OUT OF THE FIRE.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XVI, Issue 5651, 27 December 1879, Page 7

OUT OF THE FIRE.

Christmas-eve in the land of the Maori. A wild bleak n'ght, with a strong wind sweeping up from beyond the Gr-at 1 a p rinr seaward, and in among the tall ftcplcs the houses of the city of Auckland But, wild as the night was, th« inhabitant;* thronged the main streets aud thoroughfares in thousands. Here were who, having dined, turned out to commence the pleasures of the time-honoured festival; thrifty matrons, bent on the purchase of geese and ducks f«>r the Christmas dinner on the morrow ; milliners, old aud younL*, looking wan and wearv, released from the confined drudgery of the close workroom, yet pausing ofc before the well-lit shops of the chief drapers, to feast their longing eyes on the last new thing in dress; country cousiuf, robed in tweed and accompanied by their more refined metropolitan kinsmen, pushing eagerly on to theatre or concert ; thieves aud vagabonds, with a spriukling of the great unwashed—all stream forth in a vast panorama of living breaching life. Before one of the principal shops in Shortland Crescent stood a solitary figure gaziug wistfully at a large painting exposed in the window. He was a tall, well-made man about thirty years of age. The dress he had on, no doubt, once graced the back of a gentleman, but it was very shabby now, having seen many Christmas days. His boots were worn, and gave plenty of ventilation to his feet; and his frockcoat, the original colour of which would have pnzzled some of our Collins-street tailors, was buttoned well up to his throat, as a protection against the sharp east wind. Notwithstanding a mean old hat, knocked and battered out of its primitive form, it could not hide the oval outline of a manly, handsome face framed by a profusion of curly light-brown hair and beard ; neither could

the shabby clothcs detract in any way from the symmetry of his well-knit frame.

There did not appear to be much affinity between this poorly-clad fellow and the welldressed crowd that moved to-and-fro about

him. Some turned and iudulged in a long,

rude stare at his handsome face; others gave him a wide berth, as from a mad dog ; and not a few wondered what the dickers sort of a Christmas this poor devil wou'd have after he was placed in the lock-up. The object of all this conjecture seemed quite uuconcious of those about him. Having gazed his fill at the picture in the window, he walked into tho shop. " Can I see Mr, Coingold for a moment?" The question was addressed to a dapper little man behind the counter, who eyed the siiaboy stranger frurn htad to heel before h« answered : " May I enquire your business ?" " J— I have a small picture for sale," answvivd the man, gulping down something that secrued to rise in his throat. A s out, fussy man, with a very red facc% made his appeaaance from an adjoining room. "What's the matter Sims ? Who is this person ?" "I want to dispose of this picture," answered the stranger, at the same time producing a square, fiat, brown-paper parcel from under bis faded surtout. Mr. Coingold opened the parcel, and held up to the light a small unfrained paiu titiir in water-colours. From the painting the eyes of the picture-dealer wandered to the shabby man, and then again to the picture. " L'm afraid this is not in my line," said Mr. Coicgold, after a pause. " How ?" "Oh, 1 am overstocked with subjects such as this already." u Will you purchase it ?" " Well, that will depend upon the price you ask," auswered the dealer. " Will live pounds be a fair price ?"' "Five fiddlesticks," ejacnlited Mr. Coingold, elevating his eyebrows filings: t « the apex of his bald skull. " Why 1 can sell vou a dozen such as this one at a guinea ca,

"i had forty guineas offered me nn-jc f -r that picture," said the strange man, in a hard, constrained voice. '* Forty guinea? did not seem a great sum to me then. But now—now t in my need, it seems a fortune. Why do you stare at me so ?" he added vehemently. 4Do you think I am a thief because of this mean coat. I tell you, although poor and needy a3 I am, 1 would sooner cast myself headlong from the highest

point of Parnell into the sea ; ay, die of hunger on your doorstep, rather than part with that picture for my own necessity ; but there are some things against which a man's fortitude and courage, break as foam against a rock."

