The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 17 April 1919, Page 3

The Storyteller

THE WILD BIRDS OF KILLEEVY Rosa Mulholland. (By arrangement with Messrs. Burns and Oates, 8 London.) (Continued.) CHAPTER XVIII.— POEM IN THE CURRENT CENTURY. To Kevin's delight Mr. Honeywood returned, and soon made a practice of dropping into the old bookshop occasionally to have a good rummage among the shelves. Being a man of leisure he would often stand, book in hand, talking by the hour to Kevin, to whose face he had taken a fancy from the first, and whose character, as it became gradually unfolded to him, interested him more and more. Full as Mr. Honeywood was of. refinement and information, his companionship was culture and education to the younger man, who laid before him eagerly the thoughts which were called up in his' mind. One morning he came with a peculiar smile on his lip, and opening a book which he had taken away some days before, drew from it some slips of written paper and handed them to Kevin. "Where did this come from?" he asked. "It is mine," said Kevin, blushing and abashed. "I did not know it was there." "Well, I am glad it was there, and I want you to let me keep it for a time. Of course I understand that the poem is your own composition." "It is indeed. Do you really think there is anything in it?" "I think there is a good deal in it," said Mr. Honey wood, folding it and putting it in his pocketbook. It was a ballad, of which the strong, vigorous ring, poetic imagery, and delicate finish, gave promise of future very high work from the mind that had so begun to express itself. The young scribbler had indeed made rapid strides since he had penned his first little song. "Why did you not tell me you did this sort of thing?" said Mr. Honeywood, tapping the' pocketbook. "Cowardice," said Kevin. "I was afraid of being laughed at." "You were not born to be laughed at," said his friend, eyeing him thoughtfully. "Don't say too much," said Kevin, laughing. Don't turn my head." "What! does it turn your head to find you are not laughed at?" "You know the danger of jumping to conclusions." "I do; but you are not in much danger, as you can blush. If you had not blushed I should have snubbed you a little." . "For once I am grateful to my awkward, unmanly habit," said Kevin, coloring again and smiling. "It may be awkward to you; it is not unmanly. Suffer it while it lasts. Not many of our young poets know how to blush; the old ones did in their youth, I doubt not.

Mr. Honeywood did not say any more in praise of the poem, but before he left he invited Kevin to come and spend a few hours with him at his house that evening ; and from that day there was a marked increase of warmth in his manner towards our hero, who soon became a frequent and welcome visitor at the house of his new friend.

Mr. Honeywood rooms were, in some sort, a school for Kevin. Besides a fine library and several portfolios of rare etchings and engravings, they contained a multitude of beautiful and curious objects, the casual notice of. any one of which might at any moment serve to open up springs of information^'for Kevin’s thirsty mind. And the owner of the key of

the fountain, the master of the house with its collect tion, was not slow about inviting his visitor to drink of these pleasant sources of knowledge. The table of Mr. Honey wood's study was always covered with a heap of papers and books. "That makes a great show, does it not?" he said to Kevin. "But it does not mean much. lam a busily idle man, or an idly busy man, whichever you like; I think I am better at criticising other people's work than doing my own. Two or three years ago I began to write a history of poetry, but I have never got further than collecting materials and making notes. There is a good deal that I want to say, but I only jot down my ideas, and the time never seems to come for getting them fitted into their right places. They are all shaken together like a child's toy letters in a box; I am not sure that they will ever spell anything." "But what a pity not to work out your idea," said Kevin, who had been looking over some of the notes. "My dear fellow, I have one advantage above many scribblers of this prolific age, and that is, that I am not haunted by a fear of what the world will lose if I die without enlightening it. If I ever print, it will be a good deal with the feeling of the mischievous boy who s'hies a brickbat across a garden wall, and then ducks to avoid being seen. I shall hit if I can, and run away, and never be heard of : but if from a distance I can see dismay and surprise among the cabbage heads of the world among whom my missile falls, I shall have a reward which I do not deserve." "Then you will be severe on the poets of the present day," said Kevin. "On many of them," said Mr. Honeywood, "especially the wordy weak and the deliberately obscure, and those who put the senses in the place of the soul. But this is a secret. Tell it not in Gath. I would not be laughed at and execrated before my moment comes." Kevin listened half guiltily, flunking of sundry written pages which were as yet his secret. For this was before the finding of the ballad in the book ; and so no wonder he was abashed at finding that this censor of living poets had discovered him. All the more dear, however, was Mr. Honey wood's praise of his ballad for the memory, yet fresh, of this passing conversation. On one particular evening, when he walked into his friend's study, he found Mr. Honeywood waiting him with a look of sly humor oil his face, a look which Kevin had come to like, as the forerunner of somethingpleasant to be said or done. He did not seem in a talkative mood, and after a few words threw a magazine across the table to Kevin, and said :

“Try a little light literature for a change. There is the Current Century .for this month; amuse yourself with it while I smoke a cigar.” Kevin turned over the pages of the periodical, and his friend smoked in silence ; even the very touch and smell of the new-cut leaves gave pleasure to our hero, as he glanced through the various contents with eagerness. So accustomed was he to yellow-paged, musty books that new paper and type were a little luxury in themselves over and above the delight he felt in coming face to face with the latest thought of the intellect of the civilised world. For the Current Century was one of the ablest and most thoughtful publications of the day. Presently in the pleasant stillness an exclamation broke from Kevin.

