Chapter XV: “the Hand Without the Heart.”

“Love is hurt with jar and fret,
Love is made a vague regret,
Eyes with idle tears are wet.
What is love? for we forget.”--TENNYSON.

“To-morrow, Vivian, I leave Leigh Place. I have already long outstayed my invitation. But you know the charm that has kept me. I cannot go without your promise to be mine.”

They are walking slowly down the graveled path toward the fountain--Vivian and Earle Essex--and glancing shyly up, she meets his dark, mesmeric eyes fixed on hers with passionate love in their melting glance.

They pause at the fountain. The sunset’s rays are flickering in the crystal spray, and one soft beam streams across the girl’s dark hair and fair low brow, shining over her like a glory.

“Vivian,” he urges, “answer me. Has all my patient wooing been in vain? Does no voice in your heart answer to the passionate appeal of mine?”

A crimson blush steals over the fair young face, and Viva’s dark eyes droop bashfully.

Eve’s influence has not been without its effect on Viva. She says to herself that Earle Essex is very handsome, and loves her with slavish devotion. Why not try to love him and forget the past that it is torture to remember.

A moment’s hesitation, and she looks up at him frankly:

“I like you very much. I am touched by your constancy and devotion--but,” she pauses, and then blurts it out. “I should be afraid to marry you. You--you--are too fond of the wine-cup!”

He catches her hand, holding it in a rapturous clasp.

“Oh, how sweet and good you are to take this interest in me!” he cries. “But, believe me, dearest, I can easily overcome the habit you deprecate, if you wish me to do so, for your dear sake. Do you, Vivian? Will you help me to be a better man? I have been reckless and desperate because of your indifference, but you can save me from myself and keep me in the right path. I am like wax in your hands. Love’s power has no limit.”

She is touched and thrilled by his flattering words and his passionate devotion, but she answers lightly:

“Charlton has often told me, Mr. Essex, not to trust the rhapsodies of a man in love. It is hard for me to believe that my influence would be strong enough to restrain your love of intoxicants.”

“I swear to you, dearest one, that I will give them up altogether if you request me to do it. What is everything else on earth compared to you, my peerless Vivian? Oh, believe what I say, do not listen to Charlton. He is a cynic, and jests at all things. But he knows nothing of love and its miraculous power. Vivian, give me this little hand.”

“It will be the hand without the heart,” she answers, letting it lie listlessly in his.

“I will be content,” he cries, with a ring of triumph in his tone. “Give me but the hand, and trust my devotion to win the tender heart. Is it ‘yes,’ my darling?”

Love from another comes soothingly to the heart when wounded and sore from the sharp pangs of a secret anguish that pride would fain control.

And Vivian’s heart is very sore just now. Max has spurned her repentance, refused to forgive her for her folly. But this man--how true he has been, how he has loved her through all her caprice and waywardness. Her heart gives a little grateful throb, and she does not resist as Earle Essex draws more closely the form so close to his side.

“Mine! all mine!” he exclaims, pressing burning kisses on the listless hand he holds, and Vivian does not say to him nay. In her despair she has made a bold throw for happiness.

Alas! Alas!