"Fire."

Tuapeka Times, Volume XXVI, Issue 4140, 29 September 1894, Page 2 (Supplement)

"Fire."

By Atha.

Christmas night was a wild one. Black clouds, betokening a tornado of rain, were swept inward over the Great Barrier .towards the tall steeples and the lofty mansions which foitnud. the fiwt prominent landmark of the go'xl City of Auckland. Threatening and cheerless as seemed the night, the pru p^ct did not deter the good citizens from thronging the main streets and Thoroughfares in vast numbers to s.^e and be seen. JLL;re w< re men about town who, having dined at Denny's or tho 'Albion.' turned out to kctp Christinas Eve alter tho «ood old cu.stom of Jhcir forefathers. Thrifty matrons with scanty pu so, part on bargains bent, were here also ; and milliners, old and youny, whose wan faces seemed all ihe rcore ghastly beneath the glare of the woll-lit shops. Country cousins robed in tweed, and in most cases guided by their more wide awake Metropolitan kindred, pushed eagerly onward to theatre, ball, orconi'ert, while thieves and vagabonds of both sexes, intermingled with a sparkling of the great unwashed — all stream onward in a booming, noisy throng.

Before one of the attractive shops in Shortland-Crescent a solitary figure stood gazing wistfully at a small oil paiuting exhibited in the window. He was a tall, well-made young fellow, not more than thirty years of age, but thpre were sharp angles about his cheek bones and his Blioulders, which ari> not seen on thoae who are healthy and have the wherewithal to satisfy a good appetite. His dress had evidently been made for the back of a gentleman, hut to judge by appearances, it had seen many Christmas days and was veryshabbynow. Thepoorfellow could not complain of his boots — so far as ventilation was coucerned — and the same might be said of the frock coat which he had buttoned well up to his chin, with tbe idea, no doubt, that the garment was a protection against the sharp, biting, westerly wind. Notwithstanding a mean looking hat, napless and any shape but its primitive one, it could not detract one whit from the manly handsome face of the wearer. The short-cropped dark hair, with its stubby cur), thick and btrong as wire, with beard and moustache to match, would have attracted the oye in any crowd, for it formed a countenance on which was written in loving lines the history of a Btormy life.

Our shabby man did not want for company long. No surer way to draw a crowd than to stand chock still and pretend to be attracted by something. Most of those who gathered around the spot looked at the stranger much longer and harder than is consistent with good breeding — while some gave that well-known sniff of disdain so pecul'ar to your Anglo-Saxon at sight of a, poor ragged devil, and instantly fell back from him as from the presence of a mad dog. The forlorn object of all this, however, appeared totally unconscious of the presence of those about him. Having looked at the picture for a few minutes, he walked into the shop.

" What is the price of the painting ?" he asked.

A dapper, Httle shopman eyed the man from head to heel ere he replied.

11 One hundred guineas."

The stranger gave a gasp. "Ah," he said, fumbling at something hid away beneath his coat. " Can I see Mr. Hardmann for a moment ?"

<l Mr. Hardmann is busy — very busy, sir. Can't see anyone this evening," said the shopman, with a suspicious look. " Come again on Monday or next week — or — " " Whoisthisman.John !" crieda smooth, soft voice, and Mr. Hardmann, stationer, picture dealer, and what not, presented his shinning pate, with spectales on nose from the door of his sanctum.

The shabby one strode forward into the light. " You are Mr. Hardmann."

" 1 have a painting 1 wish to dispose of," responded the man, at the same time producing a flat parcel about a foot square from tbe secret recess of his surtout.

The stationer wiped his glasses, took the parcel, and unfolded a small picture in water colors. It was only the head of a child. A small, tiny head, with a wave of golden hair, out of which looked a face pure and spiritual as that of an angel.

From the painting. Mr. Hardminn'B spectacles were raised towards the stranger, then back again to the picture several times.

4 'Who painted this? 1 he asks, at length.

" What does it matter," answers the other, with a moody ring in hia voice. " The picture is mine."

" Yours V

" Aye, mine," cried the stranger, with flashing eyes. "Do you imagine lam a lk*#t, because of my shabby clothes ?"

"Humph. No! What is your price?" "Ten guineas." "lam sorry to say I cannot accept it at the figure," replied the dealer in a decided tone.

v What ! Do you know, sir, I have refused fifty guineas for this face ere now," cried the shabby man passionately. " Very likely ; but you see I am overstocked with such things at present. Try elsewhere. Ido not want it, my good man."

