The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 6 March 1919, Page 3

The Storyteller

THE WILD BIRDS OF KILLEEVY Rosa Mulholland. (By arrangement with Messrs. Burns and Oates, London.) CHAPTER XII., LONDON (Continued). The next morning Mr. Must kept shop while Kevin was sent some miles out westward to bring home the “goodish lot” of books purchased at a private sale the day before. The day was clear, and all the wonders of the shops were laid before his dazzled eyes. As he passed out of the teeming thoroughfares and into Piccadilly, with its mansions, he began to take in the magnitude and splendor of Londonmagnificence which is real enough, if prosaic in form, and disappointing in its outward expression to beauty-loving eyes. The sumptuous outlines and jewelled details of the ideal city which his brain had unconsciously pictured to him during the days of his travel melted away and were seen by him no more ; but the great world of London became henceforth for him a solid and familiar fact. As he threaded his way for mile after mile, following the directions he had received, the fear seized on him that two people might seek for each other in and out these mazes of streets for years, and yet never meet. In such walks as his occupation would allow him to take could he hope to be so fortunate as to cross the wandering path of those lonely little feet? The thought struck him like a blow as he stood gazing down one of those myriad streets which the duty of his errand forbade him to explore. “Lost h’anything, young man?” asked a policeman, looking into his troubled face. “Yes,” said Kevin; “how did you know?” (( Knows the look of it,” said the policeman; “been brought.up to the business. How much was there in the purse?” Kevin stared. “Oh— I wasn’t speaking, of money. I am looking for a child.” “Lost to-day, or yesterday?” asked the policeman. Neither, said Kevin. “It’s a long time ago, now, five or six months, and more like five or six years. She was stolen by gipsies in Ireland.” “H’lreland ! That’s a long way off, h’aint it What brought you here to look for her?” I have tracked her to England, and I have reason to think she has escaped from the gipsies and made her way to London. I am here for the purpose of searching for her. Can you tell me how I ought to proceed?”

“What sort of child is she? Little or big, ’andsome or h’ugly ? Gipsies generally picks out the pretty ones.”

“She is ten years old, strikingly pretty, dark hair, grey eyes, slender limbs, and the most remarkable thing about her is her voice. She sings wonderfully, and the gipsies have taught her to dance.” The policeman put his brawny hand on Kevin’s shoulder and looked in his face while he said emphatically: “See here, young man; I’ll tell you where you’ll look for her, if that’s the sort she is. A gel like that’s worth more than her keep to some people. You go round the singing saloons, and the music halls and all the low theaytres in London, You won’t do it in a day, for there’s a deal of such places to be found. If she isn’t making money for some such h’establishment, I don’t know where you’re going to find her. * I’ll make a note of it myself, and you can give me your .h’address and take my number.” “Thank you,” said Kevin, eagerly, who had turned pale and red by turns while listening. “Not at all; it’s all in the way of business. But I think I have put you on the real track. Spangles

13 the word, and spangles isn’t just what a mother would choose for her, is it? I’ve a little gel myself. You’re too young to be her father; but there’s a ’art aching for her somewhere. I’ll be bound:’’ “What do you mean by spangles?” asked Kevin, looking at his new friend anxiously. “You go to the theaytres and you’ll see,” said the policeman, with a grin. “You’re a green one, you are; but green’s not the worst of colors to begin with, as I’ve come to know in the way of business. H’anything more I can do for you?” “No, thank you,” said Kevin; “I will follow your advice.” And uneasy at having lingered so long, he hurried away on his master’s errand, running to make up for the time he had lost. He no longer stopped to stare down each new street he passed, nor hoped to see the child running to meet him at every corner. The bills of the theatres and other places of entertainmnt pasted on blank walla here and there now received most of his attention. In his simplicity he looked for the name “Fanchea,” or “Little Fan,” in the lists of the performers, and longed for the moment to arrive when, having touched his first weekly wages, he should be able to begin his round of all the houses of amusement in London. It was something gained to have marked out a certain line for his search ; and what with the courage this new hope had given him, the excitement of all the novel wonders he had seen, and the illumination from yesterday’s reading still lingering about him and showing the way to paths of further enlightenment, he looked so radiant entering the dark little shop on his return that Mr. Must was quite startled at the sight of him. “Come, now! a walk in London streets has done you good, ’asn’t it?” said the master, looking with involuntary admiration at the young man’s handsome face and well-knit figure. “Yes, sir,” said Kevin, and fell to work with a will among the books he had brought home. > It was some time before he had another opportunity for so long a ramble, and as he had as yet no money, he was obliged to wait patiently before beginning his visits to the theatres at night. He gave himself up to reading in the meantime. At every spare moment of the day he was buried in a book. In the evenings after supper it was a more difficult matter to give his mind to the volume he held in his hand, for Miss Bessie was very fond of conversation, and was jealous of the page that abstracted his thoughts from herself. Books were her abhorrence: all dullness, all unsociableness in the world was due to them. She could just read, write, and cast accounts sufficiently well to enable her to give correct change for a sovereign when she sold a bouquet, and keep her money transactions right with her employer. All learning beyond this she regarded as superfluous, and had a rooted contempt for people who “passed their lives between the covers of a book,” as she expressed it. “It’s dreadful to see you taking to it so young,” she said to Kevin. “You’ll get dried up, and dried up, till your skin will turn like their yellow old pages, and your clothes will hang on you like their leathery old covers with the elbows skuffed ! Look at father there. Don’t he look as if he had been squeezed up on a bookshelf among them till the dust got into the marrow of his. bones? He’s a good old dad, I know. Shouldn’t I pick anybody’s eyes out that said anything else!” added Bessie, turning a sudden gleam of fierceness on her listener. “I am not going to say it,” said Kevin smiling. “But the poring eats him up,” continued Bessie, “ ’till there’s hardly a bit of him left.” . "Do you never like to read yourself?” asked Kevin. J “A nice novel’s all very well when there’s nothing else to do,” said Bessie; “but to my taste talking is better than the best of them. And its awful to see you taking to the poring so young.” But here the appearance of her father’s bald head in the doorway shut up Miss Bessie’s pouting lips. In spite of such terrifying warnings Kevin pursued his studies with increasing ardor. He bought a