" Enough, sir. Let us waste no further time. Take the picture at your own price."

Mr. Coingold doled out two pounds, which chc shabby mau clutched eayerly, and left the shop. He strides quickly onward, through the laughiug and noisy crowd, ami feels elated by the electric touch of the two crisp bank notes in his pocket. Anon he

enters a fruiterer's store, and makes purchase of a nice pot of jelly and some fruit, and from thence to a grocer's, where he selects a bottle of rare old port wine. It is getting late now, and the streets are beginning to get empty. At a rapid pace he proceeds on his way, and at length shapes his course through a labyrinth of narrow streets where there are no shops aud very tew people, and where the gas lamp 3 are few and far between.

Midnight is pealing from tho town-clock as the man turns into a quiet street at the eastern end of the city. The stiect represented about a dozen wooden cottages with small gardens in front and enclosed by a paling fence. This thoroughfare is very quiet and in total darkness, save from one of the cottage windows at the further end oE the street there beams a ray of li^ht.

Tne shabby stranger halts before tho door of this budding, aud knocks lightly. The door is immediately opened by an old woman —a half-caste Maori, who lifts her linger up to him as an admonition not to make a noise. "She lias been wois?—much worse—since you went out," whimpers the old woman iu his ear. " What have you brought ?" " Some wine and a littie jelly. Did uot the doctor say she must have thc3e delicacies or she would die ?" He aska the question in a weary, hopeless way as ho sinks iuto a chair. The half-caste looki at him in silence, but makes no reply. She is a comely old woman, this, despite her dark skin, and can speak English remarkably well. Something like maternal pride and love beams forth from her yet lustrous black eyes as Blie stands before him iu the full Hare of the lamp-light. The cottage contains but three rooms, and is, apparently, but scantily furnished. A light is burning in a small room on the right hand, the door of which is partly open, and towards which the man's eyes wander in mute enquiry.

"The dootor has been?" he enquires at length. " He has." *' What does he say, Titore." " Hare I tell you ?" "Ay. lam proof against fate." "Say, rather, that you will patieutly submit to what is—to what will be." " 1 will try and submit, Titore. Well ?" "The doctor says, ' Lily is dyitg.' " The man leaped from his seat as if a bullet had goue through him.

" Dying ! Great God, must I loso her, too 1 Is the last plank to be wrenehed from beneath my feet ? Oh, Titore ! I have borne the loss of station, fortune, have suffered cold and hunger, and have borne quietly tlio bitter irony of a selfiah world with unflinching courage. But I am wrecked at last. God help me !"

"It is true, Harold. The child is dyin?, and nothing on earth can save her. But, my son—my boy—my young master—poor old Titore would freely give her life—her poor old worthless life—to savo your little blossom yet a little longer. Tako courage yet awliile. I nursed you when you were a baby, and watched your childhood upward till you grew a man, with more than mother's pride and lovo. Here in these old arms your fair and beauteous wife breathed her last, and since then, in your exile and your wanderings, I have been with you, and shared your poverty and sorrow without complaint. Oh, Harold, say what can Titore do to provo her love

The was down on her knees before him, with bent head, and her arms clasped backward behind her neck.

There cmie at this moment a slight noise from the next room. Harold Talbot put the old woman gently from liiin and went in. Upon a small bed, lay a beautiful child, a girl about eight or nine years of age, and apparently in the last stage of that terrible disease—consumption. She was very fair, with large round-blue eyes, and a thick mass of golden hair that framed her face and neck like a broad gleam of sunlight, It neoded no skilled physician to say tue child was dying. The father perceived it plaiuly as he stood beside the couch, and noted the altered face, the wandering look of the fast glazing eyes, the short gasps for breath that convulsed the little frame, " Lily, darling,"

