LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 1882, 5 March 1880, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE STONEMASON’S TRIUMPH. ( Concluded .) 4 Oh, Lady Tipton, will yon allow the carriage to be stopped ? I wish to get out; we have just passed a friend of mine.’ 4 My dear, we passed no one but a workman with a white blouse.’

* That is he, my friend.’ * Oh, you know, we cannot really spare yon on his account,’ said the agreeable Sir Somebody. 4 That is as Miss Vane pleases,’ said Lady Tipton, coldly. ‘ I do wish it,’ Miss Vane cried energetically, her face flushing and blanching alternately.

‘ Be good enough to tell the driver at once,’ said Lady Tipten to the agreeable Sir Somebody, in a tone of undisguised disgust. *lt is not far to Tipton woods. I will follow quite soon, and I shall be able to explain my reason.’ Lady Tipton bowed very coldly, and presently Miss Vane found herself in the road alone. There was not a sign of the mason. Probably he had trudged on, and was half a mile distant by this time. Miss Vane was faint with excitement, and regretted the course she had taken. Her second mistake was orly less pardonable than the first. She tried to run and catch a glimpse of the felt hat. She reached the stile in the hedge where he stood, and still saw nothing of him. Her boots were not made for running purposes ; they hurt her feet terribly, and this pain and her distress fairly overcoming her, she sat upon the top of the stile, and putting her hands upon the top bar, her face in them, she burst into tears. No one was likely to hear her, and she indulged her grief to the full, sobbing bitterly. * What is the matter, my child V said a soft, soothing voice at her ear. She looked up hastily. On the grass before her were a felt hat, a basket of tools, a stone bottle, and a pipe ; over her bent the beautiful, tender face of the mason. 4 What is the matter ?

* I—l was ashamed to acknowledge you sitting there with my proud friends until we had passed yon, and then I was ashamed of myself, and so I wonld get out to toll you of my fault, and say—how—how—do_ yon do ; but I didn’t want to go to tho picnic indeed I did not.

Anyone must have smiled who had a heart loss sympathetic than the mason’s ; to him this matter had the greatest, the most pathetic significance. She held out her little hand ; he took it, and held it very gently in his own. 4 It is good to go to picnics with friends of our own social standing,’ he said, still holding her hand ; 1 it is good to enjoy all that life offers ns, that we may accept without injury to others. And I have no claim upon your recognition which might not fairlj be waived on such an occasion. And perhaps it will be better for both of ns if we forget a’l about our five minutes’ chat, for I am only a mason, and people might be very hard upon me, and think unkindly of me if I took advantage of a mere accident to claim acquaintance with a young lady of your position. I’ll be bound Mr Chipstone would turn me away, and then where am I to get bread and cheese, hey?’ * I will never forget the cathedral. Every word you said has been the text for a sermon to me.’

4 I don’t like sermons,’ said the mason, wishing to break up a conversation leading he feared whither.

‘ I do, and you think me weak and silly, and—and a child. But lam trying hard to think, and be true to myself; to be a woman and good, and an artist. ’ She looked full into his face, with such a yearning in her eyes that he, in wondering admiration, could only look upon her in silence. As he looked, a smile began to dawn about her lips, and the yearning of her eyes was mingled with adoration. He looked away from her with an effort, and laid her hand down, asking—--4 A re you going after your party ?’ 4 Oh, no. I cannot. Will you take me to the village ?’ 4 Yes—the nearer way is across these fields. Do you mind my smoking ?’ She shook her head. He helped her over the stile, and taking up his possessions was careful to distribute them upon both hands, and so they walked along, these incongruous two.

The mason made observations upon tho surrounding landscape, and smoked the whole way. Tho lady spoke little, but serene enjoyment of the past moment was in her heart, and she forgot all her troubles, even to the boots that pinched her feet, When they came to the end of the lane that abuts upon the village green, he stopped, and in a light tone said—’Now I must runaway to my work.’ ’Good-bye,’she said, looking in his face to read if his lightness of heart was real, 4 Good afternoon.’ 4 Yon said “good-bye” last time.’ 4 Then good-bye now.’ She lingered. 4 1 wish you would try to think of me as a woman.’ 4 We are to try and forget.’ 4 ls that easy ? Where do you find forgetfulness ?’ 4 In art,’ ho replied, looking with compassion upon the pained sweet face. Then they parted. Months passed away, and Ml's Vane did not meet the mason.

She saw him onoa at a distance leaving the cathedral with the congregation, and again within the bnilding one Sunday, seated In a distant seat, bnt in each a position as to command a view of her profile. She was snro he was sketching her, bnt her religions sentiment was not greatly shocked. She worked hard, bnt did not find forgetfnlness in art; rather each new endeavor seemed to bring him closer to her heart. She did not—she could not—conceal from herself that her feeling for him was love. That love was the keener because of its hopelessness. He was no simple artisan in feeling or education, she knew, and that was sufficient, he being poor, to keep them asunder, Ha oonld not offer her a home, and would not accept one from her—oven if he loved her. She was grown wise enough to know that a marriage of that kind was not possible. Near'y a year had gone before she knew more of him, and then through Mrs Champ’s kindly offices. * I’ve j,.)t a pleasant surprise for yon. Miss Vane,’ said the good woman, entering the young lady’s studio one morning Mrs Champ was dressed in her Sunday clothes, and was radiant with excitement.

