SAVED BY A SONG.

New Zealand Times, Volume XXXIII, Issue 5408, 27 July 1878, Page 2 (Supplement)

SAVED BY A SONG.

(From London Society-) It was Christmas Eve. A cold, old-fashioned Christinas, with snow lying thick on the ground and still falling heavily, with a touch of fog in the air. It was past 10 o'clock, and the streets and lanes of tho great city were all but deserted. Merchant and broker, clerk and warehouseman, and the rest of the busy crowd who had thronged those streets by day, had one by one drifted away to their homes, and the lofty warehouses loomed black and forbidding over the silent thoroughfares. Here and there the gleam of a solitary window struggled ineffectually with the outer darkness, and served but to bring into stronger relief the general gloom and solitude. * And nowhere was the darkness deeper or the sense of desolation more profound than in St. Winifred’s court. St. Winifred’s is one of those queer little allies which intersect the heart of Eastern London, and consists, with one exception, of houses let out as offices, and utterly deserted at night. The court is hound on one side by St. Winifred’s Church, while in one corner stands a quaint old house, occupying a nearly triangular piece of ground, and forming, .the exception referred to, having been for many years the residence of St. Winifred’s organist, Michael Fray. The only sign of life, on this Christmas Eve, in St. Winifred’s court, was a gleam of flickering firelight proceeding from one of the windows of ’the quaint, three-cornered honse_ iu which Michael Fray passed his solitary existence. Many years before the period of our story, the same month had taken from him wife.and child, and since that time Michael Fray had lived desolate, his only solace being tho rare c-d organ, the friend and companion of his lonely hours. The loss'of his wife and daughter had' left him without kith or kin. His father and mother had ’died iu his early youth, au only brother, a gifted but wayward youth, had iu early life ran away to sea and there found a watei'y grave.. Being thus left alone in tho world, Michael Fray’s love for music, which had always been the most marked feature of his character, had intensified into an absolute passion. Evening after evening,, when darkness had settled on the city, and none could complain that his music interfered with business or distracted the attention from the noble clink of gold, he was accustomed to creep quietly into the church, and there “ talk to himself;' - ns he called it, at the old organ, which answered him back again with a tender sympathy’and power of consolation which no mere human listener could ever have afforded. The organ of St. Winifred's was of comparatively small size, and made but scanty show of pipes or pedals; but the blackened case and yellow much-worn keys had been fashioned by tho cunning brain qnd,skilful fingers of “Father Smith” himself, and never had the renowned old organ-builder turned out a more skilful piece of workmanship. And Michael Fray, by use of years and tender study, had got by heart every pipe and stop in the rare old instrument, and had acquired an almost magical power in bringing out its tenderest tones and noblest harmonies.

Hear him this Christmas Eve, as he sits before the ancient keyboard, one feeble candle dimly glimmering over the well-worn page before him; flickering weirdly over the ancient carving, and calling into momentary life the effigies of mitred abbot and mailed crusader. A feeble old man, whose sands of life have all run out; a sadly weak and tremulous old man, with shaking hands .and dim, uncertain eyes. Bat, when they are placed uporf those yellow keys, the shaking hands shake no longer; the feeble sight finds no labor in those well-remem-bered pages. Under the touch of Michael Fray's deft fingers the ancient organ becomes instinct with life and harmony. The grand old masters lend their noblest strains, and could they revisit the earth, need ask no betterinterpreter. From saddest wail of sorrow to sweetest strain of consolation—from the dirge of the loved and lost to the peace of the jubilant victor—each shade of human passion, each tender message of divine encouragement, takes form and color in .succession under the magic of that old man’s touch. Thus, sometimes borrowing the song of other singers, sometimes wandering into qnaint HUolian harmonies, the spontaneous overflow of his own ; genius, Michael Fray sat and made music, charming his sorrows to temporary sleep. 1 Time crept on, bnt the p'ayer heeded it not, i till the heavy bell in the tower above his head . boomed forth the hour of midnight, and rej called him to reality again. With two or three \ wailing minor chords he brought his weird imS provisation to an end. . j “ Pear me,” he said, with a heavy sigh ; ■ “ Christmas again ! Christmas again ! How I many times, " I wonder'well, this will be the [last; and yet Christmas comes again, and finds ■me here still—all alone. Dear, dear! First (poor Dick, and then iny darling Alice and little Nell—all gone ! Young, and bright, and ■merry —all talfen ! And here I am—old and ■friendless ; and yet I live on, live on. Well, ;I suppose God knows best!” While thus ■thinking aloud, the old man was apparently for something among his music jhooks, and now produced an ancient page of worn almost to fragments, but pasted for preservation on a piece of paper of a Jater date. “Yes, here it is, poor Dick’s Christmas song. What a sweet voice he had, clear Boy ! If he had.only lived—but there !• j[’m murmuring again ! God’s will be done !” 1 He placed the music on the desk before him, pud after a moment’s pause, began, in tender llufce-iikc tones, to play the melody, at the same time crooning the words in a feeble voice. He played one verso of the song, then stopped and drew his sleeve across his eyestxThe sense of his desolation appeared to come anew upon him ; he seemed to shrink down, doubly old, doubly feeble, doubly forsaken—when lo ! a iparvel! Suddenly from the lonely street, in that chill midnight, came the sound of a violin, and a sweet voice singing the self-same words to the self-same tender air—the song written by his dead and gone brother forty years before.

