The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXXIII, Issue 33, 17 August 1905, Page 23

The Storyteller

He was a great and mighty monarch. His subjects numbered millions, and his palace was the most magnificent since t,he time of Solomon the splendid. Daily he walked through stately corridors, where the floors were of beaten gold, lined on either side with courtiers clad in velvot and silken trappings, who prostrated themselves, faces to the earth, at his approach. His robe was of royal purple and rich ermine • his jewelled crown glistened above Ms brow, and when he waved his sceotre so great was he and so mighty that e\cn his counsellors trembled. Yet he was the wisest and most peaceful king the world had ever known. He would have men at his feet because he was their sovereign— but only to raise them to place them at his royal s>de, to rejoice with them' to sorrow with them, to counsel and advise them He was the conqueror of the world. Not by fear for he abhorred it ; not by trickery nor artifice since before being a king ho was an upright and an honorable man. But by the law of love-t,he universal love-the law God-giACn, ticd-tmposed, nations from near and from far came to him, e a ch after the other yi e ldin«homage, for no\er, in the history of the universe had there been united in one mortal so many graces of presence and of mind. Majestic in his power, lovable in his personality. His words were hung with wisdom as the vines bend under 'the burden of fruition. Ami the people hearkened. When he spoke his phrases were taken up and whispered from one listening courtier to the other, until the whisper grew and the murmur swelled and, in a trice, ?f mighty roar from the echoing hills nro^ claimed the fact that the inhabitants of the earth were repeating his speech, rejoicing at it, blessing him And oh ' the good he did ; and oh ' 'the wonders he accomplished. There was neither sin nor shame— each worked for the other's welfare ; kindness to all was the motive of his schemes. On e\ery side were evidences of his benefit— and the people were glad cf heait and their faces shone with the \ery joy of In ing. ' One thing was to him a great annoyance— and -his one thing perplexed him and disturbed aim— like a 'u»-«i in the flesh it stung, and its pain would not be <\^e'l It was a woman— a beautiful woman, with a white face that looked as if the moonlight were shmm^ from within it, so luminous was iis waxen pallor. And she was always weepine; He saw her \ cry often. And bemc; so tender-hearted, he felt sony for her, and sal, beside her forgetful of his kingly dignity , forgetful, too of the pain she caused him— allow !ng lur to hold his hand m her little fingers Amd at such times she put her arms about him and cried more hitteily than e\ or Aid that was when the pain came, for her tears hurt him. She said she was his^ifc, but that w.as absurd, he told hci gently. She was a beautiful woman— yes, he could see that, looking at her But who had 'e\cr heard of a king marrying beneath his royal station. If she weic indeed the qHieen, why did she not ici^n with him in this his paiJjh.ce, and wear the -robes and the crown of gold •> All this he said to her in the tenderest of tones try in"to show her wherein she erred hut the woiraii would not be convinced. She clung to him still, with sorrowful little sighs, ard he was s lent out of pity for her until she went away.

■ +> MY LADY HOPE

There came a day, however, when she made him angry— ev en he, amd bei l ost patience. He had just heard that morning the reports of his Ministers on the condition of the outljing nro\inces. These had been hitrhlv gratifying, but he was much wearied, and lie had called to his jester to while away an hour or two \t his feet he lay, a misshapen little beinc; indeed, but wiltier f«d wiser in the king's eves than any of lis courtieis There came word, inst at that nuunent , ftbnt the woman craved audience lie rosr> at <-n-e forget tin"- bis fatigue, and went to her, bis iester U llov.nuj;— tbe uclv being; whom the kindly king had taJrn so much pains t 0 Instruct. He rolled into the room and stood before the beautiful n a le wonnan, grimacing And at the strange sigiht of him she cried out and covered her face wi<h her hands The Kino; looking at them both felt tint her emotion was disgust, and in mighty wiath ordered her from his presence.

