Grif: A Story of Australian Life
by B. L. Farjeon · English · Gutenberg #45919 · 658,296 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Grif: A Story of Australian Life
Author: B. L. Farjeon
Release date: June 9, 2014 [eBook #45919]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
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Credits: Produced by Transcribed by Charles Bowen from page images
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRIF: A STORY OF AUSTRALIAN LIFE ***
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source:
http://archive.org/details/grifstoryofaustr00farjrich
(University of California Libraries)
2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe]; the letter "i"
with a macron by [=i], and the letter "e" with a macron by [=e].
GRIF
B. L. FARJEON'S NOVELS.
* * * * *
In Crown 8vo, handsome cloth gilt.
* * * * *
GRIF. An Australian Story. 3s. 6d.
GREAT PORTER SQUARE. 3s. 6d.
THE BETRAYAL OF JOHN FORDHAM. 3s. 6d.
AARON THE JEW. 3s. 6d.
THE LAST TENANT, 2s. 6d.
THE TRAGEDY OF FEATHERSTONE. [_Reprinting_
IN A SILVER SEA. "
THE SACRED NUGGET. "
THE HOUSE OF WHITE SHADOWS. "
MISER FAREBROTHER. "
A SECRET INHERITANCE. "
* * * * *
LONDON: HUTCHINSON & CO.
GRIF
A Story of Australian Life
BY
B. L. FARJEON
AUTHOR OF
"AARON THE JEW," "GREAT PORTER SQUARE," "IN A SILVER SEA," ETC. ETC.
_SEVENTEENTH EDITION_
LONDON:
HUTCHINSON & CO.
34, PATERNOSTER ROW.
1898
LONDON:
PRINTED BY J. S. VIRTUE AND CO., LIMITED,
CITY ROAD.
CONTENTS.
* * * *
CHAP.
I. _Grif related some of his experiences_.
II. _Husband and Wife_.
III. _Grif loses a friend_.
IV. _The Conjugal Nuttalls_.
V. _The Moral Merchant entertains his friends at dinner_.
VI. _Father and Daughter_.
VII. _Grif promises to be honest_.
VIII. _Grif is set up in life as a moral shoeblack_.
IX. _A Banquet is given to the Moral Merchant_.
X. _On the road to El Dorado_.
XI. _Welsh Tom_.
XII. _The new rush_.
XIII. _Old Flick_.
XIV. _Little Peter is provided for_.
XV. _A hot day in Melbourne_.
XVI. _Poor Milly_.
XVII. _Bad luck_.
XVIII. _Honest Steve_.
XIX. _The Welshman reads his last chapter in the old Welsh
Bible_.
XX. _The tender-hearted Oysterman traps his game_.
XXI. _The Moral Merchant calls a meeting of his creditors_.
XXII. _Alice and Grif meet friends upon the road_.
XXIII. _The story of Silver-headed Jack_.
XXIV. _Mrs. Nicholas Nuttall takes possession_.
XXV. _Mrs. Nicholas Nuttall receives visitors_.
XXVI. _A night of adventures_.
XXVII. _Grif bears false witness_.
GRIF;
A STORY OF AUSTRALIAN LIFE.
CHAPTER I.
GRIF RELATES SOME OF HIS EXPERIENCES.
In one of the most thickly populated parts of Melbourne city, where
poverty and vice struggle for breathing space, and where narrow lanes
and filthy thoroughfares jostle each other savagely, there stood,
surrounded by a hundred miserable hovels, a gloomy house, which might
have been likened to a sullen tyrant, frowning down a crowd of abject,
poverty-stricken slaves. From its appearance it might have been built
a century ago; decay and rottenness were apparent from roof to base:
but in reality it was barely a dozen years old. It had lived a wicked
and depraved life, had this house, which might account for its
premature decay. It looked like a hoary old sinner, and in every
wrinkle of its weather-board casing was hidden a story which would
make respectability shudder. There are, in every large city,
dilapidated or decayed houses of this description, which we avoid or
pass by quickly, as we do drunken men in the streets.
In one of the apartments of this house, on a dismally wet night, were
two inmates, crouched before a fire as miserable as the night. A deal
table, whose face and legs bore the marks of much rough usage; a tin
candlestick containing a middle-aged tallow candle, the yellow light
from which flickered sullenly, as if it were weary of its life and
wanted to be done with it; a three-legged stool; and a wretched
mattress, which was hiding itself in a corner, with a kind of
shamefaced consciousness that it had no business to be where it
was:--comprised all the furniture of the room. The gloominess of the
apartment and the meanness of the furniture were in keeping with one
another, and both were in keeping with the night, which sighed and
moaned and wept without; while down the rickety chimney the wind
whistled as if in mockery, and the rain-drops fell upon the embers,
hissing damp misery into the eyes of the two human beings who sat
before the fire, bearing their burden quietly, if not patiently.
They were a strange couple. The one, a fair young girl, with a face so
mild and sweet, that the beholder, looking upon it when in repose,
felt gladdened by the sight. A sweet, fair young face; a face to love.
A look of sadness was in her dark brown eyes, and on the fringes,
which half-veiled their beauty, were traces of tears. The other, a
stunted, ragged boy, with pockmarked face, with bold and brazen eyes,
with a vicious smile too often playing about his lips. His hand was
supporting his cheek; hers was lying idly upon her knee. The fitful
glare of the scanty fire threw light upon both: and to look upon the
one, so small and white, with the blue veins so delicately traced; and
upon the other, so rough and horny, with every sinew speaking of
muscular strength, made one wonder by what mystery of life the two had
come into companionship. Yet, strange as was the contrast, there they
sat, she upon the stool, he upon the ground, as if they were
accustomed to each other's society. Wrapt in her thoughts the girl
sat, quiet and motionless, gazing into the fire. What shades of
expression passed across her face were of a melancholy nature; the
weavings of her fancy in the fitful glare brought nothing of pleasure
to her mind. Not far into the past could she look, for she was barely
nineteen years of age; but brief as must have been her experience of
life's troubles, it was bitter enough to sadden her eyes with tears,
and to cause her to quiver as if she were in pain. The boy's thoughts
were not of himself; they were of her, as was proven by his peering up
at her face anxiously every few moments in silence. That he met with
no responsive look evidently troubled him; he threw unquiet glances at
her furtively, and then he plucked her gently by the sleeve. Finding
that this did not attract her attention, he shifted himself uneasily
upon his seat, and in a hoarse voice, called,--
"Ally!"
"Yes," she replied vacantly, as if she were answering the voice of her
fancy.
"What are you thinkin' of, Ally?"
"I am thinking of my life," she answered, dreamily and softly, without
raising her eyes. "I am trying to see the end of it."
The boy's eyes followed the direction of her wistful gaze.
"Blest if I don't think she can see it in the fire!" he said, under
his breath. "I can't see nothin'." And then he exclaimed aloud,
"What's the use of botherin'? Thinkin' won't alter it."
"So it seems," she said, sadly; "my head aches with the whirl."
"You oughtn't to be unhappy, Ally; you're very good-looking and very
young."
"Yes, I am very young," she sighed. "How old are you, Grif?"
"Blest if I know," Grif replied, with a grin. "I ain't agoin' to
bother! I'm old enough, I am!"
"Do you remember your father, Grif?"
"Don't I! He was a rum 'un, he was. Usen't he to wallop us, neither!"
Lost in the recollection, Grif rubbed his back, sympathetically.
"And your mother?" asked the girl.
"Never seed her," he replied, shortly.
Thereafter they fell into silence for a while. But the boy's memory
had been stirred by her questions, and he presently spoke again:
"You see, Ally, father is a ticket-of-leave man, and a orfle bad un he
is! I don't know what he was sent out for, but it must have been
somethin' very desperate, for I've heerd him say so. He was worse nor
me--oh, ever so much; but then, of course," he added, apologetically,
as if it were to his discredit that he was not so bad as his convict
parent, "he was a sight older. And as for lush--my eye! he could lush,
could father! Well, when he was pretty well screwed, he used to lay
into us, Dick and me, and kick us out of the house. Dick was my
brother. Then Dick and me used to fight, for Dick wanted to lay into
me too, and I wasn't goin' to stand that. We got precious little to
eat, Dick and me; when we couldn't get nothin' to eat at home, we went
out and took it. And one day I was trotted up afore the beak, for
takin' a pie out of a confetchoner's. They didn't get the pie, though;
I eat that. The beak he give me a week for that pie, and wasn't I
precious pleased at it! It was the first time I'd ever been in quod,
and I was sorry when they turned me out, for all that week I got
enough to eat and drink. I arksed the cove to let me stop in another
week, so that I might be reformed, as the beak sed, but he only larfed
at me, and turned me out. When I got home, father he ses, 'Where have
you been, Grif?' And I tells him, I've been to quod. 'What for?' he
arks. 'For takin' a pie,' I ses. Blest if I didn't get the worst
wallopin' I ever had! 'You've been and disgraced your family,' he sed;
'git out of my sight, you warmint; _I_ was never in quod for stealin'
a pie!' And with that he shied a bottle at my 'ead. I caught it, but
there was nothin' in it! I was very savage for that wallopin'! 'What's
disgrace to one's family,' thought I, 'when a cove want's grub?' I was
awful hungry, as well as savage; so I made for the confetchoner's and
took another pie. I bolted the pie quick, for I knew they would be
down on me; and I was trotted up afore the beak agin, and he give me a
month. Wasn't I jolly glad! When I come out of quod, father had cut
off to the gold-diggins; and as I wanted to get into quod agin, I went
to the confetchoner's, and took another pie. The beak, wasn't he
flabbergasted! 'What!' he ses, 'have you been and stole another pie!'
and then he looks so puzzled that I couldn't help larfin'. 'What do
you go and do it for?' ses he. 'Cos I'm hungry, your washup,' ses I.
