The Denison review. [volume] (Denison, Iowa) 1867-current, 1901-05-21
A Hopeless Love.

There was so much incredulous, pas
sionate pain in the mans voice that
even naughty Lenore Glenco turned
little pale; yet other men-proudcr
men-who had conquered fortune and
wrung laurels from the reluctant hand
of fame, had bent as low before her
beauty and her power as did this
struggling artist, this stranger whom
her father had employed to paint her
in all her languid loneliness.
Tomorrow he said once more with
working lips 81 did not know til
did not dream it. Tomorrow
You seem very much surprised.
Herr Grisworld," she said slowly in
chill, musical accents. "Yet / fancy
most of the people who have heard'eS
of me know that on the morrow l be-
come bride. 1 am glad the portrait
is. finished: l could not give another
sitting and wished my father to have
this reminder of me. You have made
of it a marvellous likeness, albeit
trifle flattering. will send my father
to you and now will bid you farewell"
She allowed the velvet to fall and
hide the portrait and with slight in
clination of her stately, sunny head
turned away
But she had not gone half dozen
steps when the young man darted be-
fore her and flung himself on his knees
at her feet, lifting a face as white as
sea foam to the light that came redly =
In from the western window.
cob, do not leave me so! know my
presumption, my madness, but listen:
let me say it once in words-I have
told you in a hundred ways unre-
proved love you'll love your
The eyes of the beautiful girl fairly
flashed. then grew cruelty cold and
hard as blue steel.
"Unreprovedw she said haughtily.
'Do you know why, sir painter? Be
cause we do not reprove what we do
not deign to notice. What madness
has made you forget that l am the
daughter of Baron Glenco the affianc-
ed of the Marquis LIE Noir, while
you-you have been employed by my
father to but paint me, as you have
done? Rise, Herr Griswold, or at least
suffer me to pass"
'Oh, for the love of pity, leave with
me but touch Of your hand-but
single word"' he prayed. 81 know how
true it all is that you have said, but I
am mad-mad! And tomorrow you be-
come bride! Oh, bend to me once.
Lay your hand even on my hair, and /
will forever bless you! l am dying Of
my lover
But the woman before him, held
there by the hands fastened in her vel
vet dress, Gid not soften, did not bend.
Instead slow, angry, naughty color
flushed her fawless face.
'You are mad!" she said coldly,
scornfully, drawing her robes from his
tremulous Lands and erecting her gold.4
EN- head with more than human pride,
II bend to you! l lay my hand III.
yours! Let me again remind you ami
mobiles daughter, and royal blood Isl
in my veins. You have surely forgot
ten that l am not a peasant, to whom
your love would be welcome and your
emotion a compliment"
''Hear me! Say one kindly word to
prove that you are human and can feel
q
one who loved her without hope! Be- ).
cause the same God created us! SpareV
me your scornw he prayed agonizedly.
But she drew beyond the reach of his
outstretched hands, turned in the warm
sunset glow and went, slowly, languid-
ly, proudly, leaving him there alone in
the magnificent light of the dying day
prone, as he had flung himself, face
downward, on the polished oaken foor,3
quivering, shuddering, stricken unto
death almost by the scorn she had
flung from her eyes upon him.
"Has the brush of the artist done
you justice?" asked the marquis fond
ly. NAY, l know it has not! An in
SEPARATION would have to come for that
tile divine inspiration of more than
human love-"
A few moments the lovers paused in
the corridor, hand in hand, whispering
softly Of the life before them, with all
it's glorious promise.
Then, pushing open the heavy door,
which had swung to but an hour before
behind the baron's daughter, they en-
tered the room in which, on its easel;N
under concealing folds of rich, ruby
hued velvet, stood the portrait of Lee
more Glenco.
Was poor Griswold still prone before
it, with his delicate face pressed
against the oaken floor, his sobs still
filling the silence?
No, nor was the portrait now shroud-
ed. With the full, red splendor of the dy-
ing day striking warmly on the can
vas it faced them as they entered
But what vandal hand had so married
the serene and lofty loneliness, so chill
ed and frozen the proud smile on the
crimson lips, SO changed the blue of the
marvellous eyes, until their light was
but cruelty, their azure but cold, steel
like glitter like that which CLEANS upon
the quarry of some merciless lion when
the fangs are in its flesh and the life
is slowly going from it?
Aghast, shocked beyond words, with
a growing horror on his face, the mar
| OuiS 1OoEad fascinated rapallad h,.