.She went, b>ut came n^ain For his sake she told him mceUv, she would 1 1 v 1o li] eU o fosterPrank, they called Mm Yes, she would hie him and here was ai bright ribbon she had brought Wnsn,'t it pretty ? And noAv would be not please her also by trying to remember her' Did he not know Kleanor' his Eleanor? And dear old Tallingfora, and the long lane

b,ehind the little church where they used to walk on sum, s/r To s ie w nS as* toia her >* io - d h - s The court physician approached just then. The king Pityingly h^' dS dinglng t0 his arm » tur^ to him ' Poor creature, poor creature ! ' he said. • She 'is S'Ki.^ 110t ? Take her ™*y - she lili? yS h C ' a " , lleid out his arm to the and But the great king felt something wet on his cheek and pMt up his hand to wipe away the tears Andhe To^oTZ qmet Ti melanch « J y all that eveningf "and forgot his grand dreams for his people

tbe worm nf f of no mean attainments in \L I 6I I Se ' thls poor fellow P^yed at mimic king, and wore his gilded, pasteboard crown. The Say came when he finished his l,fe-work- a glorious crettion in marble. He called it 'My Lady Hope?' and it was £ splendid strong-limbed, noble, female figure upon whose face, under the mafiic of his fingers, had grown In el.o t il into this, and the loie of his soul, .too-for he was wedded to a beautiful girl, and he had idol Led n?r When it was finished the critics viewed it, and it was too mighty for them to understand. They lauehed aMt t^nt^ T 5 e7 , ™*««> and tore irioiie'ce tearing his heait also with their bitter words. Startled i^rt-r^ z^t^A he gr h e a i fUI f hdP Y^ S °~ fo ' bG WaS an i^ fl«sne fellow full of spontaneous good nature, which cropped out in spite of his disorder. Visitors, when they passe,, t ,, r d again tQ look , ™n nnoh ] lnq \ nn ] nnt^ t who h5h 5 was. He had a handsome, melancholy dark face and his carriage befitted the royal part ho felt himself called upon to play in the shadowy Li°tt w 7' nYn V ' n ; d Wher6VCr he w^ the misshapen little being, he called his jester rolled after Mm • as hideous in appearance as his master was imposing! The groat head sunk into huge shoulders ; the eyes devoid of intolhponce ; tne hair malted across a low forSd rudZ Cr p aW IreS1 reSt i inffOTl the tongue pro-'. I \r rr ?° P }° sheered when they saw him, poor discard oHshoot of humanity, and some of them, sensitise W Kleanor Satterlee, e;re.\v sack or afraid It would h.-ue fared ill indeed with him had it not heen fo? the derated voun, sculptor The sanatorium was not a P bhc one in situa ,on, and he was kept there througn the doctor's chanty only. Knowing this the attend nnts raid but scant hml loh.m. H ? s friend however howod mfin.to Mildness toward the poor creature who o n /° Wer m hamlS or bra]n ~«o sense 1o direct the ov rrv ra ? er - If s(l11 '^P- those who were hfe n ,f ' be ' ng had lons since Sone out of his Jiff, end if any one wnichsafed him a passing c i ance it *as einious or filled with a^ersl O , n . He had now fee this, happily. His one recognition of th.ngs m - atena was m cud, nee only at the s.ght of food.^aS of ls h0 lie^ r seemed to have sufficient. At meal times the m.nnc kino; placed him at his nn K ht han? and t toMobing to see him lay aside his gilded crovvn E; ci ii!: fmi f h f P«oMittle being who sft" K£ him looking up at him helplessly, but with eves 'of peifect irust. Prixi'e^d isi tors who c Wed £ com! amonej them turned away with tears of pity The vhvsicans, used to sights as curious, pointed to ' this combination as one of the dispensations of Providence There is no hope for the child,' they said 'None tie ir;>n -is h v\y to ncovor his .senses at any mo-ment-or ncu-r It , s one of our s( rankest ' eases ToslStS/ 1W n hi ?i >\™ in * '^atic-ntfor the ,nT f ? f O,nce that happens his death will be but ?otS yl ° r his slceii io ~^ht^ ht ™y an Jus tot:?Lrc i]W **"" ° Xclaimed

No telling what Piank will do without him' the s-eiker would continue 'No h.«nl but his dare' touch h.m-he bears no human voice but his. It will he a good thin- the day Ihe man sees light aflain. We are w^Crcn l^^^ 110^^---^

