that women are ‘only’ women.”

“But I do not forget, Mrs. Denison, that as you have so often said to me, there are true marriages in which the parties are drawn towards each other by sexual affinities peculiar to themselves; and that a union in such cases, is the true union by which they become, in the language of inspiration, ‘one flesh.’ I can enter into none other. When I first met Jessie Loring, a spirit whispered to me—was it a lying spirit?—a spirit whispered to me—’the beautiful complement of your life!’ I believed on the instant. In that I may have been romantic.”

“Perhaps not!” said Mrs. Denison.

Hendrickson looked into her face steadily for some moments, and then said—

“It was an illusion.”

“Why do you say this, Paul? Why are you so disturbed? Speak your heart more freely.”

“Leon Dexter is rich. I am—poor!”

“You are richer than Leon Dexter in the eyes of a true woman—richer a thousandfold, though he counted his wealth by millions.” There were flashes of light in the eyes of Mrs. Denison.

Hendrickson bent his glance to the floor and did not reply.

“If Miss Loring prefers Dexter to you, let her move on in her way without a thought. She is not worthy to disturb, by even the shadow of her passing form, the placid current of your life. But I am by no means certain that he is preferred to you.”

“He has been at her side all the evening,” said the young man.

“That proves nothing. A forward, self-confident, agreeable young gentleman has it in his power thus to monopolize almost any lady. The really excellent, usually too modest, but superior young men, often permit themselves to be elbowed into the shade by these shallow, rippling, made up specimens of humanity, as you have probably done to-night.”

“I don’t know how that may be, Mrs. Denison; but this I know. I had gained a place by her side, early in the evening. She seemed pleased, I thought, at our meeting; but was reserved in conversation—too reserved it struck me. I tried to lead her out, but she answered my remarks briefly, and with what I thought an embarrassed manner. I could not hold her eyes—they fell beneath mine whenever I looked into her face. She was evidently ill at ease. Thus it was, when this self-confident Leon Dexter came sweeping up to us with his grand air, and carried her off to the piano. If I read her face and manner aright, she blessed her stars at getting rid of me so opportunely.”

“I doubt if you read them aright,” said Mrs. Denison, as her young friend paused. “You are too easily discouraged. If she is a prize, she is worth striving for. Don’t forget the old adage—’Faint heart never won fair lady.’”

Paul shook his head.

“I am too proud to enter the lists in any such contest,” he answered. “Do you think I could beg for a lady’s favorable regard? No! I would hang myself first!”

“How is a lady to know that you have a preference for her, if you do not manifest it in some way?” asked Mrs. Denison. “This is being a little too proud, my friend. It is throwing rather too much upon the lady, who must be wooed if she would be won.”

“A lady has eyes,” said Paul.

“Granted.”

“And a lady’s eyes can speak as well as her lips. If she likes the man who approaches her, let her say so with her eyes. She will not be misunderstood.”

“You are a man,” replied Mrs. Denison, a little impatiently; “and, from the beginning, man has not been able to comprehend woman! If you wait for a woman worth having to tell you, even with her eyes, that she likes you, and this before you have given a sign, you will wait until the day of doom. A true woman holds herself at a higher price!”

There was silence between the parties for the space of nearly a minute. Then Paul Hendrickson said—

“Few women can resist the attraction of gold. Creatures of taste—lovers of the beautiful—fond of dress, equipage, elegance—I do not wonder that we who have little beyond ourselves to offer them, find simple manhood light in the balance.”

And he sighed heavily.

“It is because true men are not true to themselves and the true women Heaven wills to cross their paths in spring-time, that so many of them fail to secure the best for life-companions!” answered Mrs. Denison. “Worth is too retiring or too proud. Either diffidence or self-esteem holds it back in shadow. I confess myself to be sorely puzzled at times with the phenomenon. Why should the real man shrink away, and let the meretricious fop and the man ‘made of money’ win the beautiful and the best? Women are not such fools as to prefer tinsel to gold—the outside making up to the inner manhood! Neither are they so dim-sighted that they cannot perceive who is the man and who the ‘fellow.’ My word for it, if Miss Loring’s mind was known, you have a higher place therein than