The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 15 May 1919, Page 3

The Storyteller

THE WILD BIRDS OF KLLLEEVY Rosa Mulholland. (By arrangement with Messrs. Burns and Oates, London.) (Continued.) wr .. r ' . rfjV A CHAPTER XXII.—GATHER YE ROSES. The signora had, during the late years of ease and peace that had passed over her head, been striving to catch back at the lost purpose of a life, and had tried to gather up with one hand some of the broken threads that youth had spun and time had snapped, with the hope of weaving them into something beautiful that should yet glorify the close of her existence. The spirit of resignation which made her content to stand and wait while others served, which had kept her from feeling her fate intolerable, and at times would rise from her heart in language which startled the listener with its sanctity, and in thoughts which lifted her own feet over too difficult places, this spirit of resignation was not always with her. When it went at intervals, feverish desires made havoc in her eoul, and she dreamed again that hers might be among the hands that are carvers of the corner-stones of the palace of imperishable art. In the room that she had furnished with the- furniture of her old lodging, trying to make it look, in the midst of splendor, like the meagre home in which shehad struggled so long, and where poverty had seemed to baffle her most passionate efforts, she had set up her old easel, stained and worn as it was with the patient labor of many years- — an easel on which had been perfected many a delicate copy of - the old masters, and some lovely bits of original work that had gone forth to the world to be loved and admired; but to make no lasting name for their creator. Upon it had also been angrily destroyed, by the hand of the artist, more than one ambitious effort, begun in a fever of hope that perhaps this, at least, might prove, at its completion, to be one of those works which are the glory of all time. But the moment of completion had never been attained ; the star of hope had set in the feverish brain that conceived such pictures long before the work had approached its maturity, and destruction had followed swiftly on the first foreshadowing of failure. The canvas intended as the groundwork for a structure of imperishable beauty had turned into an instrument of torture for the too presumptuous ’ soul and like one who had invoked an angel and been confronted by a fiend, the half-crazed dreamer had turned and fled from even the memory of the once holy labor of her hands. Grown meek through failure, and persuaded by her higher nature to be satisfied with the perfection of what others had achieved, she had thought to fling herself entirely into the life of another, and for a long time Fanchea’s love, and Fanchea’s future, had been sufficient to absorb the action of all the fire within her. But as the years moved on the old passion revived, and the longing that only death would ever ’ extinguish returned upon her in her more self-forgetting existence, to do battle with the peace that had ' been gradually gaining sway over her soul. The old easel was set forth into the light, and the old frown reappeared on the signora’s brow. Again she refused to believe that it was a demon, this spirit ‘ that whispered to her of a glorious crown of fruition which should yet descend out of the heavens to give signal meaning to her bleak and barren life. “Dear Mamzelle,” said Fan, sorry , to see the , absent, unsatisfied look growing in the eyes"of. her little friend, and the spasm of pain contracting her, furrowed mouth, ' “why do you not, paint the wild flowers as you did last year? You 1 made them • look' living ' things.