. i The effect on Michael Fray was electrical. For a fnoment he staggered, but caught at the keyboard before him and hold it with a convulsive grasp. , “Am I dreaming, or ate my senses leaving mo ! Poor Hick’s Christmas carol ; and I epuid almost swear tho voice is ray own Nellie’s. Can this be death at last ? And are the angels welcoming me home with the song Ij love so dearly ? No, surely ; either I am going mad, or that is a real living voice. But wjhose—whose ? Heaven help me to find out!” And with his whole frame quivering with excitement—without pausing even to close the organ, or to extinguish his flickering candle—tlje old man groped his way down the narrow stair which Jed to the street, and hurriedly closing the door behind him, stepped forth into the snowy night. iFor some hours before Michael Fray was startled, as we have related, by the mysterious echo of his brother’s song, an old msfi and a young girl had been making their 'way citywards from the south-eastern side of London. Both walked wearily, as though they had tramped for a long distance ; and oue or twice the young girl wiped away a tear, though she strove hard to hide it from her companion and forced herself to speak with a cheerfulness in strange contrast with her sunken cheeks and footsore gait. Every now and then, in passing through tile more frequented streets, they would pause, and the man, who carried the violin, would strike up some old ballad tune with a vigor and power of execution which even his frost-nipped fingers and weary limbs c mid not wholly destroy ; while the girl, with a sweet though very sad voice, accompanied him with appropriate words. But their attempts were miserably uaproducductive. Ini such bitter weather few who could help it would stay away from their warm firesides ; and those whom stern necessity kept out of doors seemed only bent on despatching their several tasks, and to-have no time or thought to expend ou-a couple of wandering tramps singing by the roadside. Still they toiled on,. every now and then making a fresh “ pitch at something like a corner," only too often ordered to “move on” by a stern policeman. As they drew nearer to the city and tho hour grew later, the passersby became fewer and farther between, and tho poor wanderers felt that it was idle even to seek for charity •in those deserted, silent streets. At-last the old man. stopped and groaned aloud. “ What is it, grandfather, dear 1 Han't give in now, when wo have come so far. Lean on me—do ; I’m hardly tired at all, and I daresay wb shall do better to-morrow.”

“ To-morrow !” said the old man, bitterly ; “ to-inorrqw it will be too late. X don’t mind hunger, and I don’t mind cold ; but tho shame of it, tho disgrace—after having struggled against it all these years—lo eonio to tho workhouse at last! It isn’t for myself that I ‘mind—beggars must not bo choosers ; and, I daresay, better men than I have slept in tho “casual ward ; but you, my tender little Lily. Tho thought breaks my heart; it kills mo !” And tho old man sobbed aloud.