The eyes of the dying child lighted up for a moment with a sudden gleam at the sound of his voice. 44 Pa, dear, are you there ? 44 Wp, Lily, love. lam here beside you." Fold your arms about me. pa, and hold me near you, or they will take me from you." *'They ; who, dearest T.ily ? 44 The people that were here, pa! Did not you hear and see them ?" "My own darling.* Oh, oh!" the man's voice faltered; something seeme I choking him. 44 Oh, papa, such bright, beautiful people have been in my room. They seeaied to enter when and how they pleased, and it was lighter than when the aun is shining. And, pa, I saw mamma among them ; my own dear ma, whom you said had gone away for ever. She came here, beside my bed, and smiling, bent over and kissed me many, miuy times !" 44 Hush 1 No more, my child." * 1 'I hey seemed so kiud, and happy, pa, and whisperingly, soothed my poor aching frame, that I looged to go with them, and 1 stretched forth my arm*, and they lifted me tenderly up, but Titore came and caught me by the feet, and held me back 1" The words came forth in short gasps and broken sentences, and the listeuer heard aud understood it all. 44 1—I cannot—see —you, papa, dearest. Is it night?" li My poor darling, it is near the morning." Near ! Nay, the mora of the life ever, lasting is breaking fast upou that pure young soul. The night is past with her for What matters it now that the afflicted father holds that wasted, form, which anon quivers and stiffens a dead corpse in his

arms. Let him clasp it to his bosom as he may, and call upon it in all the passionate and endearing terms his strong loving heart can suggest, it will not answer him. Never more will the sweet innocent eyes open upon him with their look of childish love. Never more will the low soft voice fall upon his ear, and thrill him with its music. For ever and for evermore the dear eloquent face would be silent, and shut out from thiugs visible to the sight, leaving nothing to him, save the memory of something that had been.

He sat there with clasped hands and staring eyes, porchance gazing at something far away, and beyond the little bed and its lifeless burden.

A loud noise in the street recalls him to himself. Hark !

The cry rang out on the still night, like a bugle call.

Clang, clang ; ding, dong, pealed the noisy tongue-* of the lire-bells through the city. Far-off voices caught up the shout, " Fire ! tire !" until the alarm grew and swelled into a hoarse roar, that roused the slumbering inhabitants in the distaut suburbs.

Fire ! Wealthy merchants awoke with a start, anrl hastily threw open their casements ; but remembering that their warehouses and merchandise wero well insured, betook themselves to rest again with a satisfied growl. The poorer and more careless class of business men, who had not a penny to expect from insurance companies, rushed eagerly from their beds into the street to ascertain the whereabouts of the tire, and utterly forgetful in their excitement that they were but scantily clothed, and therefore liable to the law.

Fire ! The sound brought people together from all parts of the city, from lanes and alb-y*, from public-houses and danciug saloons, from sheltered holes and corners ou the wharf, and from rich men's doorsteps. The hope of plunder brought many on the scene, but the majority came to sue the fire.

Harold Talbot rushed into the street, and mix«-d with the crowd. What did niitter t > him now where h r s went, or what he di I ? Poverty and carkiug care had done their wor«t, and from henceforth cold, or Iwa*;. or hght, or darkness were all the same to him.

In the very heart of the city. Tlm upper poitton of a large brick house was enveloped m a white *h- et of llime. Tne strong sea breeze swept the lire upward with a ruddy glow which illumined the surrounding couutry for miles, and lit up the surging crowd below, as at broad noonday. The hose from different engines shot forth streams of water on the burning mass, but only seemed to stir the flauies into greater fierceness.

i 4 Whose place is this?" enquired a burly fellow in the crowd.

"Old Talbot's the goldsmith," some one made answer.

" Is there any one within the house ?" inquires another.

"Ob, yes J The old fellow and his servant are both caged up in the place, God help them."

