The Storyteller.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXVII, Issue 49, 7 December 1899, Page 23

The Storyteller.

PIPAN'S MOTHER.

Pipan came out on the doorstep, and stood rubbing his eyes at the sun. The bells were ringing for Mass, from two or three towers hard by, and the sun's almost level beams, shining sidewayß upon the cobbles that paved the street, told him the same tale. It was not yet seven o'clock. Inside there the other children were sleeping still, in the little stuffy back room. It was better to be out here, though the breeze was blowing the dust from the loosely laid stones in the street. Pipan sat down on the steps and put up one chubby hand to shade his eyes from the dust cloud. He was a beautiful boy, ' good enough for a priest,' the gossips were wont to say, and they urged Dame Laroque to bespeak him a place in the seminary school when he should be old enough. Pere Anton had influence there. But Dame Laroque's only reply was a toss of the head and a brusque request that the gossips would drive their own pigs to market, and leave her to manage hers. Pipan might have yellow curls and blue eyes, and he might be a fool for all that. Never was such a stupid boy. Seven, and knew naught but his prayers — could not spell out a word in his book. Was that the stuff of which their priests were made ? Whereat the gossips retired, to shake their heads over a woman who could speak so of priest and child. From Daelburg she had come ; and Daelburg was all but over the border of Protestant Germany. And she had small part in Pipan, his fair hair, and heavenly eyes— she, tbe tall, sallow, dark, peasant woman, with her black-haired, Belgian mate. The rest of her flock was nothing to look at ; but Pipan was otherwise cut. Always dreamy and thoughtful, he lived apart from his brothers, at home, at school and at play, and earned, not undeservedly, the nickname of ' Pipan the Dreamer.' The church bells ceased of a sudden, and the silence that followed was filled with the chime from the belfry, announcing that seven bad struck. Pipan was roused from his seat on the doorstep by the foot of Dame Laroque, as she came out, basket on arm, bound for market. Pipan followed her as she passed, and slid his arm through the basket. ' Silly child I I want thee not. Go, play like the rest.' ' I would rather go with thee, maman. Shall we go to Mass on the way ?' 'Is thy head gone daft, Pipan ? At seven on market morning 7' ' 'Twould take but a few minutes, maman. It might be done.' 1 That means thou wouldst go, I suppose. Well, slip into Saint Bavon as we pass. I've naught thou canst help me carry.' The boy's dreamy eyes looked up at the mighty tower they were nearing, with a strange fervour of joy. He pressed the hard, housewifely hand with a kiss, and turned into the shadow of the porch. Dame Laroque looked after him a moment. ' 'Tiß a strange world,' she muttered. ' I half wish I'd not taken him in. But he was a cherub, in truth. And I had no children then — Chut I what's done is past undoing. I've better to do than look for trouble.' She trudged on to the market place. Nearly seven years before, when Dame Laroque was still a dweller in Daelburg, her husband had come across a toddling child, in the street next his own, and had taken him home. The enthusiastic young wife begged to be allowed to keep him. Babutin felt that a search should be made for the baby's parents, but his own relations with the local authorities were not such as to make him anxious for their further acquaintance, and a few half-hearted inquiries resulted in nothing. The same motives which withheld him from the bureau impelled his removal to Evequellines shortly after, and Pipan was received there as his own son. The growing cares of her own brood weakened Dame Laroque's affection for her foster child, and Pipan now stood in an anomalous position in the household that had adopted him. What lay over his past and future was far enough from Pipan's small mind as he toiled up tbe broad flight of steps leading to Saint Bavon's west doors. He entered the church in the wake of a market woman in white frilled cap and long black cloak distended with market baskets. In the width of dim nave and aisles there could be seen the figures of women and men kneeling upon low prie-dieux. The sights which struck a stranger were familiar to Pipan, who stepped up the aisle scarcely regarding them. From babyhood the dim church had been his home and playground. A hundred times he had passed through it on his way from one street to another. Sunday after Sunday had found him among the long rows of well-brushed little boys kneeling painfully through High Mass on their hard, narrow, wooden benches. Day by day he had come to the ohapel where Pere Anton catechised. He had sometimes knelt with maman for a short few prayers by the altar marked Ite ad Mariam, and had puzzled his childish mind repeatedly over the mystery of the Mother of Sorrows. But there was one spot dear to him, and thither this morning he went to the shrine where the great sculptor's ' Mother and Child ' smiled down on the murmuring silence, from its pure white marble throne. Pipan had been well taught. He knelt over his beads a short while ; but, raising his eyes to the object of his prayers, the spell of that beauty caught him. The rosary hung forgotten on his wrist as he gazed in a reverie. There was something, deep hidden away beyond his angelic face, that struggled for expression at the sight of the master's inspiration. Its humanity reached his own, and made him the mouthpiece for the longing of the wcrld about him. Unconsciously he breathed aloud : 1 Mother of mercy 1 day by day My love of thee grows more and more,'

