“Fire.”

Waipawa Mail, Volume XI, Issue 2077, 24 December 1887, Page 7

“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 formed the first prominent landmarks of the good City of Auckland. Threatening and cheerless as seemed the night, the prospect did not deter the good citizens from thronging the main streets and thoroughfares in vast numbers to see and bo seen. Here were men about town who, having dined at Denny’s or the 4 Albion/ turned out to keep Christmas Eve after the good old customs of their forefathers. Thrifty matrons with scanty purse, part on bargains bent, were here also ; and milliners, old and young, whose wan faces seemed all the more ghastly beneath the glare of the well-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, or concept, while thieves and vagabonds of both sexes, intermingled with a sprinkling of tlic 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 painting exhibited in the window. He was a tall, well-made young fellow not more than thirty years of age, hut there were sharp angles about his cheek hones and his shoulders, which are not soon on those who are healthy and have the wherewithal to satisfy a good appetite. His dress had evidently been made for the back of a gentleman, but to judge by appearances, it had seen many Christmas days and was very shabby now. The poor fellow could not complain of his boots—so far as ventilation was concerned—and the same might be said of the frock coat which he had buttoned well up to liis chin, with the idea, no doubt, that the garment was a protection against Ihe sharp, biting, wes 1 erly wind. Notwithstanding a mean looking hat, napless and any shape hut its primitive one, it could not detract one whit from the manly handsome face of the wearer. The short-cropped dark hair, and its stubbly curl, thick and strong as wire, with beard and moustache to match, would have attracted the eye in any crowd, for it framed a countenance on which was written in loving lines the history of a stormy 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 peculiar to your Anglo-Saxon at sight of a poor ragged devil, and instantly fell hack 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 V he asked. A dapper, little shopman eyed the man from head to heel ere he replied. 4 One hundred guineas.’

Tlie stranger gave a gasp. * All/ he said, fumbling at something hid away beneath his coat. * Can I see Mr Hardmann for a moment ? ’

* Mr Hardmann is busy—very busy, sir. Can’t see anyone this evening/ said the shopman, with a suspicious look. * Com© again on Monday or next week—or—’

‘Who is this man, John ! ’ cried a smooth, soft voice, and Mr Hardmann, stationer, picture dealer, and what not, presented his shining pate, with spectacles on nose, from the door of his sanctum.

The shabby one strode forward into

the light. 4 You are Mr Hardmann.’ 4 Yes.’ 4 1 have a painting I wish to dispose of/ responded the man, at the same time producing a flat parcel about a foot sqare from the secret recess of his surtout. The stationer wiped his glasses, took the parcel, and unfolded a smnll 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 Hardmann’s spectacles were raised towards the stranger, then back again to the picture several times. 4 Who painted this ?’ he asks, at length. 4 What does it matter/ answers the other, with a moody ring in his voice. 4 The picture is mine.’ 4 Yours ?’ 4 Aye, mine/ cried the stranger, with Hashing eyes. 4 Do you imagine lam a thief, because of my shabby clothes ?’ 4 Humph, No ! What is your price ?’ 4 Ten guineas.’ 4 I am sorry to say I cannot accept it at the figure/ replied the dealer in a decided tone. 4 What ! Do you know, sir, I have refused fifty guineas for this face ere now/ cried the shabby man passionately. 4 Very likely ; but you see I am overstocked with such things at present. Try elsewhere. Ido not want it, my good man.’ 4 See here/ responded the stranger in a fierce but subdued tone, and approaching closer to the shopman. 4 I want two or three paltry pounds tonight, 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. Hero, take it at your own price, tomorrow 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 whioh he took five sovereigns, and laid thorn on the counter before liis customer.

The shabby 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 chrushed, and elbow him to and fro, but lie 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 arc the talisman for him and for his purpose—for this poor seedy rogue has a purpose on this good Christmas Eve. Bearing the hum of the crowd behind him, he enters a more, quiet part of tlie city. Pausing before a grocers’ store, lie enters, and purchases a bottle of expensive wine, some .jolly, dried fruits, and one or two other articles, which makes a considerable gap in liis slender funds. It is growing late by the time he reaches a labyrinth of narrow streets in tlie Farnell Suburb. Here there are few people abroad, the gas lamps are few and far between, and such miserable shops as find a living in the locality have put up shutters. Into a small court, representing some half dozen dilapidated huts—for they were little better—our poor wayfarer took his course. Guiding his steps through the darkness to where a tiny ray of light gleamed from the window of one of these wretched tenements, he knocked at tlie door, and was admitted by an old woman, a halfcaste Maori, who lifted her finger to enforce quiet. 4 How is she, Ivitore/ whispered lie, bending his pallid face towards the light.

4 No worse, Talbot, my dear master —no worse,’ she says, her great black eyes fixed upon him. 4 What have you to-night.’ 4 Some wine and a little jelly,’he answers, handing her liis purchases. 4 Doctor Ilolmsdale has been ?’ 4 Aye.’

4 What did he say, Kitore ?’ The half-caste looks at him in silence, but makes no direct reply. She is a comely old woman, this Kitore, spite of her dark skin. She can speak English remarkably well for a halfbreed.

The dwelling* contains only two rooms. These are scantily furnished. Towards the inner apartment, the door of which stands ajar, the man’s gaze wanders, as he repeats his question.

The black orbs of tlie Maori soften ivitli something like maternal tenderness as she answers him.

4 Tlic doctor has been, Talbot, and he says that Lily may live.’ 4 Thank heaven/ gasps the other.

4 But the child will need caie—great care, mv son/ continued the Maori. 4 She will require expensive nourishment and a purer air. Doctor Uolmsdale says she must he removed at once , or the poor dear will die.’

4 Die ! and I utterly without the power to bid my darling live! Oh, Kitore, I have suffered much ; wife, station, fortune have all been taken from me, and I have borne it all without flinching. But if Lily dies, then I am utterly wrecked,’ and the man sank down to the floor, and buried liis face in his hands.

The Maori looked at him compassionately, then sat down beside him, and drew his head upon her lap. 4 Talbot Drake, my son, my hoy, my young master ! what shall old Kitore do to prove her love?’ she cried, in a voice which trembled in its intensity of feeling. 4 1, tlic Maori nursed you when you were a baby, and watched your childhood ripen into hoy and man, with almost a mother’s love for you in my old heart. Here, upon my bosom, lay your head the night when John Drake, your father, cursed you, and drove you from his house. Since then I have shared 3*olll* wanderings, your sorrows, and your 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, 011 c of the wealthiest

mine owners in Maoriland, had an only son whom he idolised. Talbot Drake had never known the value of money, because the weak father had humored the youth’s every whim, no matter how costly. Grown a man, Talbot Drake fell among thieves, was fleeced, a» is usually the case with those who have not to work for their money. Tlie sturdy millionare grew angry with the spend-thrift, then quarrelled, 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 tlie battle, growing daily and hourly more desperate, until Christmas Eve found them as we, reader, find them.

Tlie old Maori 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 tlie 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 bed, Ll3* a lovety child betwen six and seven years of age. She was 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 lind 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. 4 Lily, darling.’

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

4 Dear papa, is it you?’ she said, with a smile.

4 Yes, my dear, it is 1/ he answered. 4 But, Lily, why do you gazo about the room in such a strange way ? There is no one here but I, my child !’ Tlie girl lifted her wasted hand, and drew his head down close to her own; and said, 4 dear papa, there was some one here.’

4 Who, darling ?’ * Hush ! my mamma was here—here, close beside the bed ! Then an old man, with grey hair and a long beard followed—who lifted me in his arms, and kissed me, and (jailed me his Lily —the child of his child. That is what he said. Then I saw the room was filled with fine ladies, who gathered round and kissed me also. Then I was carried away to a grand home on the hill, overlooking tlic Bay, and—and—there—there, 1 looked round, and found ouly you standing here, papa, beside me.’

The poor, tired waif sinks 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.* Ho lie sits and dreams, dreams of the olden days of pleasure, and evil, and wantonness, until the dark and silent Christmas Eve glides into the early Christinas Morn. Hark! What, what was that? A far off shout rings through the quiet streets. Thou grows nearer. Hark ! 4 Fire ! ’ The cry grows and swells like a blast of trumpets on tlic night. Ding, dong, clang, clang, clang, pealed the noisy clappers of the fire bells through the city. 4 Fire, fire/ until the alarm swells into a roar, and rouses the slumbering* inhabitants in the distant suburbs. 4 Fire ! 4

Wealthy merchants wake with a start, and hastily throw up tlicii* easements, hut remembering that tlicir warehouses and merchandise are well insured, betake themselves to rest again with a self-satisfied grunt. The poorer and less careful business men, who hare 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 scantily clothed, therefore liable to the law. 4 Fire!’

The sound brings people together from all parts of the city ; from lanes and alleys, dancing* saloons, from sheltered nooks and holes on the wharves, from low dens, and from rich men s drawing-rooms. .Talbot Drake goes forth with the rest to view tin* fire king at his work. Oil the heights of Farnell, overlooking the Waitamata, the upper portions of a large stone mansion are enveloped in a living sea of flame. The strong breeze wafts tlie hugli fire upwards with a thundering* roar, and lights up the surrounding crowd below it as if it were broad noonda3 r .

Fire reels arrive and play upon it, but the tiny streams are only a mockery on that gigantic mass of fire. • Whose place is this ? ’ enquires a burl}* fellow in the crowd. 4 Old Drakes/ of course, the million airc. He has more mono}' than any man in New Zeaiand/ someone replies.

4 I guess lie’ll soon be some thousands poorer in an hour or so if this continues,” responds the first speaker. 4 My stars, what a fire ! ’ 4 The millionaire will soon be worse off than the 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, approached one of the many windows at the top of the building. The devouring element has not yet reached the spot whence he stands, but it is approaching fast, and there seems to tlic seething crowd below no possible means of rescue. Many arc the efforts put forth, but all prove futile. He is a brave old man—cool, and self-pos-sessed —watching calmly the approaching flames on one side, and the endeavours of the firemen to reach him.

His position has become so perilous that, unless aid reaches him quickly, he will surely perish. Even now showers of sparks and red, fiery faggots are falling round him. Then comes a crashing noise upon him, suddenly. His hour has come, and he turns resignedly to face it. But no ! a stalwart man, his clothes

burnt 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 stifled cry escapes him. 4 Great heavens ! Talbot, my son ! My poor unhappy son, is it you ?’ Tlie two men stood looking into each others eyes, oblivious to the crackling roar and the falling timbers. 4 ltis I Talbot Drake, your son. Is not this a strange meeting, old man ?* 4 What brought you here, boy ?’ 4 Who shall say?’ cried the younger man, with a wild look in his eyes. 4 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 rescue you from this flaming hell. That is all I know.’ The old man’s face works strangely for a moment tho face in mortal agony. 4 Oh, Talbot,my lost prodigal/ he cries ; 4 and you have risked your life to save mine? Until this moment my heart was hard, and I felt death had no terrors for me. Now—now—. Son, try to save yourself, I can die contentedly now.’ 4 Father, we but play with our lives,’ responds tlie son, hoarsely. 4 lf you will not let me rescue you we will part no more in this world. 4 4 Give me your hand, Talbot. Now I am content to follow whither you lead, even unto death ? ’

4 Courage, then. Wo will go. Look yonder ! ’ and Talbot Drake led the old man through the heat and the smoke to one of the windows at the rear of the building whore the flames had not }'et fastened, and bade him look further. Some yards away, 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 ridge, not a dozen inches wide, upon which there did not seem foothold for a goat, much less a human foot. By that perilous path, clinging to the charred stones above him, Taibot Drake had come to liis father’s rescue.

4 This meeting has completel} r unnerved me. I cannot walk that narrow line/ whispers the millionaire, faintly. 4 Let me implore you to save yourself, my son. Bend down your head, and take an old man’s blessing. Now go.’ 4 Together father—or not at all.— See! there is no time to bo 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 made fast to something below tho window. Hauling in the lino, there came upward a stout rope, the end of which was soon made fast to tho iron stanchions of tho 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. 4 1 am ready, my son. Come.’ 4 That is it. So, if the rope holds we arc safe. Grasp my hand, father. Now link your arm firmly through mine. Bravo! Hold the rope firmly. Now ! Death or life.’ 4 Heaven aid us, Talbot.’ 4 Amen.’ When the two figures were seen to leave the window, every sound was hushed each breath was held. A minute passed—another. Would that unnatural stillness novel* end ? It did end. Suddenly there went up a glad shout which drownedj tho roar of the flames and the rush of tlic smoko. A moment more, and the whole of tho stately roof on which the two fugitives had escaped fell in with, a fearful crash. Christmas morning broke forth in roseate splendour on tlie blackened ruin. The pure light peeped in at the broken window of Talbot-drakes humble hut. Tt played long and lingeringly around the cot where la} r the little invalid, Lily Drake. The child’s dream had come true. For hero was the old man with the long, gray beard, holding her in his arms, and kissing her face and her golden hail* in his passionate ecstacy.

Round the room moved grand ladies, and a tine carriage, with a pair of white ponies, stood ready to tako her hence to that great house above the Bay. So, wc leave them, good reader. The poor, forgiven prodigal, repentant father, the angel child, and God’s glory our all.