LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume IX, Issue 1265, 8 April 1878, Page 3

LITERATURE.

E L EANO .’8 QUES ■ lON. By J. W. *Oh, papa, how lovely I’ exclaimed a young, girlish voice, one evening, as the speaker stood, with him whom she thus addressed, looking down from the height they were ascending upon the lovely Italian scene spread before them. The stage coach at the brow of the hill waited their return, the horses manifesting rheir impatience by pawing the earth, the driver carelessly, lazily ind fferent to all save the few sous he was sure to receive from the English gentleman as a gift at the end of their j mrney. ' 8e«, papa !’ she continued. * There is an artist sketching What woul 1 I not give to be able to transmit this lovely scene to canvas ! Do peep over his shoulder, and see wh it pour he h s chosen,’ ‘ It might be deemed an impertinence, my dear,’ answered the gentleman—a tall, ele gant-looking man of some fifty winters. * We shall have abundant opportune ies to look at the work of itinerant painters, wi hout interrupting this young man at his labors But it is growing dark, and we must pursue our way. Fortunately, our hotel is not a mile distant, and you can return to this point at any other time.’ ‘ My daugher,’ said Mr Ellsworth, entering their parlo-, a few days later, accom panied by a stranger, ‘ I have brought Mr Dinsmore to present t~ you. I find him to be the son of an old friend, so like his father that 1 wonder I have not ere this discovered the relationship,’ A mischievous sparkle rose in Eleanor Ellsworth’s eyes as she raised them in acknowledgment of the introduot on, and discovered the handsome young man bending so courteously before her -nd the ‘itinerant artist’ to be one and the same.

• I have seen Mr Uinsmore before, although myself unseen,’ she sa’d. ‘ i o not be so asmrred on that point, he answered, with the refl u x of Her own merrim> nt in his eyes which the long lashes shadim; them were unable quite to conceal ‘An artist is never so busy at his work never so engr sued with the beauties of an inanimate nature, that he becomes blind to the loveliness it presents in other forms ’ ! t was now her turn to let the idle drop, and half arch the bed-shaped litt’e head, while the tell-tale blood for one moment dyed her cheeks ; but with a half laugh she changed, the conversation,auci when the evening was over, they bade eaoh other a mutual * Good night 5’ they could scarcely realise a {evv hours before they had met as strangers.

In the days which followed the artist seemed to forget hia sketching tour in form ing parties of picture here and there, which he know Mr Ell worth and tie daughter would enjoy; and when they deoja«4_to p o» fflftW be saddeoty Uiffco.

vered that. he, too, had exhausted al ! the points of ii.terest in that s cUou, and gladly acc-pted the invitati m held oat by Air Jfiilsworth to accompany them. At last they reached Rome, the city o dear t > artists and art lovers, whe e it was dec d d they should spend the winter months; and when B<t insmore hal lelecttdhs studio, a d d“t mined to try and forget the pas-iug pTasure-i f the ast few w. ek-> in ea'uest work, suddenly a cream of elysi 'm has 'pe ed before him, in the prop' eitio» made hy Mr Kd'worth teat he should paint his daughter's portrait. The days Bert Din«more spent at his ease* in transmitting this to cacva-r ; the efforts hich he felt so futi'e to make the copy a perfect as the original; the hours when the morning sun strea-< ed in upon them, iu the luxurious ease f Ids studio, t,he hours w en th< y talked together of the past and tne present, lost to all save themselves —passed as iu T eam life Ho r> numb red ?n aft* r days they never spoke of the future It* sealed pag s the* never ventured to ur close, n r look beyond the charm of the m ment, vhich seemed so entirely to engross them both. But. there came a time whan the man’s stronger nature cried out against the drifting of a current which carr ed them he knew not wh ther—when he l*>ng d to feel a safe ha hour awaited them, that they should reach side by s’de—to question what meant that far-off look which oftentimes c ept imo 1 er eyes, or why her - heek paled when s metimes letter-* near ng a for eign post mark we e put into her hand —to ask her if any trouble had entered into h r life, that he should share it—to ple d that, whatever sh uld ' e in tore for either, both might sha eit The picture was nearly finished eie he br ke t*'e silence t.e had impose! upon him seif His secret had lo*.g been known to lus own eart—the fact that unless this gt'l could enter into hir life, the sunshine would depart rom it for ever more. Before he had met her his art had been his all; but he felt now, without her, bis hand would lose its cunning his eye faith in its accuracy, his ambition desert him. It was of all this he had been silently thinking, while he worked, deftly and swifrly, on the raovas, when, suddenly, he found voice, the pencil and brush Ml unheeded, and the quick, passionate wonts escaped almost of themselves from his lips When he first began to speak, she raided herself with an involuntary shudder, a motion half repressed, as though begging him t * desist.

i mt the torrent was too powerful, and had been too long 'epressed, to hope now to escape its mighty away; and so she sank l ack, with ali col r fl*d from her c>'eek—even her lips white, and listened to the very end T hen, wi en he awaited her answer, it came in the question ‘ (s i’. possible you d • not kn w?’ ‘Know? What is there for me to know? Nothin/, Eleanor, which should come between us - nothin/ which should debar you from the promise t > become my wife ?’