“Well, what is the matter?” asked Mr. Honeywood. s

,“I am quite amazed. I don’t know what to say. You made them put it in!” For Kevin had found his own- ballad occupying a place of honor 'in the great magazine.

“My dear fellow, do you think the editor of the Current Century , who is a very big man, would be ‘made’ to put anything in ? I showed it to him ; and it is there with his full consent. And, lest I forget, let me give you something which he asked me to convey with his compliments.” And Mr, Honeywood threw an envelope across the table, in which lay a cheque for a sum that seemed like a little fortune to Kevin.

“How does it read asked Mr, Honey wood,with a twinkle of fun in his eyes, and watching the young author gazing up and down the lines of his own poem,, like a child who first sees with amazement its own reflection in a looking-glass. r v ■*“

"Wonderfully well," said Kevin, glowing all over with delight. "I could not have believed it. How shall I ever thank you ••'.* • "By following the advice I shall give you presently. And now do you think you have sufficiently got over the first shock to be quite ready for a second ?" And he laid an open paper before'Kevin, containing a review of the Current Century, and speaking at some length of the ballad in question. "Buckle on your armor of humility," said Mr. Honey wood, "and read what is said here. If it were not for a certain look in your, eye," he added kindly, with a lingering gaze at Kevin's eyes, in which lay reflected at the moment something of "the light that never was on sea or shore," "if it were not for a feeling I have about you, 1 should be afraid for you in the suddenness of this good fortune." - Kevin returned the look of his friend, without fully comprehending what was meant. But the older man was satisfied with the glow of innocent joy and enthusiasm, unclouded by any small self-consciousness, which flushed into his manly face. "The Critic, is a good paper," continued Mr. Honey wood, "and the man who wrote that notice is a sound opinion. Let us read what he says : 'lt gives us surprise to see a ballad from an unknown pen filling so large a space in the Current Century, which generally eschews poetry, and is hard on the poets. Yet we cannot quarrel with the exception it has made. The poem has all the quaintness, picturesqueness, and vigor of Rossetti's best ballads, with the purity of Tennyson, yet we cannot mistake it for the work of any known living poet. There is about it a mark of distinct originality, influenced rather by ancient than modern models. If this remarkable ballad be the production of a young man, we venture to declare that a new poet is rising up amongst us.' " Having read aloud these words, Mr. Honeywood lighted a fresh cigar, and walked away to the mantelpiece, where he stood smoking and observing the young man who was the subject of this praise. Kevin was trembling with agitation ; his face was pale and his eyes moist.- He sat quite quiet, and seemed to have almost forgotten where he was. In reality, he was where strong emotion always carried him : on the island among the sea-gulls with Fanchea. Had her song really begun to flow from his lips ? This was the question which, in some dim shape, arose in his mind. "Well," said Mr. Honeywood at last, "what do you think of it? Or, rather, where have you been?" added he, smiling. "I have been away—at home," said Kevin. "Good ! Let me know when you have quite come back, for I want to talk to you." "I am all here," said Kevin, returning the smile that was given to his simplicity. "I agree with all that is said in the review. Now what I want to say to you is this. Having struck a high note, keep to it. Don't fall in love with your own voice and sing for the pleasure of hearing it. Continue your studies, and be a severe critic of your own work. Do not rush out and cry, 'Here I am; I am the new poet' ; but stay in your quiet corner until the world drags you out. Live as temperately as you have ever done, and never take to stimulating your imagination with wine and writing feverish verses in the small hours of the night." Kevin laughed. "I cannot help laughing; I have so little temptation to such a way of going on." "You don't know what you may be tempted to. There is a great deal in you that has never yet been drawn out. Be on your guard. And now having preached my little sermon, allow me to congratulate you." He removed his cigar, walked up to Kevin, and shook him warmly by the hand.

