Daily globe. [volume] (St. Paul, Minn.) 1878-1884, 1880-03-14
"Perhaps you may hear those words ere

i uc oOuiStulbS worry CAtldOluiiult NhiSh I'LL
have brought the queen of fashion to the
artists humble studio"
| Maud here!" cried Clarence Suytlam.
''You are dreaming, Clarice!'
| Convince yourself then. cousin. There
is the lady's carriage, and there is the lady
herself" added Clarice, as an elegantly
dressed woman descended from the vehicle
The artists care-worn face grew pale as he
recognized the original of the miniature.
''AIaud at my studiow he muttered;
something strange must have happened!
Leave ME, Clarice-leaye mel" he added,
with nervous impotence; 81 must see her
alone"
The young girl retired silently into an adj
Joining apartment, which was divided from
the artists studio by heavy curtains OF dam
ask.
Clarence Suydam listened to her retreat
ing footsteps, and then, going TO the cur
tains, parted them and looked into the
| apartment within.
1t was empty. His cousin Clarice had
left it by door opposite the curtained arch
wav-a door which led to the other part Of
the house.
can is safe" said Clarence, as he closed
the curtains. I'VE must have no listener
1 scarcely know why, bat there is something
in CLarices manner which inspires me with
fear What terrible hatred she betrays to-
ward the woman I love-"
He was silent, his heart beating violently,
rs he listened to light tootstep upon the
staircase without
| SIT is sher' lie cXclaimed-''it is Maudf'
| The door opened and the original of the
miniature entered the room.
| Miss Ovington was paler than the artist
| himself Her large blue eyes were sur
rounded by purple circles, which told of
sleepless nights, harrassed by anxious
thoughts. The hand which she extended to
| the artist trerlbled as he grasped it in his
own.
'.You here, Maud he exclaimed.
| Yes she answered, Withdrawing her
hand; y come alone, unannounced, at the
risk of my reputation, because life and death
are in the errand."
| Life and death"
'Yes, Clarence, my life Or my death. I
came to demand of you a sacrifice"
"a sacrifce' repeated the artist, trembl-
ing.
which bind u.s.
"Release you, Maud? Never"
"You must, I tell you, Clarence" she
said, her large eyes dilating with glare of
| feverish brightness. Il told you but mo-
ment ago that came upon an errand of life
ard death; spoke the truth when said so.
l can never be your wife,
As Maud Ovington uttered these words
singular change came over the face of the
| artist Until that moment, his gaze had
been fixed, with earnest alteration, upon the
| countenance of the woman he loved, but as
these words were spoken his brow con-
tracted, the light in his eyes slowly faded,
and the lines about his mouth assumed the
rigidity of iron.
1t was as if in that one moment his feel
ings toward Maud Ovington had been trans
formed from love to hate.
II understand you, Miss Ovington," he
said. sit is en- old story. The artist who
painted your portrait and who fell wildly in
love with the original, was, no doubt, anus
ing-tor time. But, ridiculous as the
mans folly has been, you have at last grown
weary of it and come to-day to tell him so. -
Clarence, you are hooking mel"
'Not SO: it is you who have Knocked me-;
it is you who have sported with the heart of
the struggling artist; it is you who have led
him on with dreams Of elysium, and who
now casts him back upon the realities of
hell. Do not fear me, Maud Ovington;
breathed q few brief months ago. Tho wo-
man 1 loved was all truth and constancy,
but I discover to-day that she was but a
creature of the artists fancy-she was never
Maud Ovington. I have read of your in
tended marriage in the Herald, madam. I
know all.
"But you do not know the motives for
that marriage, Clarence"
| 81 do not seek to know them
You do not know that my father is a
ruined man; that this marriage alone can
save me from abject poverty-the most alb
ject, the most terrible poverty-the poverty
of the great, who dare not confess that they
are poor.
Il would have worked for you, Maud"
said the artist, reproachfully.
.sYes, and at best your work would have
given me-breadr answered Miss Ovington,
with bitter laugh. at was a bright
dreams Clarence: do not be angry with me,
if I am the first to awaken from that dream.
You could never have given me wealth and
splendor, and those are as necessary to me
as the air I breathe The General can give
me these, and he can save my father from
ruin; l have therefore accepted him."
$50 be it, madam. And you have come
to bid me farewell. 1 do not complain.
| Outll SOutuCl YOU " yum SuIlinSC.
Not yet Clarence; have favor to ask
of you"
"a favor
eyes In the old, happy time, while our
brief dream pf love lasted, 1 wrote you sew
eral letters letters in which I poured out
my soul TO the man loved. You have them
still?"
Il have them still. Ay, Maud Ovington,
I have kept them as a niser would keep the
rarest jewels from mOnarch's crown.
There are thirteen of those dear letters
thirteen letters filled with VOWS of love and
constancy. which l, poor fool, believed!'
''You must return me those letters, Clar-
ence," said Maud Ovington.
'.Return them! Why, madam"
because General Dumont is a proud
man. When he made me the offer Of his
hand, he extorted from me an oath that 1
Lad never loved before"
''And you took that false oath, Maud
Ovington:'
II did, Clarence; was mad perhaps, but
1 took the oath. Now, listen to me-
Should those letters ever, by any chance,
fall into the hands of the General, all will
be discovered. and he will fling me from
him with scorn and loathing. You must
give me those letters, Clarence, that 1 may
burn them with my own hands"
II comprehend, Miss Ovington. You
IL ~ T II