lamp, and read in his bedroom half the nights. He began to have the look of a student. Miss Bessie tossed her head when she saw him produce the inevitable book after supper, and bade him a mocking good-night when she departed for an evening’s amusement with her friends. There were frequent little dances, and parties to the play among her acquaintances. “I don’t mind her going when I know the people she’s among,” said Mr. Must. “But she’s rather fond of gadding, is my Bessie.”

CHAPTER XIII.— NEW FRIENDS. Having yielded to her impulse of compassion. Fan’s protectress was seized with a reaction of feeling as the train steamed along, and gazed in dismay at the forlorn little figure sitting opposite in the corner of the carriage. Might not the child be a little lying vagrant trying to escape from people who had meant kindly by her ? Had she herself not been very foolish in allowing the young creature to make this impetuous rush to the great city where every kind of danger must await her ? And what if the child were to insist on clinging to her Truly she had made a pretty morning’s work of it.

She thought of her neat little shop, to which a friend was attending in her absence. How could she introduce this small, dishevelled being into her nice premises? Impossible. She could not do it. She looked again at the little fellow-traveller whose eyes were fixed on the flying landscape outside with wide-awake wonder.

“You are not a little English girl, are you?” "No,” said Fan; "I belong to Killeevy Mountain.”

“That is an Irish place, I suppose?” “Yes. The gipsies stole me away, and brought me to this country. Kevin has been looking for me, I am sure; but the gipsies would never let him find me. That is why I ran away; and, besides, they frightened me.”

“Is Kevin your brother?” “I think he is. Pie was not born my brother, but I think he has grown into it.” "Are your parents dead?” “Yes; all but Kevin’s mother. ’Tis she that will be fretting for me badly. I lived with them, and they are my own people, ever since the angels took my mother.”

Mrs. Wynch looked out of the window. The child’s Irish accent and manner of expressing herself jarred i*pon her prejudice, but the loneliness and simplicity of the little wanderer touched her heart. “What do you intend to do when you come to London "Earn money,” said Fan, "and get back to Killeevy.” “What can you do to earn money?” “I can sing, and I can mend stockings and wash cups and plates.” "Have you ever thought of writing to your friends to come and fetch you?” “Yes; I wrote and had the letter posted. I told him we were always going about, and that he would have to keep trying to meet me.” "If I were to take you to the workhouse and to write to your friends, would you stay there quietly till they fetched you?” "I don’t know what it is, but I would stay anywhere that Kevin would come to.”

Mrs. Wynch looked out of the window again, and made up her mind that she would drive to the workhouse with the child before going to her own home. She would next write to her friends telling them where to find her; v and what more would it be prudent to do? From the child’s lips she wrote down the words: “Killeevy Mountain, Ireland.” It seemed a rather vague address, but Fan could tell no more; and Mrs. Wynch knew little of the geography of Ireland. She would have been still more easy as to the fate of txi© letter she intended to write had she known that Killeevy was merely the local name of one of a group

of mountains which were known to postal authorities by a different designation. ,- t When the train stopped and Mrs, Wynch prepared to • leave the carriage Fan said nothing, but fixed a pair of earnest, questioning eyes upon her. They were not begging eyes, but only seemed to ask eagerly whether she was going to help her further or not. For, once out of her direst difficulty, Fan’s spirit of adventure had returned, and she was ready to accept her position and start upon her solitary way once more. “You come with me,” said Mrs. Wynch; and Fan limped out after her, offering to carry her cloak, and not at all understanding the doubtful look that was cast on her by her benefactress at the request, nor the tightened grasp with which the good woman kept hold of her own property. “I do want a cup of tea so badly,” thought Mrs. Wynch, as she walked along the platform, “and the nearest workhouse is such a way off ! It couldn’t do much harm to take the creature in for an hour or two. I can watch her all the time, and never let her out of my sight.” They got into a cab, and as they travelled through London streets Fan asked timidly, “What is a workhouse?”