But the beak didn't seem to think nothin' of that; the missus of the
shop, she ses, 'Pore boy!' and wanted him to let me off; but he
wouldn't, and I wasn't sorry for it. I was five times in quod for
takin' pies out of that confetchoner's shop. Next time I was nabbed,
though. The old woman she knew I was jist come out, so she hides
herself behind the door; and when I cuts in to git my pie, she comes
out quick, and ketches 'old of me by the scruff. 'You little warmint,'
she ses; 'you shan't wear my life out in this here way! Five times
have I been before that blessed magerstrate, who ain't got no more
heart than a pump! I wouldn't go,' she ses, keepin' hold of my collar,
and looking me 'ard in the face--'I wouldn't go, but the ploesemen
they make me. I ain't goin' agin, that I'm determined on. Here! Here's
a pie for you!' and she 'olds out a big un. 'That's a rum start,' I
thort, as I looked at the pie in her hand. 'It won't do, though. If I
take her pie in a honest way, where's my blanket to come from?' But
the old woman looked so worried, that I thort I'd make her a offer.
'If I take your pie, missus,' I ses, 'will you let me sleep under the
counter?' 'What do you mean?' she ses. Then I tells her that it's no
use her givin' me a pie, for I hadn't no place to sleep in; and that
she'd better let me take one while she looked another way. 'When I've
eat it,' I ses, 'I'll cough, very loud, and then you turn round as if
you was surprised to see me, and give me in charge of a peeler.'
'What'll be the good of that?' she arks. 'Don't you see?' I ses. 'Then
I shall have the pie, and I shall get my blanket at the lock-up as
well!' She wasn't a bad un, by no manner of means. 'My pore boy,' she
ses, 'here's the pie, and here's a shillin'. Don't steal no more pies,
or you'll break my 'art. You shall have a shillin' a week if you'll
promise not to worry me, and whenever you want a pie I'll give you one
if you arks for it.' Well, you see, Ally, I thort that was a fair
offer, so I ses, 'Done!' and I took my pie and my shillin'. I don't
worry her more than I can help," said Grif; "when I'm very hungry I go
to the shop. She's a good old sort, she is; and I gets my shillin' a
week reglar."
"And have you not heard of your father since he went away?" asked the
girl.
"No, 'cept once I was told permiskusly that he was cut tin' some rum
capers up the country. They did say he was a bush-ranging, but I ain't
agoin' to bother. I was brought up very queer, I was; not like other
coves. Father he never give us no eddication; perhaps he didn't have
none to give. But he might have give us grub when we wanted it."
"Yours is a hard life, Grif," the girl said, pityingly.
"Yes, it is 'ard, precious 'ard, specially when a cove can't get
enough to eat. But I s'pose it's all right. What's the use of
botherin'? I wonder," he continued, musingly, "where the rich coves
gets all their money from? If I was a swell, and had lots of tin, I'd
give a pore chap like me a bob now and then. But they're orfle stingy,
Ally, is the swells; they don't give nothin' away for nothin'. When I
was in quod, a preacher chap comes and preaches to me. He sets hisself
down upon the bench, and reads somethin' out of a book--a Bible, you
know--and after he'd preached for arf an hour, he ses, 'What do you
think of that, 'nighted boy?' 'It's very good,' I ses, 'but I can't
eat it.' 'Put your trust above,' he ses. 'But s'pose all the grub is
down here?' ses I. 'I can't go up there and fetch it.' Then he groans,
and tells me a story about a infant who was found in the bulrushes,
after it had been deserted, and I ups and tells him that I've been
deserted, and why don't somebody come and take _me_ out of the
bulrushes! Wasn't he puzzled, neither!" Grif chuckled, and then,
encouraged by his companion's silence, resumed,--
"He come agin, did the preacher cove, afore I was let out, and he
preaches a preach about charity. 'Don't steal no more,' he ses, 'or
your sole 'll go to morchal perdition. Men is charitable and good;
jist you try 'em, and give up your evil courses.' 'How can I help my
evil courses?' I ses. 'I only wants my grub and a blanket, and I can't
get 'em no other way.' 'You can, young sinner, you can,' he ses. 'Jist
you try, and see if you can't.' He spoke so earnest-like, and the
tears was a runnin' down his face so hard, that I promised him I'd
try. So when I gets out of quod, I thort, I'll see now if the preacher
cove is right. I waited till I was hungry, and couldn't get nothin' to
eat, without stealin' it. I could have took a trotter, for the
trotter-man was a-drinkin' at a public-house bar, and his barsket was
on a bench; but I wouldn't. No; I goes straight to the swell streets,
and there I sees the swells a-walkin' up and down, and liftin' their
'ats, and smilin' at the gals. They was a rare nice lot of gals, and
looked as if butter wouldn't melt in their mouths; but there wasn't
one in all the lot as nice as you are, Ally! I didn't have courage at
first to speak to the swells, but when I did, send I may live! they
started back as if I was a mad dawg. 'You be awf,' they ses, 'or
you'll be guv in charge.' What could a pore beggar like me do, after
that? I dodged about, very sorry I didn't take the trotter, when who
should I see coming along but the preacher chap. 'Here's a slant!' ses
I to myself. 'He's charitable and good, he is, and 'll give me
somethin' in a minute. He had a lady on his arm, and they both looked
very grand. But when I went up to him he starts back too, and ses,
'Begawn, young reperrerbate!' When I heerd that, I sed, 'Charity be
blowed!' and I goes and finds out the trotter-man, and takes two
trotters, and no one knows nothin' about it."
Before he had finished his story, the girl's thoughts had wandered
again. A heavy step in the adjoining apartment roused her.
"Who is that?"
"That's Jim Pizey's foot," replied the boy; "they're up to some deep
game, they are. They was at it last night."
"Did you hear them talking about it, Grif?" she asked, earnestly.
"A good part of the time I was arf asleep, and a good part of the time
I made game that I was asleep. I heerd enough to know that they're up
to somethin' precious deep and dangerous. But, I say, Ally, you won't
peach, will you? I should get my neck broke if they was to know that I
blabbed."
"Don't fear me, Grif," said the girl; "go on."
"Jim Pizey, of course, he was at the 'ead of it, and he did pretty
nearly all the talkin'. The Tenderhearted Oysterman, he put in a word
sometimes, but the others only said yes and no. Jim Pizey, he ses, 'We
can make all our fortunes, mates, in three months, if we're game.
It'll be a jolly life, and I know every track in the country. We can
"stick-up"[1] the gold escort in the Black Forest, and we don't want
to do nothin' more all our lives. Forty thousand ounces of gold,
mates, not a pennyweight less?' Then the Tenderhearted Oysterman ses
he didn't care if there was forty million ounces, he wouldn't have
nothin' to do with it, if Jim wanted to hurt the poor coves. Didn't
they larf at him for sayin' that!"
--------------------
[Footnote 1: "Sticking-up" is an Australian term for burglary and
highway Robbery.]
--------------------
"Is he a kind man, Grif?"
"The Tenderhearted Oysterman, do you mean, Ally?" asked the boy, in
return.
"Yes, is he really tenderhearted?"
"He's the wickedest, cruellest, of all the lot, Ally. They call
him the Tenderhearted Oysterman out of fun. He's always sayin' how
soft-hearted he is, but he would think as much of killin' you and me
as he would of killin' a fly. After that I falls off in a doze, and
presently I hears 'em talkin' agin, between-whiles, like, 'If the
escort's too strong for us,' ses Jim Pizey, 'we can tackle the
squatters' stations. Some of the squatters keeps heaps of money in
their houses.' And then they called over the names of a lot of
stations where the squatters was rich men."
"Did you hear them mention Highlay Station, Grif?" the girl asked,
anxiously.
"Can't say I did, Ally."
The girl gave a sigh of relief.
"Who were there, Grif, while they were talking?"
"There was Jim Pizey, and Ned Rutt, and Black Sam, and the
Tenderhearted Oysterman, and--" but here Grif stopped, suddenly.
