Beggars May Sing

by Sara Seale

  Gina went and knocked on her brother's door. It was unlike Sebastian to keep up a quarrel all this time. She got no answer and knocked again.

  "Do let me in, Sebastian darling. Don't sulk. You never do," she begged, and rattled the handle. It turned in her hand, and the door opened quite easily. It wasn't locked at all, and the room was empty.

  Gina went in. She began to feel frightened and looked wildly round the room. Foolscap was scattered over a small desk, and across one of the sheets was hastily scrawled:

  "To anyone it may concern. I'm sick of you all and I've hooked it. No one need worry, as I'm sure no one will have work waiting for me.

  "SEBASTIAN GALE."

  Gina snatched up the paper and rushed down the stairs crying: "Julie, Julie!"

  "He's gone!" she said tragically, as her stepmother came into the hall. "He's chucked everything. I felt it might happen. Oh, Julie!" She began to cry.

  CHAPTER VII

  I

  JULIE took Sebastian's message and read it carefully. "The young fool!" she exclaimed furiously.

  "What's to be done?" sobbed Gina.

  "There's nothing can be done," Julie answered curtly.

  "He must be brought back. We can't let Mark down like this. We must find him."

  "How on earth can we? He tells us nothing, you see. We have no idea where he is."

  "I have," said Gina, her tears ceasing promptly. "He's gone to that filthy swine Doyle. Sebastian always said he'd find him work if he wanted. That's where he is. He's with Doyle."

  "It looks like it," admitted Julie slowly.

  "I'm sure of it. There's no one else he knows in England outside this place. I'll go up and fetch him back tomorrow. It's too late now."

  "But where would you look?"

  "I've only got to go to the Grand Hotel and get Doyle's address. The band's playing there."

  "I don't altogether like it, Gina. I think I ought to come with you—or send Mark," Julie said doubtfully.

  "No, Julie, that wouldn't do. I'd reason with him far better by myself. And you mustn't send Mark. He'd be hopeless. Besides, we might be able to work it without him knowing anything about it. Let me go, Julie. I'll get him back, I swear it."

  "All right. But straight there and back, Gina, and if you get into any difficulties ring up Mark. I feel I really ought to do that anyhow, but I don't want to worry him if you think you can manage alone."

  Gina went up to London early after breakfast the next morning. Julie gave her some money and drove her to the station. "Do your best, Gina," she said. "Make him listen to you. He will, I think. He doesn't really know what he wants."

  Arrived in London, she went straight to the Grand Hotel, but here she received her first check. None of the private addresses of Bud Brown's "boys" were known to the management, and the band was playing in Manchester this week.

  "Manchester!" exclaimed Gina in dismay. "How do I get there?"

  The manager looked at her a little oddly. "You go from Euston, madam. There's a train about midday if it's really urgent, but—" he said a little doubtfully. This young lady certainly didn't look like a possession of any of the "boys," though of course you never could tell.

  "It's very urgent," said Gina firmly, and inquired the way to Euston.

  She arrived in Manchester about the middle of the afternoon, and went straight to the hotel where she had been told the band was engaged.

  "I want to speak to Mr. Fred Doyle," she told a waiter, when at last she could find someone to pay any attention to her. She waited a long time, then the man returned to say there was no Mr. Fred Doyle in the band.

  Check again. "But there must be," she said desperately. "He's the vocalist. He was with them not long ago. Let me speak to one of them, then."

  The man went off reluctantly, and appeared after the next dance with a willowy young man with hair like patent-leather.

  "You want Doyle, do you?" he said, ogling Gina un-pleasantly. "Didn't he tell you he was leaving us? Naughty boy! He left last week." He dusted his sleeve with a mauve handkerchief, and wafted a strong perfume to Gina's nostrils as he did so.

  "Can you give me his present address?" she asked a little stiffly.

  He shrugged his shoulders, and looked at her with his head on one side. "Oh, that wouldn't be fair," he said, smiling odiously.