' How can he bear him-how can he bear him f ' moaned Kleaiior Sattorloo, wringing her hands in agony. He lo\cd beautiful things so, he was so refined, so

gentle always. Oh, when I see this poor creature near him— dear God forgive me the thought ! — it seerns'as if it is he that is keeping him from me.' For five years, buoyed up by her faith and by her •bjelief in the power of prayer, she had trusted implicitly that her loving husband, her other self, might be restored to her— might in time return to her irom the darksome night that obscured his brain. His . statue had outlived the pitiful attempts made to decry it. People drove out of their way to pass the sanatorium Where perchance, a glimpse might be had of the sculptor whose work was now deemed a masterpiece, whom unkindness arad lack of appreciation had driven mad. Week after week the faithful woman visited him, striving to bring back to him the memory of olden days. Month after month rolled by, year after year, and still there was no gleam of reason to tell her that the bond was loosening. Still did he hold his mimic court and wear his mimic crown.

And one day Eleanor Satterlee came to Dr. Morrison. ' I want you to listen to me,' she said simply, looking at him with eyes that were more eloquent than any speech her lips could frame. ' The years— the very best years— of his life are going one by one. And e\'ery day my heart grows heavier and heavier, until it seems as though it pulses but feebly—too feefoly to sustain me. When I think of him I feel ' — the tears were running swiftly down her face — ' \ feel as if I, too, will go mall. Madness would be a blessing, Dr. Morrison, for then I could not rememibler— all.'

Dr. MJorrison looked at her sympathetically

'My plan^-I have one, you see '—with a sorrowful little smile, 'is this. His statue, ours, is still in my possession, I would not part with it. Supposing,' she pleaded swiftly, seeing the growing wonder on his face, 1 supposing that I ha/ye it brought here, set up in your room, and bring him in upon it suddenly. Do you think such <a thing might aid him, might help him to '

Her throat was very dry and her lips grew 'suddenly parched, for he shook his head, averting his eyes not to see the pain on her face.

'It may serve to drive him to the padded cell. My dear mada>m, consider. lie is at peace now ; he has no cares, no troubles ; he may possibly recover in time. Why disturb him, perhaps condemn him to '

' No, no ; do not say it, do not say that word,' she cried, pressing her hands to her heart. ' I beg you, I beseech you, do not say that word to me. God— you do believe in God, don't you ? God wouldn't bfe so cruel to me. 'If — if you knew how— much — ' her voice grew faint and weak — 'if you knew how maich I lo\e him, and how he lo.ved me until that 1 miserable day ! I am so unhappy,' she went on. ' Night and day he is with me, night and day I think of him, dream of him, hope for him, plan for him, la\e him, love him, love him. Oh, Dr. Morrison, be pitiful. Sec, I kneel to you. Let me try to sa\c him ; for it means death to me if I cannot.'

She was at bis feet indeed, her hands clasped across, his knees, her face, luminous in its pallor, raised to his, her blue eyes dark with anguish. The professional man was vanquished. 1 1 is heart was stirred. Suddenly ho saw her as she had beon on that day when she first realised the dreadful truth. I!e remembered her, sorrowful and stricken, but not like this, for her beauty then was young and sweet and fresh, pink and white and delicate, not strained to the mere shadow of a vanishing loveliness, like the white countenance turned up- now to his pitying gaze. He felt that she spoke truth— that present conditions meant death to her.

' Women should be made of sterner stuff,' she went on sobbingly. ' I should be brave and strong, I know, but I cannot. He was all I lived for. At first I was desperate. lam so much alome, Dr. Moirison, and lam not bra\e. Because I seem so at times does not argue that I am, and maybe— maybe if I showed myself the coward that I am really, you would not let me come so often. My heart was wild with its pain. I would throw myself upon my bed, begging God to give me strength to sa"\*c him, or to let me die. It would have been easier to me to die than to struggle. I cannot f lg ht '

' You are the bravest little woman I ever knew,' said Dr. Morrision, softly. The tears were in his kind eyes.