"Who else, Grif?" laying her hand upon his arm.
"I was considering Ally," the boy replied, casting a furtive look at
her white face, "if there _was_ anybody else. I was 'arf asleep, you
know."
The girl gazed at him with such distress depicted in her face that
Grif turned his eyes from her, and looked uneasily upon the ground.
For a few moments she seemed as if she feared to speak, and then she
inquired in a voice of pain,--
"Was my husband there, Grif?"
Grif threw one quick, sharp glance upon her, and, as if satisfied with
what he saw, turned away again, and did not reply.
"Was my husband there, Grif," the girl repeated.
Still the boy did not reply. He appeared to be possessed with some
dogged determination not to answer her question.
"Grif," the girl said, in a voice of such tender pleading that the
tears came into the boy's eyes, "Grif, be my friend!"
"Your friend, Ally!" he exclaimed, in amazement, and as he spoke a
thrill of exquisite pleasure quivered through him. "Me! A pore beggar
like me!"
"I have no one else to depend upon--no one else to trust to--no one
else to tell me what I must, yet what I dread to hear. Was my husband
there, Grif?"
"Yes, he was there," the boy returned, reluctantly; "more shame for
him, and you a sittin' here all by yourself. I say, Ally, why don't
you cut away from him? What do you stop here for?"
"Hush! Was he speaking with them about the plots you told me of?"
"No, he was very quiet. They was a tryin' to persuade him to join 'em;
but he wouldn't agree. They tried all sorts of games on him. They
spoke soft, and they spoke hard. They give him lots of lush, too, and
you know, Ally, he _can_--" but Grif pulled himself up short, dismayed
and remorseful, for his companion had broken into a passionate fit of
weeping.
"I didn't mean to do it, Ally," he said sorrowfully. "Don't take on
so. I'll never say it agin. I'm a ignorant beast, that's what I am!"
he exclaimed, digging his knuckles into his eyes. "I'm always a
puttin' my foot in it."
"Never mind, Grif," said the girl, sobbing. "Go on. Tell me all you
heard. I _must_ know. Oh, my heart! My heart!" and her tears fell
thick and fast upon his hand.
He waited until she had somewhat recovered herself, and then proceeded
very slowly.
"They was a-tryin' to persuade him to join 'em. They tried all sorts
of dodges, but they was all no go. The Tenderhearted Oysterman, he
comes the tender touch, and ses, 'I'm a soft-hearted cove, you know,
mate, and I wouldn't kill a worm, if I thort I should 'urt him; if
there was any violence a-goin' to be done, I wouldn't be the chap to
have a 'and in it.' 'Then why do you have anythin' to do with it?'
arks your--you know who I mean, Ally? 'Because I think it'll be a
jolly good spree,' ses the Oysterman, 'and because I know we can make
a 'cap of shiners without nobody bein' the worse for it.' But they
couldn't get him to say Yes; and at last Jim Pizey he gets up in a
awful scot, and he ses, 'Look here, mate, we've been and let you in
this here scheme, and we ain't a-goin' to have it blown upon. You make
up your mind very soon to join us, or it will be the worse for you.'"
"And my husband--"
"I didn't hear nothin' more. I fell right off asleep, and when I woke
up they was gone."
"Grif", said the girl, "he must not join in this plot. I _must_ keep
him from crime. He has been unfortunate--led away by bad companions."
"Yes; we're a precious bad lot, we are."
"But his heart is good, Grif," she continued.
"What does he mean by treatin' you like this, then?" interrupted Grif,
indignantly. "You've got no business here, you haven't. You ought to
have a 'ouse of your own, you ought."
"I can't explain; you would not understand. Enough that he is my
husband; it is sufficient that my lot is linked with his, and that
through poverty and disgrace I must be by his side. I can never desert
him while I have life. God grant that I may save him yet!"
The boy was hushed into silence by her solemn earnestness.
"He is weak, Grif, and we are poor. It was otherwise once. Those who
should assist us will not do so, unless I break the holiest tie--and
so we must suffer together."
"I don't see why you should suffer," said Grif, doggedly; "you don't
deserve to suffer, you don't."
"Did you ever have a friend, my poor Grif," the girl said, "whom you
loved, and for whose sake you would have sacrificed even the few
sweets of life you have enjoyed?"
Grif pondered, but being unable to come to any immediate conclusion
upon the point, did not reply.
"It is so with me," Alice continued. "I would sacrifice everything for
him and for his happiness: for I love him! Ah! how I love him! When he
is away from me he loses hope for my sake, not for his own, I know. If
he is weak, I must be strong. It is my duty."
She loved him. Yes. No thought that he might be unworthy of the
sacrifice she had already made for him tainted the purity of her love,
or weakened her sense of duty.
"I've got a dawg, Ally," Grif said, musingly, after a pause. "He ain't
much to look at, but he's very fond of me. Rough is his name. The
games we have together, me and Rough! He's like a brother to me, is
Rough. I often wonder what he can see in me, to be so fond of me--but
then they say dawgs ain't got no sense, and that's a proof of it. But
if he ain't got sense, he got somethin' as good. Pore old Rough! One
day a cove was agoin' to make a rush at me--it was the Tenderhearted
Oysterman (we always had a down on each other, him and me!) when
Rough, he pounces in, and gives him a nip in the calf of his leg.
Didn't the Oysterman squeal! He swore, that day, that he would kill
the dawg; but he'd better not try! Kill Rough!" and, at the thought of
it, the tears came into the boy's eyes; "and him never to rub his nose
agin me any more, after all the games we've had! No, I shouldn't like
to lose Rough, for he's a real friend to me, though he _is_ only a
dawg!"
The girl laid her hand upon Grif's head, and looked pityingly at him.
As their eyes met, a tender expression stole into his face, and rested
there.
"I'm very sorry for you, Ally. I wish I could do somethin' to make you
happy. It doesn't much matter for a pore beggar like me. We was always
a bad lot, was father, and Dick, and me. But _you!_--look here,
Ally!" he exclaimed, energetically. "If ever you want me to do
anythin'--never mind what it is long as I know I'm a-doin' of it for
you--I'll do it, true and faithful, I will, so 'elp me--!" Her hand
upon his lips checked the oath he was about to utter. He seized the
hand, and placed it over his eyes, and leant his cheek against it, as
if it brought balm and comfort to him; as indeed it did. "You believe
me, Ally, don't you?" he continued, eagerly. "I don't want you to say
nothin' more than if ever I can do somethin' for you, you'll let me do
it."
"I will, Grif, and I do believe you," she replied. "God help me, my
poor boy, you are my only friend."
"That's it!" he exclaimed, triumphantly. "That's what I am, till I
die!"
CHAPTER II.
HUSBAND AND WIFE.
The rain pattered down, faster and faster, as the night wore on, and
still the two strange companions sat, silent and undisturbed, before
the fire. At intervals sounds of altercation from without were heard,
and occasionally a woman's drunken shriek or a ruffian's muttered
curse was borne upon the angry wind. A step upon the creaking stairs
would cause the girl's face to assume an expression of watchfulness:
for a moment only; the next, she would relapse into dreamy
listlessness. Grif had thrown himself upon the floor at her feet. He
was not asleep, but dozing; for at every movement that Alice made, he
opened his eyes, and watched. The declaration of friendship he had
made to her had something sacramental in it. When he said that he
would be true and faithful to her, he meant it with his whole heart
and soul. The better instincts of the boy had been brought into play
by contact with the pure nature of a good woman. He had never met any
one like Alice. The exquisite tenderness and unselfishness exhibited
by her in every word and in every action, filled him with a kind of
adoration, and he vowed fealty to her with the full strength of his
uncultivated nature. His vow might be depended on. He was rough, and
dirty, and ugly, and a thief; but he was faithful and true. Some
glimpse of a better comprehension appeared to pass into his face as he
lay and watched. And so the hours lagged on until midnight, when a
change took place.
A sudden change--a change that transformed the hitherto quiet house
into a den of riotous vice and drunkenness. It seemed as though the
house had been forced into by a band of ruffianly bacchanals. They
came up the stairs, laughing, and singing, and screaming. A motley
throng--about a dozen in all--but strangely contrasted in appearance.
Men upon whose faces rascality had set its seal; women in whose eyes
there struggled the modesty of youth with the depravity of shame. Most
of the men were middle-aged; the eldest of the women could scarcely
have counted twenty winters from her birth: many of them, even in
their childhood, had seen but little of life's summer. With the men,
moleskin trousers, pea-jackets, billycock hats, and dirty pipes,
predominated. But the women were expensively dressed, as if they
sought to hide their shame by a costly harmony of colours. How strange
are the groupings we see, yet do not marvel at, in the kaleidoscope of
life!