and they gave you delight. This new . undertaking is wearing you away.” “I would not work for mere delight, my darling; not for mere pleasure to myself. The greater the work the more exhausting to the mortal frame, no doubt; but there is something here that will excel the mere loveliness of flowers; a message, perhaps, worth giving to mankind. Raphael did not grudge his headaches, or his wakeful nights.” “I cannot imagine that he had either,” said Fanchea, gaily. “I always fancy that genius like his is happy, and gives out its beauties as the birds do their song.” “There has been radiant, seraph-like genius of that order,” said the signora, agitatedly, “but the rule is for the reverse.” “And, dear Mamzelle,” said Fan, laying her warm cheek caressingly on the little woman’s silver head, “is it not better to keep looking happily at Raphael’s Madonna than to sit here sorrowfully, trying to invent a Madonna of one’s own ? One can hardly expect to compete with Raphael. Men do not think of wrestling with the angels.” The signora bowed her head. She could not say, “But I have dreamed that I, too, might be an angel.” The very boldness of the girl’s playful words convinced her that Fan did not guess at the deep .ambition of her . restless heart, for Fan’s was not the finger to probe a wound. And as Hope was still within call, ready to hold the lamp by which she might finish this work, she was able to recover herself, and say, smiling : “You unkind girl. You make little of my picture “No,” said Fan; “your work is always good. It is you, and not I, that are dissatisfied with it. Come out into the sunshine and be happy ! “I cannot at this moment ; but run away, my love, and enjoy the morning. Herr Harfenspieler will be here in the afternoon.” Fan went, with a shadow still lingering on her face, feeling that a cloud had come over her friend which all her tenderness was powerless to remove : but before she had reached the fairyland of the great gardens the reflection of a trouble was gone from her brow, and all her natural joyousness had returned. Despite her love for, and gratitude to, the signora, it was sometimes unconsciously a relief to her to escape from the tragic intensity of the little artist’s manner of dealing with life. “If she would only come out here, and he perfectly happy for one hour thought the girl, her eyes flashing with delight as they roved over the rich banks of color, the prim, trim, brilliant scrolls of bloom, the old grey walls with their green and purple and scarlet draperies, the clusters of ripe roses, from- pale gold to crimson, that stood aloft above the sward, as if they were the picked and choicest jewels to be offered to heaven out of this treasury of sweets; and then rested on the background of sombre, almost blackened foliage, fringed with grey, that gave value to all the warmth of the interior. “If she would only drink in this delicious air,” thought Fan, “without giving it back again in. sighs. If she would but let the exhilaration of it get into her head, and the perfume get into her Heart and stay there! With Raphael in her memory, and her hands full of flowers, might not the artist-soul within her be content? Surely God’s message is in the flowers, too!” Carried away by a passion of joy in the loveliness round her, she gathered a heap of roses, and wove them into a crown for her hat and a girdle for her waist, and thus garlanded she set off on tip-toe of glee across the Park to pay a visit to Nancy and hexchildren. She romped with the children, and shared their meal of bread and milk; when she would leave them, the little ones followed her through the nearest dells and dingles till their mother called them back ; and, glowing with air and exercise, she came dancing and singing homeward through the woods.

■ Her fit of : exuberant ‘ spirits being almost worked off, her eye fell on a mossy tree-trunk that formed an inviting seat, and]; “Now that I am by myself,” thought Fan, “I will sit here and do a bit of thinking.” Sitting there, perfectly still, her thoughts went rapidly back over" her young life ; a period of seven years was rapidly scanned, and then, more slowly, another period of ten. Closing her eyes, she saw “Killeevy” as of old, in the gipsy’s tent, and the “Hymn of the Virgin Triumphant” came softly out of her lips, as if she sang in her sleep. There were the tossing white waves rocking at the feet of the cliffs, there were the faces of the singers lit by the red glow from the turf-fire on the hearth. As she sang her mountainhymn the voices of home began to whisper, and gather strength, and at last made their audible responses in her heart. The hymn finished, she went on singing her thoughts in a sort of plaintive recitative : for this was a habit of thinking which she had never given up. Her Irish was now merely broken Irish, but there was no one to criticise her grammar. “The sea is singing its old song, the white birds are flying, the sun is setting behind the islands. Kevin is coming over the cliffs with Fan in his arms. His eyes are full of a beautiful story, and he is going, to tell it. Oh, Kevin, when will you tell me a story again ? “Kind mother, with the good face, you are standing in the doorway looking out to see them come home. The moon is getting up at the back of the mountain ; it is red and round and bright, like the old copper pan you are so proud of on the wall. The hearth is swept; the firelight is shining on the old copper pan. Supper is made the cakes are baked. Call the children home ! “Where are the children now, mother? Where is your good, kind face? Oh, Kevin, when will you tell me a story again!” The song would have been longer, only the sound of a step startled the singer, who looked round, and no longer saw Killeevy, but beheld very plainly the woods of Sussex, and Captain Wilderspin standing be fore her. “The birds and I ' are lost in astonishment,” he said. “We never heard so doleful a ditty from you before.” “Speak for yourself,” said Fan, shaking her head. “The birds know everything. If they could speak, they would carry many a message for me.” “I do not doubt it. I wish I were in their confidence. But where is the signora this morning?” “The signora is painting a-beautiful picture.” “Is it the picture I asked her for; the portrait of a certain gipsy maiden?” “No,” said Fan, laughing; “it is a much more noble subject. You remember her indignation at that request. The idea of her perpetuating me as a gipsy !” “I particularly want a gipsy for the gallery.” . “To put among the beautiful grandmothers?” “Yes; to put their beauty to shame.” Fan colored a little at the plain-spoken compliment ; but her embarrassment went as quickly as it cam “There is a gipsy in the Academy exhibition this year,” she said. “It is very pretty, and I don't think it is sold.” “It must have one particular face, or I do not want it.” “That is a pity, for the signora is terrible when she makes up her mind.” In the meantime Herr Harfenspieler had arrived at the Castle to give Fan her lesson, and found the signora alone, bending with feverish face over her picture. “At work again, signora,” he said, entering. “A large canvas this time; and, ach himmel\ an ambitious subject also!” ( b The signora winced at the word ambitious. “One is not' necessarily ambitious when one longs to do something great,’;’ she said, pettishly.