Mrs. Wynch’s heart was more tender than she chose to acknowledge to herself, and this question gave her troublesome thoughts. How sad that the little one should ever have her inquiry answered by experience. If she belonged to honest folk she would probably be none the better for her sojourn in such a place. “Do they give people work, and pay them for it?” continued Fan.

“Not exactly,” said Mrs. Wynch; and then, as she looked at the small, anxious specimen of “people” wanting work, the lines of her mouth relaxed, and she added: “But you are coming home with me to have some breakfast first.”

“Am I?” said Fan. “You are good.” And then she dropped back into her corner with a sigh of exhaustion and contentment.

The cab stopped at a small bric-a-brac shop not more than ten minutes’ walk from the street where Mr. Must did his business in old books. A few pieces of old china, brass, jewellery, and bronze stood in the narrow window, and Fan’s eyes were, caught by the twinkle of other beautiful things glimmering out of the twilight within the doorway. Mrs. Wynch groaned interiorly several times as she guided the little untidy waif of humanity across her threshold and, into her cosy sitting-room where the charwoman was preparing her breakfast.

“Mamzelle had to go out, and left me in charge,” began the latter.. “But, lor! ma’am, wherever did you pick up such a h’object as that?”

Poor Pan’s stockings were splashed with mud, and her worn and broken shoes -were hanging off she had on the old ragged frock which the gipsies made her wear when not dressed up for performance, and her curly hair was in a wild tangle round her face. “It’s a long story, Betsy; bring the tea,” said Mrs. Wynch, querulously. “Let her have something to eat first, and then give her a good washing, will you ?” “Not so easy,” grumbled Betsy. “They do kick and scratch when they are not used to it.” “Please may I have the washing first?” asked Fan, when they had reached the kitchen. “Come now, that’s not so bad,” said Betsy; “indeed you shall.” And Fan was literally put under the pump in the wash-house, with many exhortations from, the charwoman not to holler or struggle, for it had got to be done. But Fan was quiet and enjoyed her bath. “It was delightful cried the child, when all was done. “I haven’t had such a wash since they took me And she threw her arms . round the women’s neck and kissed her. “Well, you are pretty behaved for a young tramp

Eke you,” said Betsy, smiling, and began combing the tangled curls on the wet little head. „ / r “But I’m not a tramp,” said Han, “not when I can help it. What would you have done if you had been stolen away from your home when you were a little girl ? I want to earn money, and get back to my people.” “Well, I never!” exclaimed Betsy. “There now! If we had some decent clothes to put you into, you’d look only too good for what’s a waitin’ on you.” Fan sat at the fire wondering what it was that was waiting on her, till the warmth and quiet, and sense of refreshment overpowered her, and she fell from her chair, fast asleep. Then the two women stood over her pityingly, and carried her into the parlor, and laid her on the sofa, to sleep as long as she would. . When she opend her eyes again, it was quite dark, and two figures sat at the fire, in the little room, Mrs. Wynch and another person. While only half awake, Fan heard their voices talking. “You see I am a poor woman,” Mrs. Wynch was saying, “and no one could expect me to support a strange child, even for a month. If I keep her as long as that, I may be expected to keep her altogether. Not but what I agree with all you say about the workhouse. It’s a bad place, if better could bo had ; and she do talk so much about wanting to work.” “Poor thing!” murmured the other voice, a very soft, cooing little voice.

“Still you see, Mamzelle, if these folks of hers in Ireland should never look to her, or if it should be all a liel must say again I can’t undertake to provide for her.”

Here a tinkle from the shop bell called the proprietress away to attend to a customer, and Mamzelle also rose from her chair, and casting a glance at the sofa, quietly left the room. Fan opened her eyes wide, and thought busily over all she had heard. Was this workhouse, then, a bad place, and was she going to be shut up in it? Fan had heard at home about the poorhouse, and she supposed this workhouse must be something like it, only worse. Why should she go to it when she could earn money? Mrs. Wynch had called herself a poor woman, and perhaps this house and shop did not belong to her at all.

“But maybe she would take care of me,” thought Fan, “if I could bring her money, I could sing in the streets, and work for her all the rest of the time.”

The child lay and reflected, and at last a brilliant idea sprang up in her little mind. She rose from the sofa and peeped through the window of the door into the shop. Mrs. Wynch was busy with a gentleman, who was examining a jar. How pretty the lighted shop looked, with all the beautiful things around! Fan opened the other door into the hall, and listened. The house was dark and still. Her own little black cloak hung on a stand in the hall ; she seized it, and threw it over her head. “As it is dark,” she thought, “the people will not notice that I am not gaily dressed.” Then she opened the hall door into the street softly, closed it as quietly, and flew down the street. An hour later Mrs, Wynch, having wound up her business affairs for the evening, came back into the parlor, stepping lightly and wondering to herself, “My, how that tired child do sleep, to be sure!” She came to the sofa, bent over it, and felt for the little girl’s head with her hand. There was no one there. The

creature was gone. “Perhaps Mamzelle has taken her upstairs,” thought the worthy woman, after a moment of surprise, and she mounted the narrow staircase to the first floor, where her friendly lodger was to be found. (To be continued.)