THE STORYTELLER.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume LII, Issue 127, 26 June 1909, Page 3

THE STORYTELLER.

"A SCULPTOR'S ROMANCE."

She drew the simple engagement-rag from her finger and handed it to him. "Of course, I am awfully fond of you, Mervyn," she drawled, "but it was « mistake my ever promising to be your mife. You see, you don't seem to make any headway. A sculptor finds it even harder than an ordinary artist to succeed. You should go abroad, Mervyn - to Italy or some place. There you might become famous, and you could return to England, and the people would lionise you, and then things could he on the old footing between us." She rose now. He took in every detail about her, the proud bearing, the conscious grace, the queenly - poised head and its crown of yellow hair; the very dress she wore —a grey dress —the cluster of crimson roses on her breast. "Good-bye, Mervyn. I can't stay oui any longer. When you have made a great name, you know " He did not wish to hear more, and he wheeled round, with a groan, and flung himself face downwards on the grab's. ' So this was a woman's love, the love

of which the poets sang? He stared vacantly at the ring slkhad given back to him. The rubies gleamed in the sunlight. He recollected how appropriate he had considered the stones, signifying as they did that he would be willing to shed his life-blood *°r ner, , „., -l "Beryl, Beryl," he moaned, "througn you I have lost faith in all woman, 1 and"—he stopped abruptly, his attention arrested by the sound of approaching footsteps. Audrey Messenger, Beryl's little sister, was running to him «agerly. He thrust the ring hastily into his pocket, and endeavored to appear as if nothing unusual had occurred. "Mervyn!" the child exclaimed. "Why, Mervyn,"-after a closer scrutiny, "has Beryl been cross with you?" Instinctively they sauntered into the summer-house; she seated, herself opposite to him, her elbows on the table, her chin, resting on her hands. "I think Beryl likes Mr. Smitliers lately," she continued. "She was telling mother the other night that she did • not fancy, he would live very long. It must foe sad i<V him to have to die soon —must it not?—especially as he is so immensely wealthy. Mervyn, is that the reason Beryl is nice with him—because she is sorry for him having lo die soon? lam sure it must be, for he is horrible—so ugly and old." "Very likely," Mervyn replied, the irtiite suffering of his face increasing. "You are not rich, are you, Mervyn? You are a sculptor, aren't you? You carved me a statuette once, and I showed it to Miss Russell, and she said you were a sculptor, and that Michael Someone was a clever sculptor." "Michaelo Angelo," he suggested, and he could not help smiling. "Yes, Michaelo Angelo; and she told me about another man called Pygmalion. I tried my 'best to remember aim. He did not care for the women of his time, because they were deceitful and wicked, so he made a statue of a very beautiful woman, and imagined she would be very 'flood if she were real. In the end he fell in love with the statue, and the gods let , it come alive, and Pygmalion married ner." She prattled on, he listening interestedly, admiring the perfectly-cut features and the well-formed wrists. Lovely as a child, what would she be as a woman?

AM he thought, bitterly, the probability was she would develop into a heartless coquette, knowing the full power of such wondrous beauty, make men love her, in spite of themselves and sell herself to the highest bidder. "Audrey," he 'broke in, suddenly, "I am going abroad." "You—you are going abroad—oh, Mervyn, don't!" She came over beside him. Her warm, dimpled hand stole into his.

"Statuary is l not appreciated in England. I shall go to Florence." He looked Into her dark eyes. The tenderness he had always noticed as lying dormant there had awakened into keen life. The sweet lips were quivering. She climbed on his knee and wreathed her arms round his neck. He kissed her again and again, feeling somehow not quite so reckless and bard. Then he pushed her gently from him and strode away. She hurried a few paces after him, calling piteously, "Mervyn, Mervyn, don't go; don't leave me." But he paid no heed, and with a sobbing cry she sank, a white heap, on the ground.