" See here," responded the stranger in a fierce but subdued tone, and approaching closer to the shopman. " I want two or three paltry pounds to-night, for life or death perhaps depends upon it. Not for myself, mind you. No ! by heavens, no need of mine could tempt me to part with this. Here, take it at your own price, to-morrow or next day I may give you a hundred per cent, on your purchase, only do not let us waste further time."

Mr. Hardmann smiled, placed the painting carefully aside in a desk, then went to his till, from which he took five sovereigns, and laid them on tha counter before his customer.

Theshabby stranger clutched the money with a hungry greed in his eyes, and having scrawled a receipt, left the shop, and strode hurriedly along the bustling streets. The heedless crowd push, and thrush, and elbow him to and fro, but he is quite proof against their rudeness. There is an electric touch about the gold, coins in his hand which seems to overstep all minor considerations. They are the talisman for him and for his purpose — for this poor seedy rogue has a purpose on this good Christmas &*«., **•«»£ «m num of the crowd behind him, Jie enters a more quiet part of the city. Pausing before a grocers' store, he enters, and purchases a bottle of expensive wine, some jelly, dried fruits, and one or two other articles, which makes a considerable gap in his slender funds. Tt is growing late by the time he reaches a labyrinth of narrow streets in the Farnell Sviburb. Here there are few people abroad, tho g*i Ump* are few and far betwce:i, an«l such miserable shops as find a living in the locality have put up shuttcro.

Into a small court, representing some hftUilozon dilapidated hats— for they were littl? butter— our poor wayfarer took his wiiftii. CSuitliug hit •.lepa through the

darkness to where a tiny ray of light gleamed from the window of one of these wretched tenements, he knocked at the door^ and was admitted by an old woman, a haif -caste Maori, who lifted her finger to enform quiet.

" How is she, Kitore," whispered he, bending his pallid face towards the light. " No worse, Talhot, my dear master — no worse," she says, her great black eyes fixed upon him. " What have you tonight."

" Some wine and a little jelly," ho answers, handing her his purchases. ** Doctor Holmsdale has been 1 " "Aye."

♦ l What did he my, Kitore ? "

The half -caste looks at him in silence, but makes no direct reply. She is a comely old woman, this Kitors, tpite of her dark skin. She can speak English remarkably well for a half-breed.

The dwelling contnins only two rooms. These are sc mtily furnished. Towards the Miner apartnunt, the door of which stands ajar, the man's gaze wanders, as he repeats his question.

The black orl^a of the Maori soften with something like maternal tenderness as s!ie answers him.

" The doctor has been, Talbot, and ho says that Lily may live." " Thank heaven," gasps the other. "But the child will need care — great care, my son," continued the Maori.* " She will require expensive nourishment and a purer air. Doctor Holmsdale said she must be removed at once, or the poor dear will die." *

"Die ! and T utterly -without the power to bid my darling live! Oh, iTitore, I have Buffered much ; wife, station, fortune hiive all been taken fronT me, and I have borne it all without flinching. Bufc if Lily dies, then I am utterly wrecked," and the man sank down to the floor, and buried his fare in his hands.

The Maori looked at him compassionately, then sat down beside him, and drew his head upon her lap.

"Talbot Drake, my son, my boy, 'Tiy young master ! what shall old Kitore do to prove her love ?" ehe cried, in a voice which trembled in its intensity of reeling. *' 1, the Maorinursed you when you were a baby, anri watched your childhood ripen into boy anc 1 man, with almost a mother's love for yov in my old heart. Here, upon my bosom, lay your head the night when John Drake, your father, cursed you, and drove you from hi 3 house. Since then I have shared your wanderings, your sorrows, and youi poverty ; only glad to serve and shield the son of my dear, dead mistress. Say, my young master ! what shall Kitore do to save your little blossom ?"

Full of pathos and sympathy sounded the voice of the old Maori as she fondled Talbot Drake's head between her palms.

Here was the old, old story over and over again. John Drake, one of the wealthiest mine ownera in Maoriland, had an only son whom he idolised.

Talbot Drake had neverknoira the value of money, because the weak father had humored the youth's every whim, no mat- .-» how costly. Grown a man, Talbot Drake fell among thieves, was fleeced, as is usually the case with those who have not to work for their money. The sturdy millionare grew angry with the spendthrift, then qunrrelled, and eventually cast him adrift to shift for himself.

