Wheeling Sunday register. [volume] (Wheeling, W. Va.) 1882-1934, 1884-02-03
TWICE WOOED.
How a Starving Sculptor Was Saysd
by Wcman's Devotion.

Young man IL a mystery. He IS sculp-
tor, my landlady says-'sculpture' she
calls it. Yet for the year have been
In these apartments I've never set eyes
on him. He glides In and out like
ghost. He excites my curiosity. 1
have 3 good niu6, the next time hear
him pass, to open the door and see what
he Is like"
The thought elected pleasant, musi-
cal laugh from the speaker as, having
arranged her tea. table, she sat down to
the meal alone.
Pauline Maurier was over thirty, and
without relative in the world. She
had inherited from her parents an in
come of $3.50, upon which, by the aid OF
Photographic coloring, she managed to
live comfortably.
The tea made, Pauline ranged the
photographs she had brought home be-
fore her, and began, as she drank her
tea, to consider their style and express
sion. In her heart Pauline was an ar
tist and devote Of art.
A perfect silence reigned inthe pleas
ant sitting room, save for the cheerful
hum of the kettle, when suddenly there
sounded through the apartment q faint
prolonged groan.
"What ever was thst?" calculated
Pauline Maurier, nearly dropping her
cup and sitting erect.
Had it been fancy? No. Listening
distinctly, she heard it again and again,
rs one in mortal sufiering-as of one i'll
unto death-Rnd il came from the room
above.
"Why, it's my neighbOr" cried Paul
inc, starting to her feet.
Then she stood still. The first natural
impulse Of her good heart was to fly to
his help-but English sensitiveness in
teTfered. He was perfect stranger to
her. She hesitated.
"It's no goodw she e1claims, as q
fainter moan reached her. "Our land
lady is out. must 60 or the poor tel
low msy die for want of helpw
to the second landing and knocked.
There was no response except moan
iaInter, fainter yet.
Pauline Maurier was too excited to
stand on etiquette. She tried the ham
die, it yielded, and she opened the
dOOr-Only to recoil half sutfUcated by
the odOr that rushed forth.
The whole was Instantly plain to her.
In q moment 8, had darted in, flung
wide the window, and, seizing 3 water
Jug, dashed il over small brazier, from
which the heavy, sitting fumes arose.
This done, painting, she looked
around. The apartment was studio,
poor in the extreme, but rendered rich
by beautiful statuettes, finished and
half completed, while some were only
conceptions IN Thorough clay.
The wretched room was refined by the
poetry of genius; but where was the ge-
MUS, the seulptor-Pauline Msurier's
y,teriOus neighbOr? AS the mental
question occurred her eyes rested on 8
low couch covered by battered patch
work coverlet. On il WAS extended
man.
The intruder started, hesltated one
second, then, approaching, raised the
lamp she had brought above her head,
so as to throw the light fully on the
figure. 1t was that Of 3 young man,
tall, slightly and gracefully made, with
q handsome, intellectual, refined coun-
teDance-ah! how terribly refined! by
nature, but also by trouble and want (;
the white cheeks were hollow, the small
lips contracted, the delicate eyelids 80
transparent that the pupils conld be
family diseerned beneath; while the
long hair, of 3 SILKY brown, fell weak
and laDk from the white forehead.
II was not at these, however, that
Pauline Maurier looked, but at the
agony, the suffering on the face-the
terrible, almost death like, grip Of the
white, slender fingers.
Was it death?
Trembling, she placed her hand on
the pulse. No; there was q fiutter; there
Was hope.
Rapidly she raised him that the air
from the window might blow upon his
face; afterwards, fetching the water, she
bathed his temples.
Ten minutes, and with o low, quiv-
ering sigh the sculptor's eyes-large,
blue and brilliant from the fever OF hum
his presPrver.
"Where am L." he murmured. "Who
are you?
Then recollection flashed back. Ut
tering q stified cry, he buried his face In
his hands as he exclaimed:
"Oh! why have you recalled my life?
A life rs unfortunate as 1t Is useless"
"Us, lessl The man who, capable OF
executing such beautiful works Ss these"
and Pauline Maurier pointed to the
statuettes-''uses such terms and de-
stroys the soul Heaven has given, conf
mhs double sin against his Creator"
The sculptor looked up in surprise.
The tones were stern, repreachtul,
though the voice was singulsrly sympa-
thetic and sweet.
"Who are you, MADAME he again
asked.
"Your fellow ledger, answered Paul
inc Maurier.
"Ah! the lady who has rooms be-
meath this /" he remarked; then added,
with 8 bitter smile, al thank you, for
your words are flsttering to a sculptor 8
ear. But you are mistaken in blaming
me. Many of these works may be
beautiful; Indeed, have found persons
ever ready to praise, but-not one pur-
chaser. Look, my studio speaks for it.
self; Il Is poor, and my ststuettes re-
main Its sole ornaments. The hand that
fashioned them Is shaking with-yes-
staryationp'
Pauline Maurier averted her gaze
from the wan, white face, so despsiring,
so poetic, for there were tears on the
hollow cheeks which deeply moved
her. She proceeded, however, firmly:
1--WE are apt to accuse the world when
the FAULT lies In our own lack of courage
and energy"
"Yo1 are cruelP he sighed; "you do
notknowm
81 am justp she replied. ''Still, you
are not TO blame; you are 8 sculptor
your brain Is occupied with the poetry
OF your art You are not fit to battle
with the world-EFead it In your face.
Sepsitiyeiy organised, the first repulse
carries you into despair"
He regarded her amazed. Then alb
ruptIy covering his face ejaculated:
aYou speak truly. I have despsired
and starved. 7 cou'd not hawk my
works-the loved children or my brain.
II killed me; preferred death"
aHaye YOU no friendss" asked Paul
i,a Maurier, after . pause.
.Nonei / am q stranger In New YORK.