“Then you still expect to, do something great?’” “You are severe,, maestro.” If-? “I am honest, fraulein. Raphael, Francia, and their kindred are dead. It is folly for a little woman in the nineteenth century to dream that their mantle has descended on her.” • “Has the fountain of genius, then, been sealed to the world for evermore?” ‘‘Genius is of many hues and textures, signora. There is much beautiful work being done in this day ; yet the genius whose mission it was to bring the smile of Divinity before mankind, that genius is vanished from the earth.” y ‘‘l have prayed over this picture, Herr Harfenspieler.” “And prayer is never lost,” said the musician, drawing his bow across the strings of his violin. “Bub the spirit bloweth where it listeth ; and the answer to your prayer will shine out of the eyes of the next anemones you paint.” “Is the picture such a failure, mein herr?” “It is a handsome woman masquerading as a madonna. There is much of your own grace scattered about the whole, but the heavenly message is wanting in the faces. Look in the mother’s eyes ; she knows as well as we that she is only a pretence.” With a bitter cry the signora seized her brush and blotted out both the faces. The Harfenspieler was a little startled at her vehemence. “I am sorry,” he said, “but perhaps it is for the best. That picture would have tortured you more a month hence than it is torturing you now.” “It is true,” said the poor little artist, weeping. “Let us solace ourselves with music. I will play you one of Mozart’s divine movements. How I have struggled and fretted to rival it! But let us worship only what is true!” He touched the violin and played like one inspired, his dark eyes glowing, his gaze fixed far away, till the signora had sobbed herself into a more peaceful mood. When he ceased, she took up the picture and placed it with its face to the wall. “My friend,” said the Harfenspieler, taking her hand, “forgive me. You and I are so much alike that I deal with you as I deal with myself. Now, let us get to our real- work. Where is the child who is to give voice to our thoughts?” “She went out into the Park two hours ago. She was in too joyous a mood, too full of her young life to sit down here quietly with me.” “Do you often send her rambling about alone?” “Since I have been at yonder painting, yes,” said Mamzelle. “But what then? She loves her liberty, and she will meet no one in the Park, except the children of her friend Nancy, or Captain Wilderspin.” “You have been neglecting your duty, signora.” “What do you mean, mein herr?” “His lordship’s heir is a person of many attractions, signora, and he admires our little girl, as who could help it?” “You fear,” said the signora, turning pale, “that she may become the lady of Wilderspin, instead of the singer who is to give our message to the world. “That is one danger,” said the Harfenspieler. “But even should that be escaped, harm may be done. Our child has a fervent heart, and she must put it all into her music. A broken dream might be a sad disturbance to her career.” “But her heart .is with her people,” gasped the signora, appalled at such a view of things. “We have blotted them out of our memory,” said the Harfenspieler, sadly, “only, it seems, to prepare the way for a more complete frustration of our plans.” “Your imagination runs away with you, mein herr,” said the signora, trembling. “You have sat here, fraulein, impiously trying to steal fire from heaven while you neglected your only dutyendangered the chief hope, the real work of our lives.” “Pardon, maestro, pardon. I whl instantly go in search of her.” • . A • ■ , (To bo continued.)