The company were in the adjoining apartment, and, through the chinks
in the wall, Alice could see them flitting about. She had started to
her feet when she heard them enter the house, and her trembling frame
bespoke her agitation. All her heart was in her ears as she listened
for the voice she expected yet dreaded to hear.
"Get up, Grif," she whispered, touching the gently with her foot. On
the instant, he was standing, watchful by her side. "Listen! Can you
hear his voice?"
The boy listened attentively, and shook his head. At this moment, a
ribald jest called forth screams of laughter, and caused Alice to
cover her crimsoned face, and sink tremblingly into her seat. But
after it short struggle with herself, she rose again, and listened
anxiously.
"He must be there," she said, her hand twitching nervously at her
dress. "Oh, what if I should not see him to-night! I should be
powerless to save him. What if they have kept him away from me,
fearing that I should turn him from them! Oh, Grif, Grif, what shall I
do? what shall I do?"
"Hush!" Grif whispered. "You keep quiet. You pretend to be asleep, and
don't let 'em 'ear you. If anybody comes in, you shut your eyes, and
breathe 'ard. I'll go and see if he's there."
And he crept out of the room, closing the door softly behind him. Left
alone, the girl sat down again by the fire, whispering to herself, "I
must save him, I must save him;" as if the words were a charm. "Yes,"
she whispered, "I must save him from this disgrace, and then I will
make one more appeal;" and then she started up again, and listened,
and paced the room in an agony of expectation. Thus she passed the
next half-hour. At the end of that time, Grif came in, almost
noiselessly, and to her questioning look replied,
"He's there, all right."
"What is he doing?"
"He's a settin' in a corner, 'arf asleep, all by 'isself, and he
hasn't sed a word to no one. Where are you goin'?" he inquired
quickly, as Alice walked towards the door.
"I am going in to him."
"What for?" cried Grif hoarsely, gripping her arm. "Ally, are you
mad?"
"I must go and bring him away," she replied, firmly.
"Look here, Ally," said Grif, in a voice of terror; "don't you try it.
Pizey's got the devil in him to-night. I know it by his eye. It's jist
as cool and wicked as anythin'! When he sets his mind upon a thing
he'll do it, or be cut to pieces. If you go in, you can't do nothin',
and somethin' bad 'll 'appen. Pizey 'll think you know what you
oughtn't to know. Don't you go!"
"But I must save him, Grif," she said, in deep distress. "I must save
him, if I die!"
"Yes," Grif said in a thick undertone, and still keeping firm hold of
her arm; "that's right and proper, I dersay. But s'pose you die and
don't save him? They won't do nothin' to-night. You can't do no good
in there, Ally. The Oysterman 'll kill you, or beat you senseless, if
you go; and then what could you do? I've seen him beat a woman before
to-night. They're mad about somethin' or other, the whole lot of 'em.
You'll do him more good by stoppin' away."
"Of what use can my husband be to them, Grif?" she cried, yet
suppressing her voice, so that those in the next room should not hear.
"What plot of their hatching can he serve them in?"
"I don't know," Grif replied; "he can talk and look like a swell, and
that's what none of 'em can do. But you'll soon find out, if you keep
quiet. 'Ark! they're a clearin' out the gals," and as he spoke were
heard female voices and laughter, and the noise of the speakers who
were trooping into the miserable night. "They won't be very long
together. They won't be together at all!" he cried, as the door of the
adjoining apartment opened, and heavy steps went down the stairs.
"But suppose my husband goes with them?" Alice cried, and tried to
reach the door; but Grif restrained her.
"There's Jim Pizey's foot," he said, with a finger at his lips; "jist
as if he was tramplin' some one down with every step. And there's
Black Sam--I could tell him from a mob of people, for he walks as if
he was goin' to tumble down every minute. And there's Ned Rutt--he's
got the largest feet I ever sor. And there's the Tenderhearted
Oysterman, he treads like a cat. I'll be even with him one day for
sayin' he'd kill Rough! And there's--there's no more."
The street door was heavily slammed, and a strange stillness fell upon
the house--a stillness which did not appear to belong to it, and which
struck Alice with a sense of desolation, and made her shiver. A few
moments afterwards Alice's husband entered the apartment. He was a
handsome, indolent-looking man, with a reckless manner which did not
become him. There were traces of dissipation upon his countenance, and
his clothes were a singular mixture of rough coarseness and faded
refinement. He did not notice Grif, who had stepped aside, but, gazing
neither to the right nor to the left, walked to the seat which Alice
had occupied, and sinking into it, plunged his fingers in his hair,
and gazed vacantly at the ashes in the grate. He made no sign of
recognition to Alice, who went up to him, and encircled his neck with
her white arms. As she leant over him, with her face bending to his,
caressingly, it appeared, although he did not repulse her, as if there
were within him some wish to avoid her, and not be conscious of her
presence.
"Richard," she whispered.
But he doggedly turned his head from her.
"Richard," she whispered again, softly and sweetly.
"I hear you," he said, pettishly.
"Do not speak to me harshly to-night, dear," she said; "this day six
months we were married."
He winced as he heard this, as if the remembrance brought with it a
sense of physical pain, and said:--
"It is right that you should reproach me, yet it is bitter enough for
me without that."
"I do not say it to reproach you, dear,--indeed, indeed, I do not!"
"That makes it all the more bitter. This day six months we were
married, you say! Better for you, better for me, that we had never
seen each other."
"Yes," the girl said, sadly; "perhaps it would have been. But there is
no misery to me in the remembrance. I can still bless the day when we
first met. Oh, Richard, do not give me cause to curse it!"
"You have cause enough for that every day, every hour," he replied;
"to curse the day, and to curse me. You had the promise of a happy
future before you saw me, and I have blighted it. What had you done
that I should force this misery upon you? What had you done that I
should bring you into contact with this?" he looked loathingly upon
the bare walls. "And I am even too small-hearted to render you the
only reparation in my power--to die, and loose you from a tie which
has embittered your existence!"
"Hush, Richard!" she said. "Hush! my dear! All may yet be well, if you
have but the courage--"
"But I have not the courage," he interrupted. "I am beaten down,
crushed, nerveless. I was brought up with no teaching that existence
was a thing to struggle for, and I am too old or too idle to learn the
lesson now. What do such men as I in the world? Why, it has been
thrown in my teeth this very night that I haven't even soul enough for
revenge."
"Revenge, Richard!" she cried. "Not upon--"
"No, not that," he said; "nor anything that concerns you or yours. But
it has been thrown in my teeth, nevertheless. And it is true. For I am
a coward and a craven, if there ever lived one. It is you who have
made me feel that I am so; it is you who have shown me to myself in my
true colours, and who have torn from me the mask which I--fool that I
am!--had almost learnt to believe was my real self, and not a sham!
Had you reproached me, had you reviled me, I might have continued to
be deceived. But as it is, I tremble before you; I tremble, when I
look upon your pale face;" and turning to her suddenly, and meeting
the look of patient uncomplaining love in her weary eyes, he cried,
"Oh, Alice! Alice! what misery I have brought upon you!"
"Not more than I can bear, dear love," she said, "if you will be true
to yourself and to me. Have patience--"
"Patience!" he exclaimed. "When I think of the past, I lash myself
into a torment. Will patience feed us? Will it give us a roof
or a bed? Look here!" and he turned out his pockets. "Not a
shilling. Fill my pockets first. Give me the means to fight with my
fellow-cormorants, and I will have patience. Till then, I must fret,
and fret, and drink. Have you any brandy?"
"No," she said, with a bitter sigh.
"Perhaps it is better so," he said, slowly, for his passion had
somewhat exhausted him; "for what I have to say might seem the result
of courage that does not belong to me. I have refrained from drink
to-night that my resolution might not be tampered with."
He paused to recover himself; Alice bending forward, with clasped
hands, waited in anxious expectancy.
"Do you know how I have spent to-night and many previous nights?" he
asked. "In what company, and for what purpose?"
She had been standing during all this time, and her strength was
failing her. She would have fallen, had he not caught her in his arms,
whence she sank upon the ground at his feet, and bowed her head in her
lap.
"I have spent to-night, and many other nights," he continued, "in the
company of men whose touch, not long since, I should have deemed
contamination. I have spent them in the company of villains, who, for
some purpose of their own, are striving to inveigle me in their plots.
But they will fail. Yes, they will fail, if you will give me strength
to keep my resolution. Coward I am, I know, but I am not too great a
coward to say that you and I must part."
"Part!" she echoed, drearily.
"Look around," he said; "this is a nice home I have provided for you;
I have surrounded you with fit associates, have I not? How nobly I
have performed my part of husband! How you should bless my name,
respect, and love me, for the true manliness I have displayed towards
you! But by your patience and your love you have shown me the depth of
my degradation."
"Not degradation, Richard, not degradation for you!"
"Yes, degradation, and for me, in its coarsest aspect. Is not this
degradation?" and he pointed to Grif, who was crouching, observant, in
a corner. "Come here," he said to the lad, who slouched towards him,
reluctantly. "What are you?"