  At that moment the band began to play Paupers' Parade, and Gina said in exasperated tones, "I'm not in the least interested in Mr. Doyle, but I'm trying to find my brother, who wrote this tune, and I think he may be with him. Now will you tell me?"

  "Oh, you're the young Gale's sister," the young man said with a change of tone. "I thought you were the dame Freddie was trying to shake off. I'm afraid I can't help you much. Freddie's gone back to Ireland. Went yesterday."

  "Ireland!" said Gina in dismay. "Oh, lord! You don't happen to know if my brother went with him?"

  "I think he very likely did. Freddie had been saying for a long time they expected to combine a job. He was a great believer in your brother's ability. That little number's been a rare success."

  "Yes, but do you know?'

  "Well—Freddie's contract finished last week and he told one of the boys yesterday that a friend had suddenly turned up and they'd decided to go back to their own country and find work there."

  "I see. Thank you very much. I m sorry to have kept you," said Gina, white-faced, and left the hotel.

  She had just enough money to buy a ticket back to London, and sat back in her carriage wondering what on earth she should do now. She decided after thinking out several wildly impossible schemes, that the only thing left to do, was to see Mark immediately she arrived and demand the fare to Ireland. It never crossed her mind that he would scarcely allow her to go chasing all that way alone after Sebastian, and if she hadn't run out of money, she wouldn't have dreamed of asking his advice.

  It was after seven when she arrived at Euston, and she rushed into a public call-box and rung up Mark's chambers.

  "I'm sorry, but Mr. Proctor left about ten minutes ago. No, madam, I have no idea where he is going."

  Another call, this time to Mark's flat.

  "I'm sorry, but Mr. Proctor is not expected in till late. No, madam, I have no idea where he might be."

  Gina stood outside the call-box and thought furiously. It had become desperately important to her to fetch Sebastian back without further delay. She had crossed the Irish Sea enough times to think nothing of dashing off to Ireland by herself in search of her brother, and the only difficulty was money. However, since money had always been lacking in the Gale family and the want of it had never yet stood in their way, Gina firmly believed that if she thought long enough the problem would solve itself.

  She marched down the Euston Road and into a grimy-looking pawn-shop.

  "What'll you give me on these?" she asked, laying upon the counter Mark's jade necklace, and an old-fashioned brooch of her mother's which she happened to be wearing.

  The man glanced at the things and wiped a drop off the end of his nose with his cuff. "What d'you want?" he said inevitably.

  "Ten pounds," said Gina, because she believed ten to be lucky.

  He gave a dry guffaw. "My dear young lady! Ten pounds? For beads!"

  "They're jade and cost much more than that," said Gina sharply. "Besides, there's the brooch."

  "Poof! Topaz and brown diamonds. Give you thirty bob."

  "Thirty shillings!" she cried with horror, and the colour flamed in her face. "Am I giving you me beads and me brooch? Will I make you a present of me hat and me coat as well? Ah, come on, now. I only want me fare to Ireland, so that I can see me poor brother before he goes, God rest his sowl. Would ye let the poor boy die with no word of his little sister, who he's been callin' and cryin' for this long week past, and me with me purse stole from me this day and not a friend in the world to go to?"

  She stopped for breath, and the shabby little pawnbroker, peering open-mouthed at her over his spectacles, slowly made out a ti
cket and paid ten dirty pound notes over the counter without another word.

  "Thanks," said Gina, and dived out of the shop.

  She caught the boat-train to Holyhead, and, realizing suddenly that she h'ad eaten nothing most of the day, bought a sausage-roll and an apple on the platform.

  It was cold on the boat, and she went below and curled thankfully in a bunk, rolling herself tightly into her blanket. It was fairly rough, 'and had she not been so exhausted with her day's adventuring, she would certainly have been very ill. As it was she slept solidly, if uneasily until the stewardess woke her. She went up on deck, her clothes creased and crumpled from the night, for she had slept in everything but her cap and shoes. A thick grey mist completely hid the houses of Dunleary, and she pulled her hat down over her ears and shivered. The boat pulled into the pier, the gangways slid across with a rattle, and Irish voices argued musically on all sides.