and as he did so a figure brushed softly by him, and a hand was laid for an instant upon his head. As he raised his eyes in some astonishment a beuding- face met his and lightly kissed him. Then it was gone, and a black-robed figure was retreating down the aisle. Pipan thought he must have fancied it ; but he felt the kiss yet on his brow ro freßh he put up his hand as if to touch it. Looking again toward the marble Madonna, he saw new meaning in her attitude, and with a sudden gust of feeling, truer than the monotony of the hymn, he wailed : 1 Mother, mother, love me too 1* The worshippers about him stirred. One startled woman rose and came toward him. But Pipan fled, overwhelmed with confusion at his sacrilege, and certain that his misdemeanor would find a tattler to carry it to Dame Laroque, and then — oh, Bhe never loved him as that Mother did her Child ! She never gave him one caress. All mothers were not so. Some were like the Madonna ; why could he not have such a oae ? Why not go and seek one 1 That woman in black, who kissed him, she had a gentle touch, and the glow of her eyes rested with him still. He would go find her and ask her to be his mother. No one at home would miss him. Batiste might have his porringer and spoon, for the new mother would give him a better. Pipan was out in the street now, and his thoughts took a more practical turn as he marched along, away from Saint Bavon, and away from maman's home. How to find the new mother ? — for such she would prove, he felt sure, with all a ohild's certainly of faith. Women in black were oommon. The market was full of them, but he dared not go there, for maman might see him, and take him back with her. He skirted the busy square, with its crowds of ohafferers, buying and selling the produce of the country, and bent his steps over the uneven stones toward the quieter parts of the town. The chimes were ringing the three-quarters, and the birds twittered in the trees that bordered the street and shaded the houses. A few women sat on the doorsteps, at work on their lace pillows ; but the majority were preparing breakfast within. He saw none there with long black robes. At a corner, to be sure, one stood at a street shrine, replenishing its vase of flowers, but it was not bis new mother. Pipan trudged on sturdily. Suggestions of breakfast came from the open doors on either side, and presently a little girl, in a loose blue pinafore and sabots, waved her wooden spoon from a doorstep, and called to him to sit by her side and share her meal of milk and bread. Pipan was hungry and tired, and the little girl looked kind. He sat down beside her, and they handled the spoon by turns. She laughed prettily, and shook the curls out from under her cap. Pipan laughed too, and they took to feeding each oilier, making mock mouths at the big spoon. When the bowl was empty they fell to talking, and became very friendly. ' What dost thou, so far from home ?' she asked, presently. Pipan left off laughing. ' I look for a new mother, 1 he said. 'And why ? Hast thou lost thine old one !' lOf a truth, I have one, but she loves me not. So I look for another.' ' Funny boy I Children have but one mother. Art thou crazy ? I believe yes. Oh, maman t maman !' «he cried, jumping up and running into the house, ' here is a little boy who says he seeks a new mother. Come see him !' But Pipan had gone, and was away down the street with a very red, serious face. Little girls were such silly things ! He was near the canal, and a boat came gliding in from the country, drawn by two horses. A man in a blue blouse came whistling before them. Pipan sat down upon the grass and awaited his approach. Then he went and walked beside the boatman. ' Good-day, little fellow,' said he, good naturedly. ' Good-day, monsieur,' returned Pipan. ' Hast thou met a woman on the tow path, all in black, with eyes that look at thee ?' The boatman laughed. ' Many a lass I met, but none in black. And as for eyes, it's little they care to use them upon me, I trow. Belike if I were ten years younger, now 'he laughed, and shook his head. 'Is it thy sister thou'rt after, little one ?' ' No, I have no sister. Tt is a new mother.' 1 A new mother. That's something I don't know of. Art thou lost youngf-ter V ' No, I look for a new mother, one that will love me like the mother in the church. Good-day, monsieur.' The boatman stood agape, looking after Pipan, who had turned from him, and was pursuing his way toward the bridge that spanned the canal. On the further bank stood a convent, and through the wide "pen gate Pipan heard the voices of the nuns, singing over their work. He went in, through the walled garden, gay with flowers, and up the steps to the door of the cool, airy laundry. There was a fresh sound of splashing water mingled with the hymn the sisters were singing, as they washed and rinsed and dried and ironed in the spacious room where the crucifix hung on a bare wall. Pipan stood in the doorway, and one or two of the sisterß paused to smile upon him. He did not return their greetings, but scanned each face eagerly. His new mother, with eyes that looked at one, was she here, among these black-garbed women ? One of them stooped to pat his cheek. 1 What is it-, dearie ? Hast thou an errand with any of xa V Pipan raised his eyes to her face, and sighed. ' No,' he said wearily, ' no ; none of you is my new mother.' The nun took bis hand gently, and bent lower. ' What meanest thou, little one ? A new mother 1 Hast thou not one already, on earth ? And does not another await thee in the dear Heaven ?' ' Yes, there, I know. But I would have her now, near me, as thou art near. The Madonna in the churoh smiles, but she is white and cold. My new mother is real, and her kiss ia warm. Oh, I must find her soon,'