"What am I?" replied Grif, with a puzzled look; "I'm a pore
boy--Grif."
"You're a poor boy--Grif!" the man repeated. "How do you live!"
"By eatin' and drinkin'."
"How do you get your living?"
"I makes it as I can," answered Grif, gloomily.
"And when you can't make it?"
"Why, then I takes it."
"That is, you are a thief?"
"Yes, I s'pose so."
"And a vagabond?"
"Yes, I s'pose so."
"And you have been in prison?"
"Yes, I've been in quod, I have," said Grif, feeling, for the first
time in his life, slightly ashamed of the circumstance.
"And you say," Richard said, bitterly, as the boy slunk back to his
corner, "that this is not degradation!"
She turned her eyes to the ground, but did not reply.
"I was once a good arithmetician," he continued. "Let us see what
figures there are in the sum of our acquaintance, and what they amount
to."
"Of what use is it to recall the past, Richard?"
"It may show us how to act in the future. Besides, I have a strange
feeling on me to-night, having met with an adventure which I will
presently relate. Listen. When I first saw you I was a careless
ne'er-do-well, with no thought of the morrow. You did not know this
then, but you know it now. It is the curse of my life that I was
brought up with expectations. How many possibly useful, if not good,
men have been wrecked on that same rock of expectations! Upon the
strength of 'expectations' I was reared into an idle incapable. And
this I was when you first knew me. I had an income then small, it is
true, but sufficient, or if it was not, I got into debt upon the
strength of my expectations, which were soon to yield to me a life's
resting-place. You know what happened. One day there came a letter,
and I learned that, in a commercial crash at home, my income and my
expectations had gone to limbo. The news did not hurt me much, Alice,
for I had determined on a scheme which, if successful, would give me
wealth and worldly prosperity. It is the truth--shamed as I am to
speak it--that, knowing you to be an only child and an heiress, I
deliberately proposed to myself to win your affections. I said, 'This
girl will be rich, and her money will compensate for what I have lost.
This girl has a wealthy father, not too well educated, not too well
connected, who will be proud when he finds that his daughter has
married a gentleman.' In the execution of my settled purpose, I sought
your society, and strove to make myself attractive to you. But your
pure nature won upon me. The thought that your father was wealthy, and
that you would make a good match for me, was soon lost in the love I
felt for you. For I learned to love you, honestly, devotedly--nay,
keep your place, and do not look at me while I speak, for I am
unworthy of the love I sought and gained. Yet, you may believe me when
I say, that as I learned to know you, all mercenary thoughts died
utterly away. Well, Alice, I won your love, and could not bear to part
from you. I had to do something to live; and so that I might be near
you, I accepted the post of tutor offered me by your father. I
accepted this to be near you--it was happiness enough for the
time, and I thought but little of the future. Happy, then, in the
present, I had no thought of the passing time, until the day arrived
when your father wished to force you into a marriage with a man,
ignorant, brutal mean, and vulgar,--but rich. You came to me in your
distress--Good God!" he exclaimed passionately; "shall I ever forget
the night on which you came to me, and asked for help and for advice?
The broad plains, bathed in silver light, stretched out for miles
before us. The branches of the old gum-trees glistened with white
smiles in the face of the moon--we were encompassed with a peaceful
glory. You stood before me, sad and trembling, and the love that had
brought sunshine to my heart rushed to my lips"--he stopped suddenly,
looked round, and smiled bitterly. Then he continued--"The next day we
fled, and at the first town we reached we were married. Then, and then
only, you learned for the first time, that the man you had married was
a beggar, and was unable to provide for his wife the common comforts
of a home. We appealed to your father--you know how he met our
appeals. The last time I went, at your request, to his house, he set
his dogs upon me--"
"Richard! Richard!" she cried entreatingly. "Do not recall that time.
Be silent for awhile, and calm yourself."
"I will go on to the end. We came to Melbourne. Brought up to no trade
or profession, and naturally idle, I could get nothing to do. Some
would have employed me, but they were afraid. I was not rough
enough--I was too much of a gentleman. They wanted coarser material
than I am composed of, and so, day by day, I have sunk lower and
lower. People begin to look on me with suspicion. I am fit for nothing
in this colony. I was born a gentleman, and I live the life of a dog;
and I have dragged you, who never before knew want, down with me. With
no friends, no influence to back me, we might starve and rot. What
wonder that I took to drink! The disgust with which I used to
contemplate the victims of that vice recoils now upon myself, and I
despise and abhor myself for what I am! By what fatality I brought you
here, I know not. I suppose it was because we were poor, and I could
not afford to buy you better lodging. Now, attend to me--but stay,
that boy is listening."
"He is a friend, Richard," said Alice.
"Yes," said Grif, "I am a friend that's what I am. Never you mind me I
ain't a-goin' to peach. I'd do any thin' to 'elp her, I would--sooner
than 'urt her, I'd be chopped up first. You talk better than the
preacher cove!"
"Very well. Now attend. These men want me to join them in their
devilish plots. I will not do so, if I can help it. But if I stop
here much longer, they will drive me to it. And so I must go away from
you and from them. I will go to the gold diggings, and try my luck
there--"
"Leaving me here?"
"Leaving you here, but not in this house. You have two or three
articles of jewellery left. I will sell them--the watch I gave you
will fetch ten pounds--and you will be able to live in a more
respectable house than this for a few weeks until you hear from me."
"How will you go?"
"I shall walk I cannot afford to ride. But I have not concluded yet. I
have something to tell you, which may alter our plans, so far as you
are concerned. I have a message for you, which I must deliver word for
word."
"A message for me!"
He paced the room for a few moments in silence. Then, standing before
Alice, he looked her in the face, and said:--
"I saw your father this evening."
"In town!" she exclaimed.
"In town. I do not know for what purpose he is here, nor do I care."
"Oh, Richard," cried the girl; "you did not quarrel with him?"
"No; I spoke to him respectfully. I told him you were in Melbourne, in
want. I begged him to assist us. I said that I was willing to do
anything--that I would take any situation, thankfully, in which I
could earn bread for you. He turned away impatiently. I followed him,
and continued to address him humbly, entreatingly. For your sake,
Alice, I did this."
She took his hand and kissed it, and rested her cheek against it.
"Hearken to his reply," he said, disengaging his hand, and standing
apart from her. "This was it. 'You married my daughter for my money.
You are a worthless, idle scoundrel, and I will not help you. If you
so much regret the condition to which you have brought my daughter,
divorce yourself from her.'"
"No, no, Richard!"
"Those were his words. 'Divorce yourself from her, and I will take her
back. When you come to me to consent to this, I will give you money.
Till then, you may starve. I am a hard man, as you know, obstinate and
self-willed; and rather than you should have one shilling of the money
you traded for when you married my daughter, I would fling it all in
the sea. Tell my daughter this. She knows me well enough to be sure I
shall not alter when once I resolve.' Those were his words, word for
word. That was the message he bade me give you. What is your answer?"
"What do you think it is?" she asked, sadly.
"I cannot tell," he said, doggedly, turning his face from her; "I know
what mine would be."
"What would it be?"
"I should say this" (he did not look at her while he spoke)--"You,
Richard Handfield, Scapegrace, Fortune-hunter, Vagabond (any of these
surnames would be sufficiently truthful), came to me, a young simple
girl, and played the lover to me, without the knowledge of my father,
for the sake of my father's money. You knew that I, a young simple
girl, bred upon the plains, and amidst rough men, would be certain to
be well affected towards you--would almost be certain to fall in love
with you, for the false gloss you parade to the world, and for the
refinement of manner which those employed about my father's station
did not possess. You played for my heart, and you won it. But you won
it without the money you thought you would have gained, for you were
disappointed in your calculations. And now that I know you for what
you are, and now that I have been sufficiently punished for my folly,
in the misery you have brought upon me, I shall go back to the home
from which I fled, and endeavour to forget the shame with which you
have surrounded me."
"Do you think that this would be my answer, Richard?"
He had not once looked at her while he spoke, and now as she addressed
him, with an indescribable sadness in her voice, he did not reply. For
full five minutes there was silence in the room. Then the grief which
filled her heart could no longer be suppressed, and short broken gasps
escaped her.
"Richard!" she exclaimed.
"Yes, Alice."
"Have you not more faith in me than this? As I would die to keep you
good, so I should die without your love. What matters poverty? We are
not the only ones in the world whose lot is hard to bear! Be true to
me, Richard, so that I may be true to myself and to you. You do not
believe that this would be my answer!"
There came no word from his lips.
"When I vowed to be faithful to you, Richard, I was but a
girl--indeed, I am no better now, except in experience but I vowed
with my whole heart. I had no knowledge then of life's hard trials,
but since I have learned them, I seem also to have learned what is my
duty, and what was the meaning of the faith I pledged. I never rightly
understood it till now, darling! You do not believe that this would be
my answer!"