  Gina's spirits began to soar. This was Ireland. This was her own land again, these were her own people. Why hadn't she realized that she was coming home? Or had that thought been at the back of her mind all the time? She couldn't say. But here she was treading the dirt and litter of Irish cobbles once more, here were Irish voices and Irish faces; England was behind her, she was home.

  She stood so long on the quay, sniffing the familiar indescribable smells, that she nearly missed the slow little train into Dublin. She sat joyously bolt upright on the hard wooden seat of the second-class compartment, and watched for each familiar landmark. In Dublin she drank a large cup of coffee at the buffet, then boarded a tram which would take her within walking distance of the Doyles' house, where she and Sebastian had stayed a night on their way home last Easter.

  At last the end of the journey. Gina knocked excitedly on the Doyles' front door, which was opened by Fred himself.

  "Holy mother, if it isn't Miss Gina!" he exclaimed.

  "Is Sebastian here?" asked Gina quickly, almost glad to see the young man's freckled face again.

  "Faith, he is not!" was the unexpected answer. "That villain has no responsibility on him. He spent one night with us, and went off with a play-acting lot to travel."

  "What!" cried Gina, almost ready to cry. The glory went out of the day, and she would have wept on Doyle's shoulder without the slightest distaste, had he not pulled her into their little dining-room, where the family was still at breakfast, and sat her down hastily beside his mother.

  "Wait now, before you start bawlin'," he said hurriedly. "Mother, you remember Miss Gina Gale? Here she's travelled all night from England to find her brother, and he only laving us yesterday, and isn't it the great shame? Give her some tay now an' she'll be 'alright in a minute."

  They fussed over her, delighted to welcome her among them, and she was made to eat a huge breakfast and drink three cups of almost black tea. While she ate, Doyle told her all he knew about Sebastian, who, on the boat, had apparently struck up an acquaintance with the manager of a small company of Irish players who made a living by performing in the little-known country villages. He had offered to take on Sebastian, who, wildly attracted by the proposal, had thrown up all idea of working on his music in combination with Doyle, and had gone off with the company yesterday. In each event, Gina had been one day too late.

  "What'll I do now?" she said despondently.

  "You'll catch him at Ballyskillen if you go today, They're playing there tonight," Doyle said consolingly. "It's only a couple of hours' journey. I think you were right, Miss Gina. He might as soon be at his buks as over here. He'll give his mind to nothing."

  She came to Ballyskillen in time to be for ever captivated by its wild charm. The sun was just about to slip behind the blue quiet hills, and in its rosy light the village lay touched with fire. The white walls of the cabins glowed with colour, and beyond, the pools of peaty water at the foot of the hills were aflame like little jewels.

  Gina, walking in a dim enchantment down the village street, met Sebastian coming up, a yellow muffler round his neck, and magic in his eyes.

  "It's so beautiful," said Gina, as though she had met him half 'an hour ago, and he replied: "You must see it from over here," and taking her hand, ran with her down the street, into the squelching boggy turf, and up a steep little rise in the ground.

  They stood side by side in silence, watching the changing light, until the sun sank altogether behind the hills, leaving a sad veil over the land, a little wind ruffled the coarse strong grass at their feet, and Gina shivered.

  "Let's go back," Sebastian said, flinging an arm across her shoulders. "How marvellous to see you here, Ginny. Just the one person I was wanting to complete the fun. I knew you wouldn't be able to stick it without me. What great times we're going to have."

  "But, Sebastian, I haven't run away. I've come to fetch you back," Gina faltered.

  He threw his head back and gave a great shout of laughter. "Take me back!" he cried derisively. "From Ireland—from this new gorgeous life? Never!"

  "You must come. I promised—I've come all this way to fetch you—you can't let Mark down like this."