There is a great shout from the throng below as the form of a tall, grey-bearded old man appears at one of the windows at the top of the house. Tho devouring element has not yet reached the spot where he stands, but it is approaching fast. He is a brave old man, cool and collected, and watches the futile efforts of those in the street, who make gallant attempts to rescue him from his perilous position. Except aid reaches him quickly, the flames wiil have him, for a shower of sparks and cinders begin to fall around him. He has not much time for thought, for ho hears a crushing blow upon the window behind him. His hour had crone then, and he turns to face it. But no. A tall man, his slothes burnt and rent, and his face siuged and blackened, leaps into the room at the old man's side.

The old goldsmith reels backward a pace or two at tho sight of him, and utters a still-id cry—

14 Great powers above ! ITarokl, my son ; my wild, unhappy boy. Is it really thou ?"

The two men staud gazing at each other amid the smoke, and the crackling noise of falling timber. " Yes ! lam your son Harold. We have not met for years, and percbancc wo should have never met in this world, but for this terrible conflagration." " What brought you here ?" " My will, and a resolve to take you safe out of the fire. You are my father. Come !" " And you have risked, may lo3e, your life iu attempting to save mine. Oh, Harold, I felt a hard, dogged courage within me until this moment, but it is ebbing away (prickly now. Leave mo, boy, and save yourself." "Father, we are but da'lying with our lives by this delay," answered the son, hoarsely. " Follow me, and I will save your life. If you will not, then two aro lost, for I here swear to you, I will not budge, save in your company."

" Nay, my son, this must not be. It is not right, it is madness. There is not one way of escape left open for an old and infirm man lijte me."

"Courage, father. Look yonder." Harold led the old man to a largo window, upon which the Hames had not yet fastened, and bade him look out. Some yards of! there rose a projecting lodge of roof, reached from below by other similar ledges, upon which were gathered several figures watching them. To this spot there ran beneath the window a narrow, sloping ledge not a doz-m inches wide, upon which there did not seem purchase for a goat, much less a human foot. But by that perilous path, clinjing to the charred stones above him, Harold Talbot had come to the old man's aid.

" Harold, I am weak, and caunot walk along that ledge. You arc strong and brave. Leave me ! Thero is no time to be lost. Here amid this roaring hell, give me your haud aud I will bless you. God aid aud s:vve you, my boy. JSow go.'' "Father, wc go together or not at all! It is the only chance between you and a fearful death. And, look, I have the means of making the path an easy one He saw that Harold had brought with him a cord. As ho spoke ho began to haul it in. It ended in a thicker line, and next in a stout rope. He bound this lirmly to one of the iron stanchions of the window, made fast at the other end. It would hang, for a short spam', clear of tho Ilames, and form a stay for them to cling to as they trod the perilous path below. " 1 will try it, Harold, and may heaven help us!"

"Courage, father! If the rope holds, there can be no danger. Grasp my hand — so! Now link your arm firmly through mine. Now! your foot is on the ledge. Have you hold of the rope ? Step short and sure. One minute's courage, old man, and we are both safe together,"

When the two figures were seen to leave the window, every sound below was stilled, each breath was held. A minute passed, another. Would tbat unnatural silence never end ? It did end, and all at once a great, glad shout rose upward from below, which drowned the roaring of the ilames, and the rush of the smoke. A moment more, and the whole roof of the tall, stately house from which tliey had escaped gave way and fell ia with a fearful crash.

Christmas mora was breaking, and casting n flood of soft pale light within the humble home of Harold Talbot, It lingered around

the bed where lay the dead child, an surrounded the innocent features aa witb a halo of glory. Talbot was seated near the couch, hia hands resting od the head of his son, who was kneeling at the old mail's feet, hie strong young fra'ue (juiveriug with deep emotion la the weary time that bad fled for ever bow cold, and bleak, and desolate had been their lives. It seemed but yesterday since the goldsmith had d«iven his s >n with curses from h«m, but year?, lonelv years for both, had passed since then. And he, his only child, for whom 1h had longed and proved, was here at last, pleading for forgiveness and for a blessing. And the old man had forgiven him, ami had blessed him And as if answering the ferveut prayer of father and son, the song of the " waits" without came aoftly on their ear«. " Peace on earth, good will to men."