Still he did not look at her. Although she waited in an anxious agony
of expectation, he did not speak. The plain words he had chosen in
which to make his confession, had brought to him, for the first time,
a true sense of the unworthy part he had played.
"If in the time that has gone, my dear," she continued, "there is any
circumstance, any remembrance, connected with me, that gives you pain,
forget it for my sake. If you have believed that any thought that, you
have done me wrong exists, or ever existed, in my mind, believe it no
longer. Think of me as I am--see me as I am--your wife, who loves you
now with a more perfect love than when she was a simple girl,
inexperienced in the world's hard ways. Ah! see how I plead to you,
and turn to me, my dear!"
She would have knelt to him, but he turned and clasped her in his
arms, and pressed her pure heart to his. Her fervent love had
triumphed; and as he kissed away her tears, he felt, indeed, that
wifely purity is man's best shield from evil.
"You shall do what you have said, Richard; but not to-morrow. Wait but
one day longer; and if I then say to you--'Go,' you shall go. I have a
reason for this, but I must not tell you what it is. Do you consent?"
"Yes, love."
"Brighter days will dawn upon us. I am happier now than I have been
for a long, long time! And oh, my dear!--bend your head closer,
Richard--there may come a little child to need our care--"
The light had gone out and the room was in darkness. But mean and
disreputable as it was, a good woman's unselfish love sanctified it
and made it holy!
CHAPTER III.
GRIF LOSES A FRIEND.
"It's a rum go," Grif muttered to himself, as he wiped the tears from
his eyes, and groped his way down the dark stairs; "a very rum go. If
I was Ally, I should do as he told her. But she don't care for
herself, she don't. She's too good for him by ever so many chalks,
that's what she is!"
By this time Grif had reached the staircase which led to the cellar.
Crouching upon the floor, he listened with his ear to the ground.
"I can hear him," he said, in a pleasant voice, "he's a beatin' his
tail upon the ground, but he won't move till I call him. I don't
believe there's another dawg in Melbourne to come up to him. Jist
listen to him! He's a thinkin' to himself, How much longer will he be,
I wonder, afore he calls me! And he knows I'm a-talkin' of him; he
knows it as well as I do myself."
He listened again, and laughed quietly.
"If I was to mention that dawg's name," Grif said in a confidential
tone, as if he were addressing a companion, "he'd be here in a minute.
He would! It's wonderful how he knows! I've had him since he was a
pup, and afore he could open his eyes. It would be nice sleepin' down
in the cellar, but we can't do it, can we, old feller? We've got
somebody else to look after, haven't we? You, and me, and him, ain't
had a bit of supper, I'll bet. But we'll get somethin' to eat somehow,
you see if we don't."
Here the lad whistled softly, and the next instant a singularly ugly
dog was by his side, licking his face, and expressing satisfaction in
a quiet but demonstrative manner.
"Ain't you jolly warm, Rough!" whispered Grif, taking the dog in his
arms, and gathering warmth from it. "Good old Rough! Dear old Rough!"
The dog could only respond to its master's affection by action, but
that was sufficiently expressive for Grif, who buried his face in
Rough's neck, and patted its back, and showed in twenty little ways
that he understood and appreciated the faithfulness of his dumb
servant. After this interchange of affectionate sentiment, Grif and
his dog crept out of the house. It was raining hard, but the lad took
no further heed of the weather than was expressed by drooping his chin
upon his breast, and putting his hands into the ragged pockets of his
still more ragged trousers. Slouching along the walls as if he derived
some comfort from the contact, Grif walked into a wider street of the
city, and stopped at the entrance of a narrow passage, leading to a
room used as a casino. The dog, which had been anxiously sniffing the
gutters in quest of such stray morsels of food as had escaped the eyes
and noses of other ravenous dogs, stopped also, and looked up humbly
at its master.
"I'll stay here," said Grif, resting against the wall. "Milly's in
there, I dare say, and she'll give me somethin' when she comes out, if
she's got it."
Understanding by its master's action that no further movement was to
be made for the present, Rough sat upon its haunches in perfect
contentment, and contemplated the rain-drops falling on the ground.
Grif was hungry, but he had a stronger motive than that for waiting;
as he had said, he had some one besides himself to provide for, and
the girl he expected to see had often given him money. Strains of
music floated down the passage, and the effect of the sounds, combined
with his tired condition sent him into a half doze. He started now and
then, as persons passed and repassed him; but presently he slid to the
earth, and, throwing his arm over the dog's neck, fell into a sound
sleep. He slept for nearly an hour, when a hand upon his shoulder
roused him.
"What are you sleeping in the rain for?" a girl's voice asked.
"Is that you, Milly?" asked Grif, starting to his feet, and shaking
himself awake. "I was waitin' for you, and I was so tired that I fell
off. Rough didn't bark at you, did he, when you touched me?"
"Not he! He's too sensible," replied Milly, stooping, and caressing
the dog, who licked her hand. "He knows friends from enemies. A good
job if all of us did!"
There was a certain bitterness in the girl's voice which jarred upon
the ear, but Grif, probably too accustomed to hear it, did not notice
it. She was very handsome, fair, with regular features, white teeth,
and bright eyes; but her mouth was too small, and there was a want of
firmness in her lips. Take from her face a careworn, reckless
expression, which it was sorrowful to witness in a girl so young, and
it would have been one which a painter would have been pleased to gaze
upon.
"I have been looking for Jim," she said, "and I cannot find him."
"I sor him to-night," Grif said; "he was up at the house--him and
Black Sam and Ned Rutt, and the Tenderhearted Oysterman."
"A nice gang!" observed the girl. "And Jim's the worst of the lot."
"No, he isn't," said Grif; and as he said it, Milly looked almost
gratefully at him. "Rough knows who's the worst of that lot; don't
you, Rough?"
The dog looked up into its master's face, as if it perfectly well
understood the nature of the question.
"Is Black Sam the worst?" asked Grif.
The dog wagged its stump of a tail, but uttered no sound.
"Is Ned Rutt the worst?" asked Grif.
The dog repeated the performance.
"Is Jim Pizey the worst?" asked Grif.
Milly caught the lad's arm as he put the last question, and looked in
the face of the dog as if it were a sibyl about to answer her heart's
fear. But the dog wagged its tail, and was silent.
"Thank God!" Milly whispered to herself.
"Is the Tenderhearted Oysterman the worst?" asked Grif.
Whether Grif spoke that name in a different tone, or whether some
magnetic touch of hate passed from the master's heart to that of the
dog, no sooner did Rough hear it, than its short yellow hair bristled
up, and it gave vent to a savage growl.
A stealthy step passed at the back of them at this moment.
"For God's sake!" cried Milly, putting her hand upon Grif's mouth, and
then upon the dog's.
Grif looked at her, inquiringly.
"That was the Oysterman who passed us," said Milly, with a pale face.
"I hope he didn't hear you."
"I don't care if he did. It can't make any difference between us. He
hates me and Rough, and Rough and me hates him; don't we?"
Rough gave a sympathetic growl.
"And so you were up at the house, eh, Grif?" said Milly, as if anxious
to change the subject. "What were you doing all the night?"
"I was sittin' with--"
But ignorant as Grif was, he hesitated here. He knew full well the
difference between the two women who were kind to him. He knew that
one was what he would have termed "respectable," and the other
belonged to society's outcasts. And he hesitated to bring the two
together, even in his speech.
"You were sitting with--?" Milly said.
"No one particler," Grif wound up, shortly.
"But I should like to know, and you _must_ tell me, Grif."
"Well, if I must tell you, it was with Ally I was sittin'. You never
seed her."
"No, I've never seen her," said Milly, scornfully. "I've heard of her,
though. She's a lady, isn't she?"
"Yes, she is."
Milly turned away her head and was silent for a few moments; then she
said,
"Yes, she's a lady, and I'm not good enough to be to about her. But
she isn't prettier than me for all that; she isn't so pretty; I've
been told so. She hasn't got finer eyes than me, and she hasn't got
smaller hands than me;" and Milly held out hers, proudly--a beautiful
little hand--"nor smaller feet, I know, though I've never seen them.
And yet she's a lady!"
"Yes, she is."
"And I am not. Of course not. Well, I shall go. Good-night."
"Good-night, Milly," Grif said, in a conflict of agitation. For he
knew that he had hurt Milly's feelings, and he was remorseful. He knew
that he was right in saying that Alice was a lady, and in inferring
that Milly was not; yet he could not have defined why he was right,
and he was perplexed. Then he was hungry, and Milly had gone without
giving him any money, and he knew that she was angry with him. And he
was angry with himself for making her angry.
While he was enduring this conflict of miserable feeling, Milly came
back to him. Grif was almost ashamed to look her in the face.
"She isn't prettier than me?" the girl said, as if she desired to be
certain upon the point.
