The Story Teller.

Wairoa Bell, Volume V, Issue 164, 23 September 1892, Page 8

The Story Teller.

A MINIATURE NOVELETTE .

* Then it’s all over between ns, Alicia ! You will return to the happy home of your innocent childhood;' atid I shall become a restless wanderer o’er the face of-the earth—a ship without a helm—a human barque which will eventually wreck itself amongst the quicksands of despair and the merciless rocks of misanthropy !’ And Gustave de Lisle strode passionately to and fro over the wreck of a portion of his once happy home (an overturned table and a complete tea service), while the weeping woman whom he bad sworn to love and cherish gazed sorrowfully into the sun-il-lnmined back yard, as though a bitter contemplation of that limited scenery would disclose a vision of the dark and dismal future. When she spoke her voice had a distant, far-away sound, and the words which oozed from between her white teeth struck coldly on the heart of her angered husband. ‘ Gustave de Lisle,’ she said, slowly and distinctly, 4 you have called me a woman—

you ’ 1 Well, aren’t you a woman ?’ he began. * Don’t interrupt,’ she continued icily. ‘You have dared to express a vulgar opinion that my rendering of the character of Portia in the ‘ Merchant of Venice’ last night reminded you of the attitude of Judy when she calls Punch a brute for throwing their first-born out of the window,’ ‘ Well, I meant ’ ‘ Don’t try excuse yourself, for it’s too late now to heal the cruel wound which nearly rends my beating heart in twain. You even went so far as to say that you had seen a much cleverer delineation of the character by a well-dressed marionette! And then * You threw the clock at me 1’ interrupted De Lisle, excitedly. ‘lf I had not moved tny head quickly, I might have been killed by a four-and-sixpenny timepiece made in Germany ! Really, Alicia, your temper is the most violent I ever ’ ‘ Talk not of my violent temper, base and shameless monster !’ hissed the beautifui Alicia. ‘ Who hurled yonder table into its present ridiculous position? Who threw the over-flowing cream jug at the picturt of my sainted mother, and destroyed th< hallowed sanctity of yonder hearth by covering it with fragments of china bioken ii anger and bitterness of spirit ? Now, marl you —mark you, Gustave de Lisle, I wasl my hands of you forever! The time is no far distant when you will be sorry for thii day’s bitter work—when you will cry ii your utter loneliness, ‘ Come back, com* back! Return to me, oh, my poor woundet dove !’ * What did you call yourself V sneeret De Lisle. But his hysterical wife, unheed ing his sarcasm, continued : • But I shall never return to you—never I shall stop ’ ‘ Short, never to go again, like the clocl which you threw at my head,’ interrupts the-handsome Gustave, pulling his long dark moustache'defiantly, and shrugging hi broad shoulders. Then, taking his hat with a mocking ‘ Adieu !’ he drifted out of the street dooi aud edged away slowly into the desol at and unknown future. Mrs De Lisle swept up the broke crockery, turned the table right-side u again, packed her boxes, and, three liom after her husband had left the threshold, sli walked out into the cold, bard world in a opposite direction to that taken by her de moralised husband. Scarcely had she disappeared round tb street corner before Gustave De Lisle re turned home from the ‘ desolate and un known future’ with a six-guinoa mant under his arm, which he intended to presei as a peace-offering to bis offended spous Alas ! the house was empty and deserte and, with a deeply-drawn sigh, he left tl place once more and/or ever ! Before the sun had set that same nigh Alicia de Lisle returned home from tl < C old, hard world,’ just to meet her erviri husband o»ee again and say good-by positively for the last time on earth. Alas ! she met him not. nor knew’ of b prodigal return, and she could only breati the eternal farewell which her tromblii lips had framed into the unsympathet ears of the sleeping felino on the hearth. Thus two lives, which should have passt happily and peacefully as one, drifted i