' Just hear me,' she h'egged. ' Just hear me. I have prayed and prayed so. I asked Our Lady 1o have pity, Our Lady, my Mother, the only mother I have over known. I prayed to her as I sal look ing at the statue he had made, the sta-tue- that proved his undoing?. Tt was "My La/iy Hope," he had given it that name, his ideal figure And Our Lady showed m-e then that though all else was (rone I still had hone. Afterwards, when my mind dwelt on the future, the dreadful thoughts that tortured me were driven from me "by the prayer, " Dear Mother, let me hope." And last night

like an inspiration something came to me. Something whispered to me that since through her he had lost all that makes life worth living, through her, by (kit Lady's grace, all would be restored. 1

Her voice thrilled him. He looked down at her, not knowing that the tears that had come into his eyes were thick ujpon his, lashes, for he was not easily moved —he had seen so much misery. ' It shall be even as you desire,' he said to her. 4 It is a venture, but of that you are aware. You abide the consequences ? '

1 I abide the consequences ! ' She sprang to her feet transformed, her eyes glowing. She seized his hand covered it with kisses. ' Oh, I stall succeed, I shall succeed ! I have hope and Our Lady both with me. How can I fail ? '

And while Dr. Morrison felt that he had done an unwise thing now, he excused it to himself on the grounds that for the .past five years he had taken more than a professional inter\.s>t in the case and in the woman. Ho had yielded, true, a»d even realising what'her failure meant to both, he could not say that he regretted doing so. He had seen weeping wives in his day, young and beautiful even as she, some of them. They had come, distraught and anxious, to this tomb of buried and lost amibitions. Unlike this woman, however, they had accepted the inevitable, they became lecomciled. Some of them, indeed, the greater part/were easily consoled, and Dr. Morrison had grown sceptical where woman's grief was concerned. But Eleanor Satterlee, her eyes, shadowed by long watching and sleepless hours, shining out of her moonlight face— well, she was different. She commanded not alone his intense respect, but even Ins regard. She fought for vthis man's reason with desperate resolve. She left after her weekly visit, and the Djhysician knew that she scarcely left her knees until she returned again. That, was chiefly why he consented to the trial, having but a vague idea of what she meant to do or how she meant to do it. And though he told her part of the consequences, he did not, tell her that failure mea^t death to Herbert Satterlee. He was not troubled by the scruples a Catholic practitioner would have in such a case, and mayhap he felt that death would be a merciful thing — how cifU only those who come much in contact with it know.

Ihey set up the glorious statue in the doctor's private parlor, placing it carefully in the alcove, and drawing the red velvet curtains so as to hide it from view. Behind the portieres that led into an inner room the doctor ajid his assistant concealed themselves, in case, the pttnsician told her, of some accident. Dr. Morrison's lips viere set, his brow bent. Now that the trial v/as imminent his heart misgave him— to his surprise he became afraid of her. Not for the blighted mind that knew nothing of -what was coming, but for this frail shadow, buoyefl up by hope and Our Lady. What if she faulofd ? The man was an agnostic, a freethinker, but at that moment bis soul was stirred. ' I shall be tempted to believe in your existence, Mother of Christ, if she succeeds,' he said. Ajad then he smiled. The thing soemed so impossible — that she should succeed.

The mimic king was led into the little parlor alone. His clouded tyrain saw the bare corridors outside transformed into royal naths,'but the rich furnishings of this room struck pleasurably upon his senses. He looked about him with eviident delight. Dr. Morrison, with his keen gaze upon the patient's face, was suddenly startled by a woman's voice, that broke the silence ; a rare contralto, that most beautiful of God's gifts to creation, and it was singing Mattei's ' Non c ver.' How its deep tones throbbed through the room, filling it with speech and sound. The deranged man turned quickly, clasping and unclasping his hands in nor.vous fashion. Then out from behind the curtain she came. She had slipped off her long dark cloak, and was clad in simple white, her beautiful hair thrown carelessly back from her face. The woman's soul was desperate, the emotion that p;a,ve that thrill to her voice was passionate fear, but she was singing as she walked. She looked up to meet her husband's gaze and the song died upon her lips 1 . She ran to him, holding out her hands. ' W/hy, Herbert'! ' she cried. ■' You have not answered me. What is the matter with you ? You arc very strange '

lAm I, siweetheart ?' he asked. ' I did not answer, dear, because, because '

She had siartled his sleeping brain with a vision of herself as she had lieen when he wooed her in the country lanes, when they sang together the songs they both loved. But after that first effort he grew troubled. He nut his hand to his forehead and pushed the hair away. The old blank look settled across his face.

(To be concluded next week.)