Talbot Drake made a poor shift of it. Indeed, the young fellow went as near starvation as one man may, and yet live. For five years he and his wife and one child, a girl, managed to exist somehow. Then the daily tussle for bread grew too hard for the woman, and she died, and the man continued the battle, growing daily and hourly more desperate, until Christmas Eve found them as we, reader, find them.

The old Moari woman had been in the Drake household for thirty-five years, and with that true Maori instinct had followed the fortunes of the outcast and the wanderer.

In the silent pause between the converse of these twain, there comes a slight rustling noise from the next room. Talbot Drake rises without a word, and enters.

On a sort of rude couch, done up into a bod, lay a lovely child betwen six and seven years of age. She waa very fair, with round blue eyes and a thick cluster of bright golden hair. It needed no second glance to see that the grim foe, fever, had had the child in its maw; fever such as is bred and fostered nowhere only in foul dens such as these, where every breath is a pestilence.

"Lily, darling."

The frail, faded child turned its head Blowly, and then there came over the wan face a glow which made it beautiful.

'* Dear papa, is it you ?" sho said, with a smile.

"Yes, mydear.it is I," he answered. *• But LUv. why do you eaze about the room in such a si range way "r There v no one here but I, my child !" The girl lifted he? wasted hand, and drew his head down close to her own, and said, " dear papa, there teas some one here."

" Who, darling ?" "Hush! my roamrja was here — here, close besi<ie the bed! Then an old man, with grey hair and a l°"g beard followed — who lifted me in liis arms, and kissed me, a-ad called me his Lily — the child of his child. That is what he said. Then I Baw the room was filled with fine ladies, who gathered round and kissed me also. Thou I was carried away to a grand home f>.i the hill, overlooking the Bay, and — Mid — there — there, I looked round, and found only you standing here, papa, beside me."

The poor, tired waif Binka down beside the couch, and puts his arms round the little sufferer. What does it matter to him who may have carriages, and horses, and live in fine mansions, so that this one tender blossom may be spared to him.' So he sits and dreams, dreams of the olden days of pleasure, and evil, and wantonness, until the dark and silent Christ'naa Eve glides into the early Christinas Morn. Hark ! What what was that ? A. far off shout rings through the quiet streets. Then grows nearer. Hark ! "Fire!" The cry growß and swells like a blast of trumpets on the night. Ding, dong, clang, clang, clang, pealed the noiay clappers of the fire bells through the city. " Fire, fire," until the alarm swells into a roar, and rouses the slumbering inhabitants in the distant suburbs. "Fire!"

Wealthy merchants wake with a start, and hastily throw up their casements, but remembering that their warehouses and merchandise are well insured, betake themselves to reßt again with a self-satis. fied grunfc. The poorer and lew careful business men, who have not a penny to expect from insurance companies, rush eagerly from their beds into the street to ascertain the whereabouts of the conflagration, utterly forgetful in the excitement of the moment that they are but scantly clothed, therefore liable to the law.

» Fire !"

The sound brings people together from all parts of the city ; from lanes and alleys, fAajiciug lalqoaa, foqig cUelter^ qgokj

j ana holes on the wharves, from low dens, and from rich men's drawing-rooms. Talbot Drake goes forth with the rest to view the fire kins at his work.

On tho heights of FarneJl, overlooking the Waitaniata, the upper portions of a large stone mansion areenvleoped in 8 living sea of flame. The strong breeze wafts the hu<j;h fire upwards with a thundaring roar, and lights up the surrounding crowd below it as if it were broad noonday.

Fire reels arrivfe and play npon it, but the tiny streams are only a mockery on that gigantic mass of liro.

" Wjioso place is this 1" enquires a burly fellow in tho crowd.

" Old Drakes', of course, tho millionaire. 'He has more money than any man in Kcw Zealand," someone replies.

" I guess he'll soon be some thousands poorer in an hour or so if this continues," rospouds tho first speaker. "My stars, what a fire !"

" The millioniare will soon bo worse off than tho poorest of us, or I'm much mistaken. Look !"

At this moment there was a great commotion amongst the vast sea of faces round the burning mansion. An old man, tall and erect as a soldier, with, long, gray beard, approached one of the many windows at the top of the building. Tho devouring clement has not yet reached the spot whence he stands, but it is approaching fast, and there seems to thescething rrowd below uo possible means of rescue. Many are the efforts put forth, but all prove iutilo. He is a brave, old linfin — tool, mt A self-possessed — watching calmly tlio approaching tldines on one side, ard the endeavours of tlio firemen to reach him. His position has become so perilous that, unless aid r> 'aches him quickly, he will surely perish. Even, now showers of sparks and red, fiery faggots are falling round him.