Beryl Smithers stood surveying her--self critically in the mirror. "I am. more beautiful than ever," she declared, "and a widow has a fascination about her that is lacking in an unmarried woman. Snrely no man can resist me now!" She caught up her silken skirts and left the apartment. From a room beneath there issued a babel of voices. "We .call him Pygmalion," someone was remarking as she entered, "because ie is, to put it mildly, not exactly a ladies' man, and because he is engaged at present on a statue of a beautiful woman which he assures us will be his best production. It will shortly be finished, so we can judge for ourselves. Perhaps it is his Galatea." < Everyone laughed. |*He came back to England," another *aid, "to study English faces again." "Yon are discussing Mervyn Sinclair?" Beryl asked of the girl next to her. "Yes, your aunt was explaining how famous he had beoome, and how you used to know him years ago." , A sudden silence fell on the company as the butler announced loudly, "Mr. Sinclair." How the people flocked round him. He had been there fully an hour before Beryl could get a chance to talk to him. He was much the same, only cold and indifferent with her, but that would eome right by-and-bye. He could not be cold and indifferent long. The night wore on. Mervyn Sinclair, never a society man, had grown tired of it all. ' He turned eagerly into the library, where he could be quiet for a while. Even here he was not to be aloneV A girl was sitting at the open ' ™fcid-.* v Something in her pose attractt I '•;'■. strangely—the head a trifle tii-.i.w the hands loosely clasped on her knee. _ This was a woman different from the tightly-laced fashion-plate style he was iwont to meet. I The flfirl rose, and as she came forward he started violently. "Are you"— she began; "but I am sure you are Mr. Sinclair. Of course, you have forgotten •nv lam Audrey Messenger." J. ,■> ■ !£. ■ • a m m . Hie season was drawing to a close. I lady Macintyre's reception wag the last I Kg; function. Pygmalion, the woman-1 hater, had evidently a great admiration) for Audrey Messenger, for he was ever] at her side, and this occasion was no exception to the rule. The July night Was stifling, and they were glad to estpe from the glare and crush out '.o n e.balc6ny. sat in silence for aime minutes! The strains of a coon sbng sung to a banjo accompaniment . 'Were wafted to them. Audrey was the first to speak. '"I am anticipating with pleasure seeing your latest statue. I understand it your masterpiece. When is your priyate view?" - "There will be no private view. J have decided not to exhibit it." ..il'Jpb!" and there was a note of <lieiftßppintment in her tones, "you intend ilnquig your light under a bushel." : "If you would come to my studio tomorrow alone I would show it to you." "Alone! lam afraid I could not do that. What would Mrs. Grundy say?" "I,had hoped you were above minding , Mrs.'Grundy. Maybe we had better go

1 But she did not move for a few 111I 11 second? Then she glanced up quickly. s "You are'right," s'hc said. "I do not c mind Mrs. Grundy. I will come." And Mervyn Sinclair reached home ? *■ 'with a marvellous new happiness in his breast. He could not settle to anything \ the next day, but paced the floor of his - etudio in a manner that contrasted j strongly with his usual quiet movemeats. Would she keep her .promise? Ah. why should he doubt? ! " A guttle sympathy warned him she : iras near. Now she was More him. "We "will inspect it at once." he said, as he led the way into a portion of his sanctum curtained off from the rest. 1 It was confronting her, this master- ' frieeto, this work into which he had pnt lis wholesoul. She drew a deep breath. t< It—it—in perfect; but I—that is, oh. y don't think me horribly conceited, but it < resembles me a good deal. What docsi Jt meant" 1 i ' x x ' 'lt means," lie said, "that the sculptor 1 f ><- ■ christened by societv 'Pygmalion,' the I tL t ' maa who had lost faith in all women, J W% j carved a statue. He spent rears at it, talcing for its foundation the childish I WM; ' face of \ndrev Messenger, adding to it, *fy&tj he fancied it would change if she SjSjL'' I'jtew to be a woman, all goodness and | who would scorn to do a mean \ S|llllsiP*fotM The statue was to him just Galatea was to Pygmalion of old,

anil when he saw Audrey Messenger again, a child no longer, he could scarcely believe the evidence of his eyes. He imagined his statue had been miraculously endowed with life. He had discovereu its counterpart in the flesh, and lie has fallen in love with her. Audrey, my darliag, tell me you love me a little,' and he opened his arms.

I'or answer, she nestled into tlieii shelter, and allowed him to kiss her cheeks, her lips, and her hair.

It was late that night when Beryl Smithers received the ;iews of Audrey's engagement to Jlervyn Sinclair.

"I trust you will be happy, Audrey/' she managed to murmur, calmly. But when she had dismissed her maid, and locked her door, her passion wa6 terrible to behold.

The roseate hues of the early dawn had spread over the sky ia the East ere she regained her composure. "Well," *she murmured at length, "the man must be mad to choose a raw schoolgirl Audrey, who is so odd -- when he might have had a brilliant society belle like me. Oh, yes, he mu3t be mad—stark, staring mad."—"ldeas."