He dropped the kind hand, and went out again into the garden. The nun watched him out of the gate, and went back to her work. The melody of the hymn covered the sigh she gave.

Pipan went on in the sun. It was getting hot, and his little legs were weary. Unawares, he approached the heart of the town again, and the chimes sounded more clearly, telling him so. Outside an open church dooi a crowd of beggars were clustered, clamouring alms of the faithful, as they passed in and out. They were a repulsive looking company, but there was a woman's dress here and there among them, and the little seeker pressed into their ranks, passing each with his serious gaze and his strange, single question. Some scowled and pushed him on ; others blessed his innocent face and caressed him. But he shrank from their touch and slipped out and away. No sweet-faced new mother was there. The open church door had no charm for him now. He was faint and weary and sad. Inside would be stony, cold madonnas, perhaps pierced with those terrible swords. He was nearly exhausted and utterly discouraged, and sank down in the shade of ths houses. Tired out, he shut his eyes and sleep visited him. A beggar woman stopped pityingly, and laid a crust in his hand.

'Thou hast need, poor babe, greater than mine,' she said, and went on, unconscious of a golden deed scared to her account, to invent a new lie at the church door to the first devotee coming out.

When Pipan awoke he ate the crust and felt refreshed and stronger. The zest of his search took hold of him once more, and he journeyed away from the afternoon crowd in the busy town, seeking the suburbs again. The new mother was somewhere, ne had seen her, felt her, that morning ; he was sure he would find her soon ; and of welcome he felt surer still. So he trudged on manfully, despite a dizzy head and a tired, travel-stained body. He was almost on the city limits again before the sun gave signs of setting, when in the deserted street through which he was lagging, he spied the brown frock of a friar, and the sandaled feet beneath it. The Church knew everything. Could it tell him this, his desire. He ran, breathless, and caught the tassel of the cord that girded the f riar'B gown. The long-bearded,, head-shaven man looked down on him kindly. 1 Bless thee, son. What wouldst thou with me ? ' he asked, laying a hand on the boy's golden head.

'My mother 1 ' sobbed Pipan, 'my sweet new mother ! She kissed me in the church, and she went, and I look for her everywhere. Find her for me ; lam so tired ! '

The friar was a man of discernment. Asking no questions, he took the boy up in his strong arms, and went quietly on his way, Baying only : 'We will seek her together, my son ' His even, swinging gait soothed the child, and he rested contentedly, until they came within sight of the Beguinage. It stood with open portal, a perpetual welcome to world-weary women who wished to leave the trials of life for a time behind them, and seek peace in good works and quiet thoughts.

It may be here mentioned that this is the house of a religious Order established in many Belgian towns for the reception of women for t°rms of one or more years. The Beguine is required to wear a distinctive dress, keep certain simple rule", and busy herself in works of charity and piety. She is not bound by cloister vows, and may leave the Beguinage on the expiration of her term of residence.