‘ othing but the fact that lam already promised to another man,’ she answered, s ill in the same calm, passionless tone ‘ This picture was t be my wedding gift to my father. This winter is the last we are to spend together. In the summer lam to be married.’

For a moment silence fell between them, in which the m«n cou d count every heart throb as it bea I ke a sledge-hammer against his breast.

1 hen, with sudden, o clustering a»tdon, he rose quickly from his seat, and, bending over her, he seized her hands in a grasp of iron, as the question almost hissed from his Ifps- * you dare tell me, looking straight into my eyes, that you I ve this man, wh-> shall, in after days, look upon my w>rk, and praise—perhaps condemn—the artist who has represented bis wife’s loveliness ? Sooner would I tear my canvas into shreds, and send it to the four winds of heaven, than his eyes should dwell upon it! Look at me. Eleanor answer me before heaven - do you love cuio mau : ‘You have no rig‘t to question me,’ she answered ; but this time her v ice had in it a ring of pain, wnichfell on the listener’s ear like music, since it sh wed him that she suffer d ‘He is my promised h sband, ami as such is euti led to my silence and respect ’ ‘ ilence and respect ? These are stranye wprds t • fall fr-m the 1 ps of an ex ec a t bride ! Eleanor, stop ere it is too late. »'aning. have pity on i our own heart ; rif it prove so eold and passionless a thing that you need not lis eu to its throbbing, th n take pity on mine, and do not snatch from it the one thing it craves in this wide ear h ’ ‘ Bert,’ she answi red, and her voice had now in it a and deeper meaning, even though his quick ear stil. de ected the pain, ‘the man whom I have pr mi ed to marry is no longer young. He is good, and noble and true. My fa her is troubled with a disease widen may at a- y ra-mient tr-rmiuate his 1f '. It has made the las years we may sp nd together happi-r to ku ■ « that my future is thus provided for. My consent was tdven of my own free will, ' ever will I retract it! Perhaps— orhaps’—and her v iew trembled almost to a whisper— ‘ had I known y<m earlier, I might have learned to love you.’ ‘ Nay, that lesson has already bee- taught you, late or early as it is (io on in your own strength, Eleanor; but remember, the day will come when your heart will assert itself, and by its suffering, you can in some faint and rem .te degree measure mine i will not, as I threatened destroy your picture, i give it t • you as your wedding gift I trust von will hang it in an honored place, and looking on it daily, remember r- is the image of the woman on whose beauty one man has spent his soul, and who rewarded him by tossing it, a wrecked and stranded thing, upon the sea of life.’

Thiee years later, and Bert insmore returned to his native land Hi- disappoint meat had not brought him tho injury he imagined, for his own strong, better nature had com* to the rescue; and ever before his eyes dwelt the fair beauty of a woman, which, though it existed not for him, at least purified his life- the ring of a voice, full of hidden pain, betraying a secret which showed that she. too, had suffered, and yet had not faltered in the path of ritrht. It was at a brilliant gathe’ing they met again, and in all this lapse of time no word of her had reached him, until her beauty, radiant as of old. burst upon him, and through the crowded room lie wended his wav to her side. ‘ Have yon no word of welcome for an old friend ? May 1 not, as hast, maim that at your hands ?’ Then she raised her eyes and saw him, and he noted how, even yet, he possessed the power to pale her cheek and make tremble the hand she extended him, althoi\gh to an eye less keen no sign could have been detected.

‘ You have not yet me,’ he said, aft r an hour’s converse, ‘by what name 1 am to address} you, aud unconsciously the old one fails from my lips.’ There was uo paleness now. Over cheek, brow, and neck, the rich crimson streamed, as she answered—- ‘ I know no more fitting one, since 5,t is all I have. Heaven’s ways re n<>t ouir ways. ! he man I was to marry neve; lived to welcome my retu n, although in bis will I found myself treated as his wife. The dear father whose death i had taught imstdf u( as inevitable its still living, and gaining suqh. strength that the physicians tlfia-k will ultimately conquer his malady, I b av © much to be thankful for.’ ‘ And I cb, Eleanor, may I not. share your tika.uKsgiving ? Has mt my probation bo n long enough? v"> i l you not end it? VN ill you U"t give me the heart 1 have wailed f> r so long ?’ * CtijU wa t for that which is ours.? Cm we gi; e that which has Jong pas-ed horn om possession V And in her question found