‘ What is it ?’ asked Miss Vane, care' lessly.

‘ Well, miss, that’s my secret, and you shall find out by yonr own eyes if you’ll come along with me.’ ‘Yon are very mysterious, and my curiosity is roused to its utmost intensity, I assure you ; but really I cannot leave my work jnst now.' Mrs Champ’s countenance was overcast at once, and she said remontratively—- * Don’t say that, Miss Vane. The chance won’t occur again, and I am certain you will be delighted beyond all expectation if yon come with me. It won’t take yon half an hour, and I shall be that disappointed if you don’t take advantage of the opportunity as I can’t tell you. Now do come,’ Miss Vane looked at the verger’s wife in amused perplexity. ‘ Will it give you pleasure if I accept your invitation V ‘ Indeed it will, miss, and me not more an’ yon,’ ‘ Then I will leave my work for one hour —bnt mind, not more.’ Then Miss Vane put on her walking.rfress, and tried to console herself for her loss of time by the thought that she was pleasing tk ’ el j In the quietest pari of the old town, Mrs Champ led the young lady to a small cottage, where at the door they were received by a second old lady, who appeared not less excited than Mrs Champ. ‘ I thought you were never coming,’ said she, * and I’m afraid every moment he’ll return, thongh he said he wouldn’t be back until midnight. This way, miss, if yon please.’ She took a bundle of keys from a shelf, and preceding them, with much stealth led the way through a trim little garden to a wooden building with a glazed roof. _ She opened the door and admitted her visitors. Miss Vane looked aronnd her, saw plaster casta hanging upon the walls ; a box of wet clay stood on one side ; easels and modelling stools stood here and there. Before her was a block, some five or six feet in height, covered with a sheet.

Mra Champ brought a stool and bade her sit down, adding: Now, miss, open yonr eyes, and yon shall see something that will surprise you out of yonr senses almost. It did me.’

Then she gave the signal to her friend, who slowly drew the sheet away from the object before her, and Miss Vane's eyes rested on her own portrait in pure white marble. She saw herself as he had seen her, with adoration in her tearful eyes, and the sweet features moulded with tender yet intense earnestness, ißut as yet who had seen her so ; her thought, quick as it was to apprehend good of him she loved, had not yet time to credit him with so lovely a work. She sat in silent wonder, choking with the emotion a vision of her own love created.

* And who do you think cut it out V asked Mrs Champ, enjoying the scene, and prepared for a yet greater event. She shook her head.

‘ Why, the man—the mason. Goad Gbd, she’s fainting 1 Come, come, my pretty pretty 1* • I am quite strong,’ she said presently. Then she tottered over to the marble, and kiseed the work of his hands, and dropped her heart’s tears upon his name cut at her feet. But the romance does not'end here, John Ford’s work was in the Academy Exhibition of 18 —, and was deservedly recognised as the finest piece of sculpture, the purest work of art exhibited that year. The sculptor, asked to put a price upon it, declined. ‘I do sot wish to sell it,’ he said. ‘lt is customary to fix a price,’ said the agent charged with its delivery, * Put a prohibitive price upon it, if you like.’ * Very well, if it is necessary—say ten thousand pounds.’ That price was entered in the book that lies upon the table. On the second day of the exhibition he received a letter telling him that his statute was sold. He let the paper drop from his bands with a groan. ‘Curse the money,’ he said. ‘lt has robbed Pygmalion of his Galatea.’ But suddenly he sprang to his feet, animated with an idea that had never before entered his unbusinesslike head.

1 Ten thousand pounds 1’ he cried. ‘ Why, I am a rich man now, and this divine money shall turn my Galatea from cold marble to flesh and blood and a human soul. O, my God, Thou art good!’ Then in his sculptor’s blouse, with the white clay still in the quick of his nails, he ran to the house where Miss Vane dwelt, and, unannounced, walked into her presence. Seeing him she grew pale, for his iac« was marked with strong agitation. Words failed him. Holding her hand closely within his own, he gasped—‘lam a rich man now. I need no longer break stone for my subsistence. I can afford to be an artist. But I cannot live without you. I carved a figure that to me was a dead love : but they have taken it away from me, and I am alone in the world, with nothing to feast my hungering soul upon. Will yon take compassion upon me ? Do you love me ? Will yon be my wife V Like a swallow with a quick short cry of delight, she flew into his arms, and her eager lips sought the long-loved face. ‘ Sour wife! Oh yes, yes, yes !’ After a while she said—‘Nothing can now separate ns, my love.' ‘ Nothing in earth.’ ‘And you will not on any account retract ?’ * .Retract 1’

»Yon do not know how small my dowry is ; I have not half the fortune I had when you were poor.’ ‘ Thank God !’

‘ Bat suppose I had more than ever I poseossed before —more than the richest prince on earth can boast of—would yon retract then ?’ ‘No.’

* I bind you to that solemn promise.’ And then he learned that she had bought his statue.