The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXXIII, Issue 34, 24 August 1905, Page 23

The Storyteller

(Concluded from last week.)

1 My good Woman,' he began. ' iMy good sir ! ' she retorted gaily, and as she spoke she linked her arm in his. ' Let us have a little chat, Sear. You are late to-day ; it is almost time to go toome, and then grandfather will want you td' play dominoes with him, and 1 shan't have a chance to siay another word to you. Let us talk of when you andl shall be married--yes, dear— and of how we shall travel. All through Europe, remember, you have promised me. And you are going to be famous, oh, so fatnouis ! ' She looked up into his face and laughed mtertily, so that Dr. Morrison marvelled at the melody, the sweetness of it. He did not know that in the old days Herbert Satterlee had told her thac her laugh was tfte prettiest he had ever heard. And all the time her heart was praying (' Mother of Christ, give him to me,' she-pleaded. ' Joist this one soul, my Mother ; just this 1 one soul. Mother of the Infant God .Who sat upon y.otir knee,> give me this, give me this ! ) * Famous ! ' her lips were saying, b(lit?hely. ' Oh, what a famous sculptor you will b-e ! You will put me iato marble, won't you, Herbert ? Do you remember the last work you finished : "My Lady Hope ? " Can ydu remember ? ' ' No,' he muttered, ' I cannot remember, Eleanor.' Her heart seemed to stop beaming suddenly. Dr. Morrison leaned forward, a long breath parting his lips, his intent gaze on that pathetic scene. The room swam before her dazzled sight. One moment of weakness now might spoil all, one false word. But she was a woman, therefore she was brave, a woman struggling for more than life.

' You cannot remember ? ' And again she laughed, and again her heart ached with its prayer : ' Oh, Mother Mary, help me now ! ' and her little hand trembled. 4D6 you want to see it, dear ? It is just behind this curtain. It is glorious, Herbert. Let, us look at it together, husband mine.' » v< Where is it ? ' he asked. ' Where is it, Eleanor ? '

He was trembling and his eyes were shining and his breath came in hot gasps. She moved qjuicUy to the alcove, and drew aside the red curtains. The electric light was turned on full, bathing , in its brilliant brightness the maigJnificent figure he had created. The dazzling light after the semi-darkness of the room startled him. He bent forward, fascinated. The marble image seemed to Eleanor's straining sight as if it weie endowed with feeing. Her lips were moving piteously. And the patient, beautiful, sculptured face looked down on the man who" had fashioned it, and on the woman who was fighting for so much. Just a second they stood so, but to tha!t living, loving woman the moment seemed almost like "eternity ; it was a whole century of torture, agony inexpressible, anguish and fear. Then a shout ran through the room. Herbert Satterlee rushed forward, falling on 'his knees at the base of his statue, sobbing like a little child. 'My statue !' he cried. 'My hope— my Lady Hope' Eleanor \ Eleanor ! Where are yiou, Eleanor ? O God, Eleanor, where are you 9 ' She was there, kneeling beside him, clasping his da'rto head to her breast, soothing him as its mother would a frightened infant. Clothed in his right mind sne clasped him to her, and he looked up al her, questioning her in piteous silence. ' You have been ill, sweetheart,' she answered faintly. •■ Very, very ill. But it is all right now, dear ;it is all right now. Here is the doctor coming. Dr. Morrison, my husband is much better. We are going home.'

And oh, the joy, the proud, exultant happiness that looked up at the physician from the woman's eyes ! ' Home ! ' said Herbert Satterlee. 'It seems so lon^ since we were home, Eleanor. Let us go home now.' * Allow me "to accompany you to call a carnage,' said Dr. Morrison, courteously. ' A little wine, perhaps ; you look rather shaky, my dear m-adam.' He smiled, bending gentle eyes upon her. ' You feel better, Mr. Satterlee "> ' 'I am quite well, I thank you,' he returned with fine dignity. 'You will tell me all about it, Eleanor.' ' Yes, 'dear,' she answered. Her heart was singing, throbr-ing, almost bursting with its gratitude and joy. Dr. Morrison, alarmed by the pallor of her face, went swiftly into the inner room, returning almost instantly with the wine.

1 Every drop,' he said, peremptorily, and sheoWfeyW him. Her eyes clung to his face, and he shook his head two or three times reassuringly. ' Everything is well— everything,' he said. ' Very soon, you will not haves long to wait.'

She understood him and smiled happily. They pas* sed out, the doctor preceding them. He had to 'push hard to open the door. The little dwarf had followed is only friend, and now when the door swung" in^ stiur* ted forward with a joyous grunt. Eleanor neard gutteral ' yap, yap ' of pleasure, and her nervous grasp upon her fousb'anld's arm tighter cd. She hurried him- on fast, and he, unconscious, in his newly-regained senses, of the creature who, had been his share, went with her undisturbed. Dr. Morrison laid his strong but not tinkindly hand on the shoulders of the hapless being, and drew him aside.

' Poor little Prank ! ' he said, looking down at him, for his heart was very tender just then. ■' Poor little chap, yoiu have lost your only friend ! ' And in his heart, his somewhat hardened, worldly heart, he said, ' Thank God ! ' But Prank did not understand. He was staring, open-mouthed as usual, after his protector. The cry died on his lips. A blank, puzzled look shut down over his face. He struggled a little to free himself, hut finding the struggle vain, gave up, and watched the form of Herbert Satterlee disappear. When he had gone, Dr. Morrison released him. He fell to the floor, inert and helpless, moaning like a stricken thing wounded to the heart.

' Whatever itjecame of that handsome young sculptor ? ' asked an interested visitor some six months later. ' Did he die ? '

' Indeed, no,' answered Dr. Morrison. He is as sound as ever he was. 'Splendid fedlow, bright as a diamond. We always expected it, more or less, but his wife finally accomplished it. She— well, she is a superb woman.' !

Dr. Morrison was a warm friend of both by this time. It was Eleanor Satterlee's simple trust that led him afterwards to the true faith, but that occurred a good many years subsequently, and it is not within the province of this little tale. He was apt though, ever an,d always, to wax enthusiastic when he spoke of her.

; And the little dwarf, is he still here ? ' went on the questioner.

' No,' said Dr. Morrison, and the pleasant light faded out of his eyes. ' No, ho isn't here. He died a weo'< after the young man left.' ' Died'? ' qmeried the visitor, sympathetically. 'Poor little fellow ! '

' Poor little fellow ! ' echoed the physician.— 'Rosary Magazine.'