The Friar stopped at the door and set Pipan down, saying . ' Yonder, son, are the women who mother the world for us, Seek thine own among them, I may not enter with thee.'

He passed on, and Pipan stood irresolute in the shadow of the gateway, looking through to the grassy, elm-shaded square, surrounded by white walled cottages, and closed by the Beguinage Church. The sun was setting 1 among the western clouds, and enhanced the calm ot the scene. Its peace sunk deep on hid soul, and, as the Angelus began to ring, he folded his hands as he had beeu taught, and murmured the words of salutation.

Another was murmuring them too. From the rough wooden bench that stood beneath a crucifix set in the gateway, a blackrobed figure arose, and the woman's voice mingled with the child's. At its close Pipan opened his eyes and glanced at her. Then he gave a great glad cry, and sprang into her arms.

' Mother ! ' he shouted joyously 'My new mother, I've found thee. I've found thee. Kiss me again, new mother.' But the new mother's arm trembled, and she would have torn herself away. He followed, struggling, with the sudden, impetuous strength of a child, trampling on her dress, and embracing her boisterously. ' Mother ! My new mother,' he repeated again and again.

The woman wrung her hands free, and fell on her knees. She covered her eye-j and closed her ears. ' Preserve us from baseless visions, and all other wiles of the Evil One,' she prayed breathlessly, while the child's cry pierced through her prayer. His hand plucked at her own, his warm breath was against her face. Half beside herself with terror, she thrust him away and rose, as she saw the form of an aged priest come halting across the green from the church opposite. At sight of the well-known Pc-e Anton, Pipan's reverence loosed his grasp of the woman's gown, and he fell quite beside her. Pere Anton regarded them through his spectacles with mili surprise.

1 What, daughter I ' he said. ' art thou unwi ling to receive one such little one into the Beguinage welcome ? Our little Pipan, a child of grace, can harm none who love innocence.'

' One, oh yes, but not this ! he is too like — he is, as it were, my — Pore Anton, I pray thee, come in. There is much I must tell thee, that I never before could pay.'

In the small, low-browed room of the Beguine, Pipan listened and wondered, his own passion completely subdued before that he saw in his new mother. Such tears, protestation, excitement, confused and alarmed him, and, from cowering at her knees, he shrunk farther and farther away, to the familiar hand of the priest. Where was the mild-faced woman, with pale lips and intense eyes, who had hung over him like a vision that morning 1 This was no

no such apparition, this wild-spoken, dishevelled creature, flushed with weeping, and broken-voiced. The torrent of words she uttered was lost upon him, and it was nob till later that he understood their drift — that this black-robed Beguine, whom he had chosen to take the false maman's place was in truth his own mother, from whom he had waridered that morning in Daelberg so long ago ; that she, trouble falling thick upon her — for her husband sooa after died — sought solace in the Beguinage there, whence she had but recently been transferred to the Evequellines institution. This he learned presently. Now, as she turned upon him and caught him to her breast, it wai for him to be frightened.

'My child,' she criei passionately. 'My own boy, for whom I have mourned all these weary years ! Thou hast long been my angel, my sweet one, and I prayed for thee and thy father Ion? hours in the church each day. And this morning' I looked up, and beheld a vision before me. Thy father's face in thine own. Before I knew it I kissed thee, an I feared thou wouldst haunt me thenceforth — haunt me forever, uiy dear one, the babe that I lost, my child 1 '

She covered bis face with kisses, and held him close. Bat her violence terrified him, and he struggled to be free. She released him and he ran to Pere Anton. Then with woman's wit she beguiled him, and held out her hands to allure him. With a strong effort at control she uttered only gentle words and tender names : Her boy — was it Pipan they called him 1 No wonder he was afraid of such a naughty mother. She would be good, though, now. Would Pipan come to her ?

So she won him by slow degrees, whilst the belfry chimes rang out faintly, proclaiming the hour of seven once more. Pere Anton laid his hands in blessing on the two kneeling: b aside him— on Pipan's yellow head and on his mother's wide, black hood, from out which, as she bent above him, there escaped a long strand of pale golden hair. — Church Progress.