Then conies a crashing noise upon him, suddenly. His hour has come, and he turns resignedly to face it. But no ! a stalwart man, his clothes burned and rent from his body, his face singed and bleeding, leaps into the room at the old man's side.

The elder staggers back to the wall at the sight of the intruder, and a stiflod cry escapes him.

" Great heavens ! Talbot, my son ! My poor, unhappy son, is it you V

The two men stand looking into each others eyes, oblivious to the crackling roar and the falling timbers.

"It is I, Talbot Drake, your son. Is not this a stiange meeting, old man?"

"What brought you here, boy ?"

"Who shall say?" cried the younger man, with a wild look in his eyes. " There is something stronger than a man's will at work betimes, and against which we cannot strive if we would. I have come to resue you from thi3 flaming hell. That is all I know." .

The old man's face works strangely for a mom6nt as *°he face in mortal agony. " Oh, Talbot, my lost prodigal," he cries : " and you have risked your life to save mine ? Until this moment my heart waa hard, and I felt dralh had no terrors for me. Now — now — . Son, try to save yourself, I can die contentedly now."

" Father, we but play with our lives, responds the son. hoarsely. "If you w aot let me rescue you we will part ns mort In this world.''

"Give me your hand, Talbot. Now I *m content to follow whither you lead, even unto death ?"

" Courage, then. We will go. Look yonder I" and Talbot Drake led the old man through the heat and the smoke to one of the windows at the rear of tht building where the flames had not yet fastened, and bade him look further. Some yards away, there rose a projecting ledge of roof— reached from boJow by other similar ledges — upon which were gathered several figures- watching them. To this spot there ran beneath the window a narrow, sloping ridge, not a dozen inche? wide, upon which there did not seem foot hold for a goat, much less a human foot. By that perilous path, clinging to the charred stones above him, Talbot Drake had come to his fathei s rescue.

" 1 his meetiugbai completely unnerved me. I cannot walk that narrow line," whispers the millionaire, faintly. " Let me implore you to save yourself, my son. Bend down your head, and take an old man's blessing. Now go."

" Together father — or not all all. See ! there is no time to be lost. Courage, I have the means of making our way easy."

As the young man spoke, he began to unfasten a slender cord tied to his belt, the other end of which was mado fast to something bdow the window. Hauling in the line, there came upward a stout rope, the end of which was soon made fast to the iron stanchions of the window. It would hang for a short time clear of the flames, and form a stay for them to cling to as they escaped the dangerous ledge. , " That is it. So, if the rope holds we are safe. Grasp my hand, father. Now link yourarmfirmly through mine. Bravo! Hoi i the rope firmly. Nowt Death ot life. " " Heaven aid us, Talbot."

"I am ready, my son. Come."

" Amen."

When the two figures were seen to leave the window, every sound washushed — each breath was held. A minute passed— another. Would that unnatural stillness never end ? It did end. Suddenly there went up a glad shout which drowned the roar of the flames and the rush of the sniolce. A moment more, and the whole of lbs stately roof r-oin which the two fugitives had escaped full in with a fear* ful crash. Christmas morning broke forth in roseate splendour on the blackened ruin. The pure lii?ht peeped in at the broken window of Talbot-Drakes humble hut. It played long and . lingeringly around the cot where lay the little invalid, Lily Drake. The child's dream had come true. For here was the old man with the long, gray Ward holding her in his arms, and kissing her face and hergoMen hair iv his passionate ecsfecy. • Round the room moved grand ladies,, and a tine carriage, with a pair of white; ponies, stood ready so take her hence to> that great house above ihe Bay. So, wej leave them, good reader. i The poor, forgiven prodigal, repentant) father, the angel child, and God's gloryj or rail. !

How it Rlay be Pat.

Yon may say tbat a man is not wedded to ihe truth ; Or sometimes Buffers from a spirit of exageration; Or occasionally finds it difficult to confinfl t Jmße}f strictly to actualities j Or is unfettered by tbe four corners of bard matter-of fact ; Or is a past master in tbe pleasant art oi realistic romsnping ; Or iB partial in describing nature to bor. rowing from tbe pages of romance ; : Or is much given to an artificial reoolleo* tion of misleading statistics ;

Or cannot distinguish the false from tba trup, with a bias towarde the former ;

Or has a distinct liking for tbe utterance of statements ot a misleading oharaoter ; But you mast noil No, you matt not!