"I didn't say she was," Grif responded, swinging one foot upon the
pavement.
"And she hasn't got smaller hands than me?"
"I didn't say she had, Milly."
"Nor smaller feet?"
"Nobody said so."
"Nor brighter eyes, nor a nicer figure? And yet," Milly said, with a
kind of struggle in her voice, "and yet she's a lady, and I'm not."
"Don't be angry with me, Milly," Grif pleaded, as if with him rested
the responsibility of the difference between the two women.
"Why should I be angry with you?" asked Milly, her voice hardening.
"It's not your fault. I often wonder if it is mine! It's hard to tell;
isn't it?"
Grif, not understanding the drift of the question, could not
conscientiously answer; yet, feeling himself called upon to express
some opinion, he nodded his head acquiescently.
"Never mind," said Milly; "it will be all the same in a hundred years!
Have you had anything to eat to-night, Grif?"
Grif felt even more remorseful, for, after what had passed, Milly's
question, kindly put, was like a dagger's thrust to him.
"Well, here's a shilling for you--it's the only one I've got, and
you're welcome to it. Perhaps the lady would give you her last
shilling! Any lady would, of course--that's the way of ladies! Why
don't you take the shilling?"
"I don't want it," said Grif, gently, turning aside.
Milly placed her hand on the boy's head, and turned his face to hers.
She could see the tears struggling to his eyes.
"Don't be a stupid boy," Milly said; "I have only been joking with
you. I don't mean half I said; I never do. Though she's a lady, and
I'm not, I'd do as much for you as she would, if I was able." And,
forcing the shilling into his hand, the girl walked quickly away.
Grif looked after her until she was out of sight, and shaking his
head, as if he had a problem in it which he could not solve, made
straight for a coffee-stall where pies were sold, and invested his
shilling. Carrying his investment carefully in his cap, which he
closed like a bag, so that the rain should not get to the pies, Grif,
with Rough at his heels, dived into the poorer part of the city, and
threaded his way among a very labyrinth of deformed streets. The rain
poured steadily down upon him, and soaked him through and through, but
his utter disregard of the discomfort of the situation showed how
thoroughly he was used to it. Grif was wending his way to bed; and
lest any misconception should arise upon this point, it may be as well
to mention at once that the bed was a barrel, which lay in the rear of
a shabby house. Not long since the barrel had been tenanted by a dog,
whose master had lived in the shabby house. But, happily, master and
dog had shifted quarters, and the barrel becoming tenantless, Grif
took possession without inquiring for the landlord. Whereby he clearly
laid himself open to an action for ejectment. And Grif was not the
only tenant, for when he arrived at his sleeping-place, he stooped,
and putting his head into the barrel, withdrew it again, and said,
"Yes; there he is!" the utterance of which common-place remark
appeared to afford him much satisfaction. Grif's action had disturbed
the occupant of the barrel, who had evidently been sleeping, and he
presently appeared, rubbing his eyes.
Such a strange little tenant! Such a white-faced, thin-faced,
haggard-faced, little tenant! Such a large-eyed, wistful-eyed, little
tenant! In truth, a small boy, a very baby-boy, who might have been an
infant, or who might have been an old man whom hunger had pinched,
whom misery had shaken hands and been most familiar with. He gazed at
Grif with his large eyes and smiled sleepily, and then catching sight
of Grif's cap with the pies in it, rubbed his little hands gladly, and
was wide-awake in an instant.
"You haven't had nothin' to eat to-night, I'll bet," said Grif.
The little fellow's lips formed themselves into a half-whispered No.
Grif insinuated his body into the barrel, and stretched himself full
length by the side of the baby-boy. Then he slightly raised himself,
and, resting his chin upon his hand, took a pie from his cap, and gave
it to his companion. The boy seized it eagerly, and bit into it,
without uttering a word.
"You haven't got me to thank for it, Little Peter," Grif said. "It's
Milly you have got to thank. Say, thank you, Milly."
"Thank you, Milly," said Little Peter obediently, devouring his pie.
There was another pie in the cap, but hungry as Grif was he did not
touch it. He looked at Little Peter, munching, and then at his dog,
who had crept to the mouth of the barrel, and who was eyeing the pie
wistfully. Had the dog known that its master was hungry, it would not
have looked at the pie as if it wanted it.
"_You've_ had precious little to eat to-night, too," said Grif to
Rough, who wagged its tail as its master spoke. "We'll have it between
us." And he broke the pie in two pieces.
He was about to give one piece of it to Rough, when he heard a
cat-like step within a few yards of him. "Who's there?" he cried,
creeping partly out of the barrel. No answer came, but the dog gave a
savage growl, and darted forwards. Grif listened, but heard nothing
but a faint laugh.
"I know that laugh, that's the Tenderhearted Oysterman's laugh. What
can he want here? Rough! Rough!" The dog came back at the call, with a
piece of meat in its mouth, which it was swallowing ravenously. "Well,
if this isn't a puzzler, I don't know what is," observed Grif. "Where
did you got that from? You're in luck's way to-night, you are, Rough.
All the better for Little Peter! Here, Little Peter, here's some more
pie for you."
Little Peter took the dog's share of the pie without compunction, and
expeditiously disposed of it. He then stretched himself on his face,
and was soon fast asleep again. Grif, having eaten his half of the
pie, coiled himself up, and prepared for sleep. No fear of rheumatism
assailed him; it was no new thing for him to sleep in wet clothes. He
was thankful enough for the shelter, poor as it was, and did not
repine because he did not have a more comfortable bed. He was very
tired, but the remembrance of the events of the day kept him dozing
for a little while. Alice, and her husband, and Milly, presented
themselves to his imagination in all sorts of confused ways. The story
he had heard Alice's husband tell of how their marriage came about was
also strong upon him, and he saw Alice and Richard standing in the
soft moonlight on her father's station. "I wonder what sort of a cove
her father is!" Grif thought, as he lay between sleeping and waking.
"He must be a nice 'ard-'earted bloke, he must? I wish I was her
father; I'd soon make her all right!" Then he heard Milly say, "She
hasn't got smaller hands than me!" and Milly's hands and Alice's hands
laid themselves before him, and he was looking to see which were the
smaller. Gradually, however, these fancies became indistinct, and
sleep fell upon him; but only to deepen them, to render them more
powerful. They were no longer fancies, they were realities. He was
crouching in a corner of the room, while Richard was speaking to
Alice; he was groping down the stairs, and calling for Rough, and
fondling him; he was standing at the entrance of the narrow passage,
waiting for Milly, and he was sleeping, with his arm embracing his
dog; he was talking to Milly, and asking Rough who was the worst of
all Jim Pizey's lot? he was listening to the Tenderhearted Oysterman's
retreating footsteps; and he was standing at the pie-stall, spending
Milly's last shilling. But here a new feature introduced itself into
the running commentary of his dreams. He fancied that, after he and
Little Peter had eaten the pies, the Tenderhearted Oysterman came
suddenly behind Rough, and, seizing the dog by the throat, thrust it
into a small box, the lid of which he clapped down and fastened; that
then the Oysterman forced the box into the barrel, and so fixed it
upon Grif s chest that the lad could not move; and that, although he
heard the dog moan and scratch, he could not release it. The weight
upon Grif's chest grew heavier and heavier; it was forcing the breath
out of his body. In his sleep he gasped, and fought release himself.
And after a violent struggle, he awoke.
There _was_ something lying upon his chest. It was Rough, who had
crawled into the barrel, and was licking its master's face. It had
been whining, but directly it felt Grif's hand, it grew quiet. The
rain was falling heavily, and the drops were forcing themselves
through the roof of the barrel. Grif shifted the dog gently on one
side.
"There's 'ardly room enough for two, let alone three of us," Grif
muttered. "Little Peter, are you awake?" The soft breathing of Peter
was the only reply. "You've no right to come shovin' yourself in,"
continued Grif, addressing the dog, who gave utterance to a pleading
moan; "but I ain't goin' to turn you out. What a night it is! And how
wet the barrel is! It would be much nicer if it was dry. It's almost
as bad as a gutter?" Here came a long-drawn sigh from Rough, and then
a piteous moan, as if the dog were in pain. "Be quiet Rough! What's
the use of botherin' about the rain!" exclaimed the boy. "There'll be
a flood in Melbourne, if this goes on!" And drawing his limbs closer
together, Grif disposed himself for sleep. He was almost on the
boundary of the land of dreams, when a yelp of agony from Rough
aroused him again, and caused him to start and knock his head against
the roof of the barrel. "Blest if I don't think somethin's the matter
with the dawg!" he exclaimed. "What are you yelpin' for, Rough?" The
dog uttered another sharp cry of agony, and trembled, and stretched
its limbs in convulsion. Thoroughly alarmed, Grif corkscrewed his way
out of the barrel as quietly as he could for fear of waking little
Peter, and called for Rough to follow him. Rough strove to obey its
master's voice even in the midst of its pain, but it had not strength.