“Deargrandfather,you afo always thinking of me, and never of yourself. What does.it matter, after all? It’s only tho name of tho thing. I’m sure I don’t mind it one hit,”-

The shudder of horror which passed over the girl’s frame gave the lie to her pious falsehood. “I. daresay it’s not so. very bad-; and, - after all, something may happen to prevent it even 'now.” * . “What can happen short of a miracle, m these deserted streets ?” “Well, let us hope for the miracle, dear. Gpd has never quite deserted us in our deepest trouble, and I don’t believe He will forsake us now." As she spoke she drew her thin shawl more closely around her, shivering in spite of herself under the cold blast, which seemed to receive no . check from her scanty coverings. Again the pair crept on, and passing beneath the lofty wall qf St. Winifred's Church, stood beneath it for a temporary shelter from the driving wind and snow. While so standing, they caught the faint sounds of tho organ solemnly pealing within. “ Noble music,” said tho old man as the final chords died away ; “ noble music, and a soul in the playing. That man, whoever he may be, should have a generous heart.” “ Hush, grandfather,” said the girl, “ho is beginning to play again.” Scarcely had the music commenced, however, than'the pair glanced at each other in breathless surprise. - . “Lily, darling, do you hear what he is playing ?” said the old man in an * excited whisper. . , “ A strange coincidence, tno girl replied. “ Strange I It is more thanjstrauge. M}’, darling, who could play that aong 1' . . The melody came to an end, and all was silence. There was a moment's pause, and then,’ as \t by common impulse, the old man drew his bow across the strings, and tho girls sweet voice caroled * forth tho second stanza of the song. Scarcely had they ended when a door opened at tho foot of the church tower, just beside them, and Michael Eray, •bareheaded, with his scanty locks blown about by the wind, stood before them. Ho hurried forward and then stood still,shamefaced,be wlldered. The song had called up the vision of a gallant young sailor, full of life and health, as Michael had seen his brother for the last time on the day when he sailed on hia fatal voyage. He had hurried forth, forgetting the years that had passed, full of tender memories of happy boyish days, to find, alas ! only a couple of wandering beggars, singing for bread. “ I beg y ourpardon,” he’said, striving vainly to master his emotions; “you sang a song just now which—which—a song which was a favorite of a dear friend of mine, many years ago. Will you—will you tell me where you got it ?” “ By the best of all titles, sir,” the old fiddler answered, drawing himself up with a touch of artistic pride ; “ I wrote it myself, words and .music both.” “ Nay, sir,” said Michael sternly, “ you rob tho dead. A dearly loved brother of mine wrote that song some forty years ago.” “Well, upon my word;” said the old fiddler; waxing wroth—“ then y.our brother must have stolen it from me ! What might this precious brother’sname be, pr f ay ?” “Au honest name, a name I’m proud to speak,” said Michael, firing up iu his turn; “his name was Richard Fray !’’ The’ old street musician staggered as if he had received a blow. “ What 1" he exclaimed, peering eagerly into the others face ; “then you are my brother Michael, for 1 am Richard Fray !” Half an hour later and the brothers so long parted, so strangely brought together, were seated round a roaring fire in Michael Fray’s quaint, three-cornered parlor. Michael’s stores had been ransacked for warm, dry clothing for the wanderers. Drawers, long closed, yielded, when opened, a sweet scent of. lavender, and containing, homely skirts and bodices, kept still* in loving memories of little Nell, gave up their treasures for Lily’s benefit, and Richard Fray’s _ snowsodden clothes were replaced by Michael’s choicest coat and softest slippers. The wanderers had done full justice to a plentiful meal, and a jug of fragrant punch now steamed upon the hob, and was laid under frequent contributions, while Richard Fray' told the story of thirty years' wandering, and the found how it had come to pass that, each thinking the other dead, they had lived their lives, married and buried their dear ones, being sometimes but a few miles apart, and" yet as distant as though severed by the grim divider himself. ’ - ■ ' ’ And Lily sat on a cushion at her grandfather’s feet, a picture of quiet happiness, and sang sweet songs to please two old men, while Michael lovingly traced in her soft features fanciful likenesses to his lost Nelly, the strange similarity of the sweet voice aiding in the tender illusion. And surely no happier family party was gathered together in all England, on that Christmasticle, than that little group round Michael Fray’s’quiet fireside. * “ Well, grandfather dear,” said Lily, after a pause, “ won’t you believe in miracles now ?” “My darling,” said tho old man, with his voice broken with emotion, ’ God forgive me for having ever doubted Him.”