sunder, and the deserted villa remained closed for rveeks, inhabited only by the un sympathetic cat and such of his neighbours as he cared to invite indoors to share his fast diminishing store of provisions, # * * Six months hare passed since the stormy and heartrending scenes narrated above took place, and the story re-commonces in a spot many miles distant from the desolate suburban home of the De Lisles. In a sleepy little town in the Eastern counties, the inhabitants are flocking towards the Public Hall to witness an amateur performance oE the well-known classical comedy entitled 1 Pygmalion and Galatea ’ It will he as well to explain, for the benefit of those who have never witnessed this play, that Pygmalion was a celebrated sculptor of Cyprus, who fell in love with a statue of his own making, which Venus had called to life. The gentleman who is to play Pygmalion in this instance is a broad-shouldered, handsome man, with a singularly sad ezpression on his countenance. He has played the part many times in the days gone by, and, strange to say, in this case he has not, up to the time of going on to the stage, met the lady who is about to act the character of Galatea. The performance has been hurriedly got up in order to benefit some pressing local charity, and he is informed that his Galatea is coming all the way from London on purpose to give her services on this occasion, that she knows her part perfectly, and that consequently, there is no need for the customary rehearsals. The first scene represents the beautiful marble statue of Galatea standing on a pedestal, while Pygmalion, chisel m hand, surveys his faultless creation with rapt adadmiration. Punctually at eight o'clock the curtain is jerked up in that uncertain manner peculiar to amateur theatricals, and a powerful limelight is turned upon the beautiful image of Galatea, Pygmalion, attired in the classical manner, then commences ; ‘ Olr that this cold marble could give voice to words of ’ * G ustave—oh, Gustave, is it really you ? Speak—speak to me, or 1 shall fall off my pedestal !’ screams the ‘ cold marble ’ by sterically, waving her ivory arms with altogether premature animation ‘ Jump down into my arms, my own, my long lost Alicia 1’ cries the excited Pygmalion, throwing his cold chisel recklessly amongst the audience, who, thinking that this is all a part of the play, are- delighted with the ..realistic acting. ‘ Why didn’t you come back to me, Gustave ?’ wails the animated' image. ‘ I didn’t know where you were, my own, answers Pygmalion, waltzing around the classical scenery, in a most inconsistent way, while the village band plays -'soft music ’ which sounds like a thunderstorm. ‘ Stop that buzzing ! We can’t heat I each other speak !’ yells the enraptured , Gustave, addressing the enthusiastic loader i of the orchestra, Tire band ceases playing accordingly , with startling abruptness, and the audience i hear Pygmalion howling rapturously : 5 ' Ive forgiven you long ago for throwing that German clock at my head, Alicia, anc i I bought a six guinea mantle' for you ar .> hour after I kicked the table over-’ 3 The audience, thinking that the si? e guinea mantle refers to a passionate regarc 1 for Galatea’s bare shoulders, seem to think - the suggestion a particularly good one and applaud vigorously. b Then the curtain is lowered suddenly by - the astonished stage, manager ; Alicia ant - Gustave wander off the stage together e delirious with the intoxicatiou of an unex t pected reunion : the offended band strikei !. up again louder than ever ; and th< I, audience think they have beheld the open e jng- scene of Pygmalion and Gslalss They are greatly astonished when, a fov i, minutes later, the stage manager announce e that owing to unforseen circumstances, tm g performance cannot pioceed fnr filer ; tha 3, they will all have the money paid for ad mission refunded to them at the door ; ant s that a benevolent gentleman has given e pound note to benefit the charity fo tr Infh fhp ."‘tertaxnment was instituted, o ” So“tytLing * De Lisles returned to their o?."“' aeStir^e ' d home, mutually resolved to bury the pas - with the skeleton of the martyred cat.

.There are now s verai ao utiojiai iJe Lisles ou the scene —-joyful .litsie prattlers who would tell you, if you were to ask them, that pa cud ma had never had a quarrel in all ineir lives. But we know’ better, don’t we ?