THE MUSIC OF THE SPHERES.

Waipa Post, Volume VII, Issue 330, 14 July 1914, Page 6

THE MUSIC OF THE SPHERES.

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A SHORT STORY. I

In Two Parts.

By ETHEL GLYNNE-FOSTEIt. Author of li Alan Haywood,'' &c.

PART I

It was a cold, raw November night, a heavy black impenetrable fog envelloped everything in its chilling, bewildering- embrace, and as Bernard Woist trudged wearily along through it all it seemed like part of the chilling, black despair which- at that moment flooded his soul to its innermost recesses. He was tired, footsore, cold, wet, and, alas! hungry, for but little food had passed his lips that day. But it was not the thought of his own personal want and discomfort that agonised his heart with such fierce, burning pain. No. no! But beforo him in the darkness he seemed to see the pale, tired, patient face of his young wife, worn with ceaseless anxiety, scarcity of food, and constant nursing of their only child, little, blue-eyed, golden-haired Nan, who was fast slipping away from them into an early grave simply for lack of proper nourishment and change of air. He fancied he could hear tho sweet, childish voice calling out in weak bub eager tones, "Is that my daddie?" and see the tiny trembling hands held out to him. How many weary miles had he tramped of late, so as to save a copper or two wherewith to provide some trifle to please her?. But to-night there is nothing to put into those little hands, not even an orange to refreshen her parched lips, at thought of which he almost groaned aloud as he put his latchkey in Ihj do>r and let himself in. In the narrow, dimly-lit hall his wife met him, and with a wan attempt at a smile and in a voice which she strove hard to make cheery, she said, "Ohf Bernard, dear, how late you are." "I was detained, darling—and all for nothing. They have chosen someone else," he answered, reading her unspoken question in her eyes. "Oh! what shall wo do?" she cried. "And—and " "And what?" There is some fresh trouble, Bess. I can see it in your face.' What is it ? It is not Nan 1 She is not worse?"

"No- no; but this afternoon Mr Blako called to say that unless Ave could pay something towards the rent on Monday lie would put in ai distress. And to-day is Friday." Just then there came from above a cry; "Is that my daddie?" "0 Heaven!" cried Bernard, as he towards a chair, and saiik helpkssly into it, "I can't go to her, Bess! I've nothing for her to-night! tell her I am too vet to come to her yet" Left to himself, his haggard eye-: swept wildly round the oold, bare room. One by one the pictures had been taken frpm the walls, piece by piece the furniture had disappeared from the house to purchase the common ncc-v sities of life, until all that remains'l ef their small but once refined and cosily appointed home were such things us hardly sufficed for their barest needs.

Instead of the glowing fire he nesded to bring back life to his marrow chilled limbs, there, facing him, was an empty grate; for the one fire of which tho house just then boasted was upstairs in tho roovi of the little sufferer, and Heaven only knew how they were to keep that burning much longer. With .this reflection, all the pent-up agony of his tortured soul found vent in the i.-ry: 'Oh, Father, for Christ's sake help me tp save my wife and child!" —as, burying his face in his hands, his face dropped forward on the table— Verily, this was Bernard Weist's Gethsemane!

Tho only child of a wealthy merchant, his earliest years had been spent amid scenes of refinement, ease, and luxury; but he was barely twenty years when a crash occurred in tho financial world which, along with many others, made Mr. Weist a poor man. The majority of those who had fared sumptuously at his expense, and had fawned upon and flattered his handsome son and heir, very soon forgot their existence. So, gathering together the minute fragments that remained of his once almost princely fortune, the merchant bought an annuity for himself, and sank into obscurity, dying five years later of heart disease.

And Bernard, burying his ambition for a musical career, accepted a stool in the counting-house of a quandom friend, and devoted himself to the care of his invalid father until the end came Then he married the girl of his choice. She was pretty, refined, and intellectual ; well-born, but, like himself, poor and friendless, earning her living as a typist. Taking her to the home his father had left him, she turned it into Paradise, and when, a year later, littlo Nan was born, they thought themselves the happiest couple in the world. All had gone well until six months ago, when the head of the firm where Bernard was employed died, the business was sold, and the newcomers told him they would not require his services. At first ho and his young wife, though cast down, were not dismayed; but when weeks went by and, merged themselves into months, and Bernard failed to obtain another post, their oouragd wavered. It was not the lack of suitable recommendation as to character or ability which kept him idle, for he possessed both; only tlvo fact—tho dread and bitter significance of which can only be fully realised by the vast army who daily stand and wait for a chance to earn their bread—that the demand was greater than the supply- Then came the sickness of little Nan. Tho doctor gravely shook his head- Only with the best of care, nourishment, and an immediate" change of air could they hope to see her recover. Thus they

had striven by many a sacrifice to save their child's life ; but at last tliey had come to the end of their resontces. Strange to say, it was not of all this that Bernard was thinking as he sat with his head bowed upon the table. Suddenly, he found himsalf going back in thought to that very night, five years ago, when he had sat in that same room, grief-stricken at the loss of his beloved father. He remembered how, on that memorable day, feeling unusually anxious as to his father s health, he had hurried home from the City during his dinner-hour to assure himself, and on entering the room he had found tho old man sitting with tho pleased look of a child with a new toy, a violin-caso on a chair b.side him and a letter in his hand. "Ah! Bernard, my son!" he cried. s . "Look what has just come to me from Carl Dimler, my old fellow-student at Heidelberg. It is a genuine. Strad," ho went on. "It has been in then family for generations, and has a strange history. For the story goes that as each of its owners were nearing death, t'.iey called for the instrument, and, while playing, as though suddenly inspired by more than human power, their spirits fled. And here is a letter from Carl's solicitor, saying that the same thing happened in the case of an old friend." Being in haste to catch his train, Bernard said and thought but little of [ho matter just then. 'But when, as ho let himself into the house that evening, there fell upon his ears) such marvellous strains of music that he stood enraptured by it, a strange fear also gripped his heart-strings. Could that be his father playing? No, surely not. .Somo great musichn who knew of his legacy had come to see it, perhaps, with tho hope of getting Idm to sell it- If not, surely this was the wondrousdeath music of which he had heard. "What could it mean?

As if in answer to this thought, with a soft tranquillo, the exquisite melody suddenly coased, its echo thrilling through the silent house like the long, quivering sigh of a soul released from pain; then all was still. Instantly a great fear seized Bernard, and he rushed into the little sit-ting-room. There, in his easy-chair, sat the white-haired, frail-looking old man, the violin lay on the arm of thd ohair, while the bow had fallen from his hand to the floor; his head was thrown back, and on his aged countenance rested an expression of the divH nest peace and joy. That night, half frantic with grief, and regarding it with feelings of superstitious awe and aversion, Bernard had glve-i the violin to the old servant to put away, and had never seen or toaAed it since. But to-night there rings Jhrough his distraught brain a certain sentence in the letter which' Carl Duller" had written to his father concerning it, which ran thus: "Dear old friend,—lt is all I have to leave you. I know you will value it for s my sake; but, believe me, it is a genuine Strad, and almost priceless. I have had many offers for it, but no-: thing save actual want could ever have Induced me to part with it." "Almost priceless!" murmured Bernard to himself. "Why did I not think of it before. But, thank Heaven! it is not too late to save my little darling yet! Surely ours is actual want! And my dear old father, if he can see me now, will not begrudge my selling it,"' and with a light in his eyes, and a gladness in his voice which had long been absent from them, he leaped to his feet, and called, excitedly: "Bess! Bess! come here, my darlingl I want you!" Somewhat wonderingly, Mrs. Weist came hurrying downstairs, exclaiming: "Yes, yes, Bernard, lam sure you must be famished. Forgive me for keeping you so long without your tea." "I wasn't thinking of tea, dearie," he said, stroking her hair with loverlike fondness- "But have you any idea where old Katie stowed that violin I told you about one time?" Bess started. She remembered the story- connected with the instrument, and though there was but little superstition in her composition, she somehow did not like to hear her husband asking for it to-nighf. "It is upstairs on the -top of the back-room cupboard," she replied; then glancing timidly at the pale face above her: "But—but you—you do not want ) it to-night, Bernard ?"

"Sweetheart! I know what you arS thinking. But have no fear for me; I am not a dying man. Heaven itself must surely have reminded me' this night of the fact that that violin is said to be almost priceless." "Oh, Bernard, can it h& true?"gasped Bess, tears rushing into her, tired eyes. "Then we shall be saved for a time, at least. And there is still hope for our precious Nan's life." "Yes, dear wife, Heaven willing, that is so," huskily murmured- Bernard. Despite his impatience, Bess insisted uppn Bernard having his tea before doing anything else, so, to please her, and because he sorely needed something, the young man hastily gulped clown a cquplo of cups of very weak tea, together with some dry bread, and a solitary, somewhat shrivolled-up kippered herring. Then hearing him laugh, —what he had not done for months—as ho declared himself like a giant refreshed with wine, Bess ran off to bring tho prize which was to do so much for them. In a few moments she was back again, with the dusty case in one haivi and a duster from the kitchen in tho other. Softly closing the door behind her, for Nan was asleep, she laid her burden down on the table before her husband, and with flushed cheeks and nervous fingers began to dispose of *ho dust which covered the shining rosewood case and tarnished silver bearing the inscription—" Leopold Dimi ler, 16." <

(To be Continued,)