"Rough! Rough!" cried Grif, drawing the dog out of the barrel. "What's
the matter, Rough? Are you hurt?" He felt all over its body, but could
discover nothing to account for Rough's distress. He took his faithful
servant in his arms, and looked at it by the dim light of the weeping
stars. Rough opened its eyes and looked gratefully at Grif, who
pressed the dog to his breast, and strove to control the violent
shuddering of its limbs; but its agony was too powerful. It rolled out
of Grif's arms on to the ground, where it lay motionless.
Cold and wet and shivering as he was, a deeper chill struck upon
Grif's heart as he gazed at the quiet form at his feet. He called the
dog by name, but it did not respond; he walked away a few steps and
whistled, but it did not follow; he came back, and stooping, patted it
upon its head, but it did not move; he whispered to it, "Rough! poor
old Rough! dear old Rough! speak to me, Rough!" but the dog uttered no
sound. Then Grif sitting down, took Rough in his arms, and began to
cry. Quietly and softly at first.
"What did Ally arks me to-night?" he half thought and half spoke
between his sobs. "Did I ever have a friend that I would sacrifice
myself for? Yes! I would for Rough! There wasn't another dawg in
Melbourne to come up to him! And now he's gone, and I ain't got no
friend left but Ally." And he laid his face upon the dog's wet coat,
and rained warm tears upon it.
"After all the games we've had together!" he continued. "After the
times he's stood up for me! He'll never stand up for me agin--never
agin!"
He knew that the dog was dead, and his anguish at the loss of his
dumb, faithful friend was very keen. Had it been human, he could not
have felt a deeper affliction.
"Everybody liked Rough! And he never had a growl for no one who spoke
kind to him. Everybody liked him--everybody except the Tenderhearted
Oysterman. The Tenderhearted Oysterman!" he cried, jumping to his feet
as if an inspiration had fallen upon him. "Why, it was him as swore he
would murder Rough! It was him as passed to-night when I was goin' to
give Rough the pie! It was him as give Rough the piece of meat! The
piece of meat! It was pizened! He swore he'd kill him, and he's done
it! That's what I heerd him laughin' at."
Grif wiped the tears from his eyes with the cuff of his ragged jacket,
and clenched his teeth.
"He's pizened Rough, has he?" he muttered, gloomily; and raising his
hand to the dark sky, he said, "If ever I can be even with him for
killin' my dawg, I will, so 'elp me--"
This time there was no one by to check the oath, and he uttered it
savagely and emphatically. Then he put his head in the barrel, and
shook Little Peter awake.
"Peter," he said, "Rough's dead. Ain't you sorry?"
"Yes," said Little Peter, without any show of feeling.
"He's been pizened. The Tenderhearted Oysterman's pizened him. Say
Damn him!"
"Damn him!" Little Peter said, readily.
"I'm going to bury him," said Grif. "Git up and come along with me."
Very obediently, but very sleepily, Little Peter came out of bed. Grif
looked about him, picked up a piece of rusty iron, and taking Rough in
his arms, walked away, and Little Peter, rubbing his eyes, trudged
sometimes behind and sometimes at Grif's side. Now and then the little
fellow placed his hand half carelessly and half caressingly upon
Rough's head, and now and then Grif stopped and kissed his dead
servant. In this way, slouching through the miserable streets, the
rain pouring heavily down, the funeral procession reached a large
burial-ground. The gates were closed, but they got in over a low wall
at the back. Everything about him was very solemn, very mournful, and
very dreary. The night was so dark that they could scarcely see, and
they stumbled over many a little mound of earth as they crept along.
"This'll do," said Grif, stopping at a spot where a tangle of grass
leaves were soiling their crowns in the muddy earth.
With the piece of iron he soon scraped a hole large enough for the
body. Some notion that he was performing a sacred duty which demanded
sacred observances was upon him.
"Take off your cap," he said to Little Peter.
Little Peter pulled off his cap; Grif did so likewise; and the rain
pattered down upon their bare heads. They stood so for a little while
in silence.
"Ashes to ashes!" Grif said, placing the body in the hole, and piling
the earth over it. He had followed many funerals to the churchyard,
and had heard the ministers speak those words.
"Good-bye, Rough!" murmured Grif, with a sob of grief. "Dear old
Rough! Poor old Rough!"
And then the two outcasts crept back again, through the dreary
streets, to their bed in the barrel.
CHAPTER IV.
THE CONJUGAL NUTTALLS.
The March of Progress is sounding loudly in the ears of the people who
throng the streets of Melbourne. It is not a lazy hum, a droning
whisper, with an invitation to sleep in its every note; there is
something martial in its tones, something that tells you to look alive
and move along, if you do not wish to be pushed into a corner and lost
sight of. It may be that the March of Progress is set to quicker time
in the busy thoroughfares of Melbourne than in those of the cities of
the older world. It makes itself more strongly felt; it asserts itself
more independently; it sets the blood in more rapid circulation. It
carries us along with it, past noble-looking stores filled with the
triumphs of the workshops of the world which emigrants call Old; past
great hotels whence men issue in the noonday light, wiping their
months unblushingly, and through the swinging doors of which you catch
glimpses of excited men, eating, drinking, talking, gesticulating, as
rapidly and fiercely as if they thirsted to trip up the heels of Time,
and take him prisoner by the forelock; past fine houses and squalid
houses; through quarters where wealth smiles and poverty groans; to
the very verge of the growing city, from which line the houses dot the
landscape pleasantly, and do not crowd it uncomfortably--from which
line are seen fair plains and fields, and shadows of primeval forests
in the clouds. And here, the air which had been swelling louder and
louder, until it grew into a clanging sound that banished all sense of
rest, grows fainter and sweeter; here in the suburbs, as you walk in
them by the side of the whispering river, over whose bosom the weeping
willow hangs, the March of Progress subsides into a hymn, which
travels on through the landscape to the primeval forests, and softly
sings, that soon--where now grim members of the eucalypti rear their
lofty heads; where now a blight is heavy on the bush, which before the
burning sun had waged fierce war with it and sucked the juices from
the earth, was bright and beautiful with tree and flower--the golden
corn shall wave, and gladden the face of nature with rippling smiles.
The March of Progress sounds but faintly before a prettily-built
weatherboard cottage in the suburbs, where dwell the family of the
Nuttalls. It is a pleasant cottage, and so Mr. Nicholas Nuttall seems
to think as he looks round the parlour with a smile, and then looks
down again, and reads, for at least the sixth time, a letter which is
lying open on the table.
"And Matthew is alive," he said, speaking to the letter as if it were
sentient; "alive and prosperous! To think that it should be thirty
years since I saw him; that I should come out here, scarcely hoping to
find him alive, and that, after being here only a month, I should hear
of him in such a wonderful manner. So amazingly rich, too! Upon my
word," he continued, apostrophising a figure of Time, which, with a
very long beard and a very long scythe, looked down upon him from the
family mantel-shelf; "upon my word, old daddy, you're a wonder. You
are," he continued, shaking his head at the figure; "there's no
getting over _you!_ You grow us up, you mow us down; you turn our hair
black, you turn it white; you make us strong, you make us feeble; and
we laugh at you and wheeze at you, until the day comes when we can
laugh and wheeze no more. Dear! dear! dear! What a handsome fellow he
was to be sure! I wonder if he is much altered. I wonder if he ever
thinks of old times. I shall know him again, for certain, directly I
clap eyes on him. He must have got grey by this time, though. Dear!
dear! dear!"
And Mr. Nicholas Nuttall fell to musing over thirty years ago, fishing
up from that deep well a hundred trifles which brought pleasant
ripples to his face. They had been buried so long that it might have
been excused them had they been rusted, but they were not so. They
came up quite bright at his bidding, and smiled in his face. They
twinkled in his eyes, those memories, and made him young again. In the
glowing wood fire rose up the pictures of his past life; the
intervening years melted away, and he saw once more his boyhood's
home, and the friends and associates whom he loved. As at the touch of
a magician's hand, the tide of youth came back, and brought with it
tender episodes of his happy boyhood; he looked again upon faces,
young as when he knew them, as if youth were eternal, and time had no
power to wrinkle; eyes gazed into his lovingly, as of yore; and days
passed before him containing such tender remembrances that his heart
throbbed with pleasure at the very thought of them. He and his brother
were walking hand-in-hand through a leafy forest; they came upon two
girls (who were afterwards drowned but he did not think of that!) whom
they greeted with hand-clasps, and then the four wandered on. He
remembered nothing more of that woodland walk; but the tender
pressure of the girl's hand lingered upon his even after so many
years, and made the day into a sweet and loving remembrance. And thus
he mused and mused, and all his young life passed before him,
phantasmagorically. The flowers in the garden of youth were blooming
once again in the life of Mr. Nicholas Nuttall.
But his reverie was soon disturbed. For the partner of his bosom, