LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2251, 20 June 1881, Page 4

LITERATURE.

PIFO’3 REWARD. ( Continued.) The .Tow had to confess himself worsted In the encounter, and soon after his strange customer left the shop with the little Italian lad carrying the case and trotting beside him. ‘ And I thru ht it mesh ho all sailors are so confiding,’ murmured the old Israelite regretfully as he returned to hia dingy den. 4 I have heard it said so. But still,’ and he rubbed his dirty hands gleefully. 4 still, it has not for mo been such a bad bargain. Five shillings I give for that old fiddle two years ago, and now five pounds I pe*l him fer; and then, I have secured a customer from mice ver goot couth; Levi !’ This last reduction seemed to give him almost aa much satisfaction as his bargain—not quite ; for a Jew's pocket is usually his mo;-t sensitive po’nt. and what affects it is in consequence bis primary consideration. Meanwhile tho young sailor, Ned Fordyce by name, aud hia strange companion wont out ouo ■ more into the narrow close street and hot sunshine. Tho little lad broke out into a string of incoherent passionate thanks that seriously discompoped the bluff young sailor, who had nil on Englishman's dislike to tho expression of gratitude on the part of any one benefited by his generosity. ‘Como, come, that will do,’ ho said goodnaturedly, ‘ never mind the Madonna. I don’t suppose she will trouble herself about a irnceleaa individual lika myself.’ The child looked a little awed and surprised. * Not mind the Madonna,’ he thought; ‘well, that could not bo a right thing to say. Truly the Madonna was neglectful sometimes or hard of hearing j for had he not prayed and besought her unceasingly to scud him back to his own dear land again, and was he any nearer going now than when ho had begun the first of these petitions a twelvemonth before. Nevertheless, be did not cease praying, for he had boon roared in that blind ignorant faith which is so hard to shake off, and had the strong poetic reverence for saints and priest that all his nation possess in a greater or less degree. * And now, what will you do with this ?’ asked hia new friend, aa they reached the end of the street. 4 Play on it,’ answered tho lad readily ; • I may make money now, and the padrone will not boat me ao much. This has beautiful music in it, and the other was so old and broken it was no use, and the people used to drive me away when I played in the streets ; and as for mouey, they never gave me any for playiag, only when I sang.’ 4 you poor little chap,’ said Ned Fordyce pityingly. What a life.’ ‘The life I would love In my country,’ said tho child in his eager imperfect Eoglish, • to wander through the fields in the moonlight and play while the stars are shining and the nightingales singing in the thickets. Ah !’ Ha drew a long, deep breath; he knew what ho felt, but he could not express it in this odd and unfamiliar tongue. The young aallor looked down on him with wonder. Tho child waa a mystery to him. That he should desire a piece of wood and four stringo ia preference to toya or something to eat, was In itself a surprise. That he should rhapsodise in thia fashion about it, regardless of hare feet and ragged clothes and scorching sun, was a cause of greater astonishment still. 1 Whore do you live?’ he asked him suddenly. The child mentioned a low street in the neighborhood of Soho, and, to the further Inquiry whether he had any parents, to d all hie pitiful little tale about having been stolen away from hia own country, and brought hero to earn a living for a task-master as pitiless as he was unprincipled. It was a common enough tale in the mouth of rn Italian beggar, but the simple pathos of this child’s delivery touched his warm-hearted acquaintance with a deeper compassion than ho had ever felt before for any friendless, homeless outcast, and there were many such who had experienced tho benefit of hia generous and large-hearted charity. ‘ Will your master allow you to play on that violin ?’ he asked the boy at the conclusion of the tale. Tho child wae long in understanding the meaning of the question, but when ho did a sudden fear flashed into his eyes. 4 1 don’t know,’ he said hesitatingly ; then hia faoe brightened. 'Netta is very good,’ ho added, * and I will pray her to speak to the padrone. He minds her always. ’ * Who le Netta P’ asked his oompanion. The child looked perplexed. •She la with ns—there,’ he said, nodding in the direction of the street he had named, ‘ and she la just Netta ; but she is very good, though sad—always sad; and when aho dances her feet are, oh, so heavy ; bat she says her heart ia heavier still, and I think it must bo,’ he added with a sigh. * Well,' said the young mac, giving him acme loose silver as he spoke, ‘go homo now, and I hope your new treasure will outlive the padrone’s anger, and you will not weary of it very soon. And look here. This is my card ; I live hero, and if yon get Into trouble with your master, just come round aud lot ma know, will you ?’ ‘ The aignor is too good,’ exclaimed tho hoy, raising his great soft eyes to the bronzed and manly face above him ; ‘ I shall never forget him—never ; and may all the saints and the blessed Madonna herself ’ •Oh, yes, I know all that,’ interrupted Ned Fordyce Impatiently ; ‘Never mind the blessings. I have heard them so often, and found the more numerous they are the less of gratitude goes with them. Run along now, and. don’t lose my card. I never make empty promises, and if you waut me you’ll know where to find me. ’ ‘I had a rare lark to-day,’ said young Fordyce as ho sat at dinner with his mother and sisters that evening ; ‘ I met a little Italian beggar boy, and what do you think he was breaking hia heart about?’ ‘ Polonies or maccaroni,’ suggested pretty Edith, the elder of the two girls, ‘Not a bit of it, ’ said her brother, laughing ; ‘ he wanted a fiddle—l beg pardon ; I behave I ought to say a violin. Ho was a rum little chap, but couldn't he play just.' ‘ Did you hear him, then ? What new act of philanthropy have yon been committing ?’ The young man looked a little confused. ‘Noue—at least, not exactly,' ho replied ; ‘ I couldn’t bear to see his poor wistful little face against too window, and so ’ ‘ Oh, yes, I quite understand, Mr Fordyce ; yon took him in and bought him what he wanted. If It had been a twenty guinea affair you would have done just the same You aro just like your poor father. His hand was always in his pocket. I think all the beggars in London knew him.’ ‘ I am sure it ia a good thing Ned does not stay very long when ho ia on shore, ex claimed Edith, ‘ for the nnmber of crossing sweepers, beggar women, blind men, organ grinders, white mice sellers, and dealers tnat flock to this street—well, it’s something quite too dreadful. Ned is as well known an the Prince of Wales, I think.’

‘ What a compliment to an obscure individual like myself,’laughed her brother. ' Well, but what did you do about the boy this morning ?’ asked his younger sister Gertrude.

Ned told his tale in a few words, making so light of the purchase of the violin that none of them imagined it had cost him more than a few shillings. *1 hope, however, you did not tell the child to come here ?’ said his mother as he concluded the story ; 1 wo have quite enough pensioners of yours already.’ ‘Besides, it 1s really not safe,’ put in prudent Edith ; ‘ one hears such dreadful thing now a-days about thieves’ kitchens and the like, and I dare e ay Ned would find all his deaf, lame, aud blind beggars in fall possession of all their faculties and limbs if he only knew where they congregated.’ ‘ Well, what the eye doth not see the heart doth not grieve for,’ laughed Ned, as ho rose from the table to open the door, * and I am suro my poor beggars have never done any harm as yet,’ • But there's no knowing what they may do.’ persisted Edith, pauoing behind the others as they passed out of the dining room; ‘l’m sure when you’re away, Ned, I’m always in terror lest some of those creatures should rob or murder us, or set the h' use on fire. I really am.’ ‘And so lam in the proud position of acting as a safeguard against robhery, murder, and incendiarism, ’ 1-ughod Ned merrily; ‘ what a pity more people don’t know of my valuable properties. I might make quite a fortune by biting myself out every night ; really it would pay bettor than the navy, I Jo believe ; besides—’

* Oh, do be sensible, ’ exclaimed his slate impatiently ; 1 you know very well what I mean. You carry charity too far, and are too indiscriminate in your almsgiving.’ ‘ There spoke a pupil of St. Thcoph.lus,’ nai i Ned mischievously, alluding to a c(t-aii High Church curate o£ that name who was deeply smitten with qmetty Edith. She coloured hotly at the words, but her remonstrance was effectually silenced by them, and she left her brother to his solitary dessert and soothing cigar with an indignmt pity for his blindness that in no way inter fered with the enjoyment of those luxuries His usual evening reverie being solaced thus, and he himself feeling lazily disposed after a long summer’s day outing, it was not to bo wondered at if his thoughts wandered off into a dose, and in a hazy dreamy sort of fashion he found himself weaving strange fancies together and becoming the hero of many curious adventures. Presently he woke with a start and sat upright in his chair, in that very self'evident, wide-awake manner, peculiar to people on whom slumber has stolon unawares in an auspioiocs mom-ant. Was It fancy, or was there really u face peering at him through the window a sallow evil-looking faos with fierce black eyes that glowed through the aomi-darknoaa with covetous and vindictive longing. He sprang to the window in a second. It was a French window opening on to a balcony, and that in turn led by a flight of steps to one of those squares or gardens so often found in Loudon suburban houses. The window was fastened by an ordinary hasp or lock, which did not yield quite freely to hla band With an impatient effort he flung it open at last, but there was no one on the balcony, and all the square solitary and deserted as was usual at that time of the evening. Half angry at his own sudden alarm, ho returned to the room, taking care, however, to shut and bolt securely. * I mustn’t tell my mother or the gills,’ ho said to himself, ‘or they will be more nervous than ever.’

Then, with one aeorjhing look round he left the dining-room and rejoined tbe feminine members of the family in the pretty lamp-lit drawing-room beyond. When he reached the door he paused. Was it only fancy, or was hia dream still haunting him, for floating through the air and up to tho open windows came the plaintive, sorrowful strains of a violin. Impatiently he turned the handle and entered. A group of figures stood at the window over.looking tho street—his mother and sisters, the now üb'qu tons mrate, and a pretty girl frcM next door, who was Gertrude’s bosom friend, and possessed a charming voice and a passion for dancing. ‘ What are you looking at ?’ exclaimed Nod in wonder.

‘Hush!—ls it not beautiful?’ said Gertrude softly, and pretty Ada Singleton held out her hand in silence. Ho took it, and stood by her side looking out over the heads of the group into the quiet lamp-lit street. He could see nothing, though still the soft slow strains floated up, simple as a child's prayer, but sweet with tho passionate sympathy of a loving, longing soul, that poured Into tho music what words were too feeble to declaim. Ned stood quite still ; instinctively he knew who tho player was, and felt that the little fr'endless lid had travelled all those bard stony streets to pay this tribute to his young benefactor. The delicacy of feeling which had prompted this ignorant and untutored child was reoognired aud understood, even as he would have had It understood, and Ned stayed hia sister’i hand as she was about to toss out some coins to the hidden player. ‘ No,’ ho said hastily; ' there some oases where money ia an insalt. I know why this child is here,’

Just as ho spoke a sweet young voice lifted itself up, seeming as if it must find its way straight to heaven, with its rich faraonnding notes. On many a saints’ day the boy had walked in the processions with hundreds of other children, singing what they had been taught to sing, and glad to sing it because the music was beautiful and the salnta would be pleased with their service. At least Pippo bad always felt this, bnt then music was in hia head and heart, and nothing could drive it thence. He sang on now, forgetful of the flinty streets, of hunger, and fasting, and blows ; ho sang on in the passionate gratitude that filled hia heart for this one human being who had had a kind word and look for him to-day when no other had noticed him; who had given him an inexhaustible source of happiness in this long coveted fnstiument, whose strings he touched now and again with a soft and lingering grace that woke them into harmony with his own voice. And as he song he was once more in his own land, and above him beamed tho cloudless blue of on Italian sky, aud he saw glowing waters and dancing waves, and the brightness of the morning sunlight, and the little grassy paths where the river ran by his side rnd He woke from h ; s dream with a start of fear and tho snap of a broken string. A shadow fell across the white moon’it road, and a harrh voice muttered in his own tongue—- * Thou hast sung enough; go, ask for money now.’ The child sank back as from a blow. ‘Oh no,’ he entreated; ‘not money tonight. I gave you the money of the kind stranger, I did bnt come hither to play to him in gratitude. He will understand; ha ia so noble and good and strong, just like the Archangel Michael in the picture on the chapel walls, and ” ‘ Carramba !’ hissed the man fiercely ; I have not asked thee to prate of archangels and chapels, silly fool. Go 1 do what I bid thee, or fifty stripes and no supper on thy ret.ru home.’ {To bf rnntinucd')