"You are too good to me," said Kevin. "How am I to thank you for all the interest you take in me?" "My dear fellow, give me your regard. I am an odd chap, and do not take to everyone; but you are a friend after my own heart." Thus the gay, dilettante, and slightly cynical man of the world, as he was called by many, entered into the bonds of friendship with the young peasant poet from an Irish mountain side. One hot evening in July Mr. Honeywood had pushed his writing-table, with its permanent heap of disordered papers away from the window that overlooked the park, and in its place a great china jar, full of fresh roses, stood on the polished floor. With a literary newspaper, his paper-knife, and his cigar, he lay on a'couch waiting; and ordered coffee when Kevin appeared. As the young man came in, he looked at him attentively, noting his gentlemanly appearance, the noble cast of his features, and the air of natural refinement that hung about him. He had observed this refinement of manner grow rapidly upon Kevin during the weeks of their acquaintanceship, had seen how each new store added to his thought and experience, each fresh contact with all that was delicate and beautiful had left a trace upon him. "Kevin," said Mr. Honey wood, abruptly, "you do not mean to stand behind the counter of an old book-shop all your life. What do you mean to do with yourself?" "I do not know," answered Kevin. "At present I have but one idea. There is a purpose in my life which I am bound to fulfil." "To ripen into a scholar and a poet?" "I was not thinking of that," said Kevin. "If such a hope has arisen in me it is since I began my search. lam seeking for a creature whom I love and have lost. This was the reason of my leaving home : it is why I am in London; it was the cause of my meeting with you." "Go on," said Mr. Honevwood. regarding him with much surprise. "At home on our mountain I was. a stupid, heavy boy, whom ordinary people pitied, and my own mother could not call bright or attractive. My father thought me almost a fool. I hated school-books, and there was scarcely a creature I could talk to. Do I tire you, talking so much of myself?" "You interest me greatly." "I was so in love with all that is bright and vivid in life that my own dulness horrified me, and despair would have ruined me, only for the love and faith of a little child. Her mother, in dying, left her to my care but it was the little child who took care of the big lad. She was not a common child ; she had the voice and the spirit of a bird along with her human soul, and even as a baby she filled my mind with thoughts which I never could have dared to express. She opened to me a world in which I lived happily in spite of my natural disadvantages and the contempt of others; and she soothed me into having patience with myself. All this she did with the sweet artlessncss of childhood, though she was quite aware of the power she possessed over me. It was a wonder and joy to her little heart that she could give me beautiful thoughts and make me delightfully happy. So Ave lived together a life no one could comprehend but ourselves, and I know now that under her spell my intellect grew, and my soul expanded within me. I reached manhood, and became every day more conscious of powers that were struggling within me, and more and more I clung to her for sympathy, and light, and inspiration. ' And then I lost her. Gipsies coveted her for her remarkable voice, and stole her from my mother's home while I was absent. After what I have told you, you will understand how my life was warped, my heart broken, my mind clouded without her. Even if my own need of her had not drawn me out into the world to look for her, my promise to her mother, my pity for her own unhappy fate, would have forced me to spend my life in searching for her." His voice broke, and he was silent.

“Why did you not tell me anything of this before?” said Mr. Honey wood. . . - A “Because I had grown ashamed of telling my story so often that I was like a bird with only one note. ' I often wished to tell you, though I fancied you would not, from your position in the world, be likely to be able to help me. I believe I have tracked her to London, and I have been advised to search for her in public places where children singnot the highest places, such as you are accustomed to go to.” Mr. Hoxxeywood walked up and down the room thoughtfully. “Your story affects me very much,” he said, and curiously enough it strikes me as the echo of something I have heard before. It touches upon an incident I have experienced ; something I cannot recall. Well, that does not matter. It will not interfere with the search you are so anxious to continue.” Mr. Honeywood stopped in his walk, and Kevin fixed his eyes on him eagerly. A humorous twinkle came into Mr. Honey wood’s eyes, as ho glanced over his shoulder towards his writing-table. “You see that mass of paper's,” he said. Since you have begun to come here you have never seen them altered in any way ; and yet, you may not believe it, but I do think there is in them the material for a not quite frivolous book. What I have jotted down and scraped together is hardly altogether in vain; but it wants a patient mind and a steady, industrious hand to sift the wheat from the chaff, and put the atoms of usefulness together. That you can do for me, if you choose to undertake the task. Come and live with me and be my secretary, and look on me, not as your master, but your friend.” Some moments passed before Kevin could answer. “I think I must be dreaming,” he said at last. “Surely 3'ou cannot mean it!” My dear fellow, I am not a man of many words, but I always mean what I say. I have had this in my head for some weeks past. I will give you such help on the way as I can. Your mind and heart are alike worthy of the highest culture. Let us seek it together as we go along.” “It is too delightful,” said Kevin; “I am dazzled and bewildered. To live and work with you?” “Don’t lie so sure it will be delightful. I may turn out an old man of the sea, for all you may know. Yet come and try me. Now, is all that arranged?” It was quickly settled. In a short time afterwards Kevin said good-bye to his friends at the old bookshop ; and with many good wishes and rejoicing at his better fortune, loudly and pleasantly expressed by Bessie, he departed with Mr. Honeywood, and turned over a new page in his life.

(To be continued.)