  But even the mention of Mark couldn't make him cross. "Don't bother to argue, darling, it'll make no difference. Tomorrow you won't want to leave yourself. We can't ever go back now," he laughed, and there was a queer unreal air about the whole adventure that made it already seem impossible to return. There was no arguing with Sebastian here. There was indeed a feeling of enchantment creeping over her own will which made her reluctant to discuss the thing at all.

  He took her to the little tin hall where a rehearsal was In progress, and introduced her to the company, who, in the fashion of their kind, accepted her promptly as one of themselves, and took it for granted she would stop with them.

  "There are always small parts you can fill," the manager told her kindly. "We will be glad to have you."

  She sat in the body of the hall watching the rehearsal, and presently it was Sebastian's cue, and he went up on to the shaky platform which did duty for a stage, and left her alone. Quietly she slipped out into the street, and found the post-office. This was all going to be very much more difficult than she had anticipated, not less so because she longed above all else to throw in her lot with these people and be free of England and her other life. After all, wouldn't that solve the problem of their existence as far as Mark was concerned?

  She sent a wire to Julie, saying where they were, and asking for more money, since at present it was not possible for either of them to return home, Gina's supply being almost exhausted. It was not until she signed her name that she realized this was the first intimation Julie would have received as to what had happened to her since she had left the Barn House yesterday morning. Was it only yesterday morning? It already seemed a lifetime ago, and Gina had a swift vision of the anxious twenty-four hours Julie must have passed through, waiting for news. She 'added "Don't worry all well" to the message, and pushed it across the counter. The company were playing in Bailyskillen for another three days, so if Julie wired the money, she reflected, they could return the day they all packed up for the next village.

  She was suddenly very tired, and her head began to ache, and, snatching off her hat with a great relief that her journeyings were at last over, she went back to the rehearsal.

  II

  It was the last day of the company's stay in Ballyskillen. Tonight they would give their last performance, and to-morrow they would pack up and move on. Everyone experienced regret, and there was not one of them who would not have gladly stayed another week, so enchanting was the place, so kindly the people.

  Gina, perched on the wall outside the tin hall, was sit-ting in her favourite attitude—arms hugging her chest, chin thrust forward, and her forehead creased in a frown. She sat, staring out to the hills, which lay dark in shadow before the sunset touched them. It was the same hour in the afternoon when she had arrived in Ballyskillen, and there was going to be the same flaming sky.

  Gina sat and thought, kicking idly at the stones
. No money had come from Julie, only a curt wire from Mark which said: "Stay where you are until you hear again." Well, that was ridiculous, she reflected with a certain, amount of satisfaction. You couldn't stay where you were and support yourself without money, and so there was only one thing to be done. They must move on with the company.

  Gina, looking up the village street, casually observed a man come out of the post-office and walk towards her. She stared at him for several moments, automatically noticing that his hat never came out of Ireland. The fact that he was limping slightly made her think of Mark, and, once he was in her mind, she realized with a faint sense of shock that this same man was, in fact, he.

  She never moved, and before he recognized her she had time to see how very tired he looked. Tired and rather sad, as he limped towards her, and she felt her throat contract sharply. He saw her then, and stood quite still, observing her. She seemed subtly to have changed, though in what way he didn't know. She looked at home, part of her surroundings, and when she spoke, even her voice was different.

  "Hullo, Mark," she said with the soft intonation of her country.

  "Hallo, Gina," was all he could think of to reply, and at that moment Sebastian came out of the hall, where a last rehearsal was in progress, and seeing Mark, said with every expression of alarm and disgust:

  "Teacher! By all that's damnable!" The atmosphere changed abruptly, and Mark turned on Sebastian with all the evidence of his old manner.

  "You young fool! Do you think you can behave like this whenever you feel inclined?" he said sharply. "Now you've had us all chasing after you, perhaps you'll consent to come home."

  "We are home," said Sebastian insolently, and Gina saw a faint hint of pain in the older man's eyes.

  "I'm sorry you can't look upon the Barn House as your home," he said quietly. "But I'm afraid for the present that can't make any difference. Has it never struck you, Sebastian, that you're both under age, and can be compelled by law to live where you're told?"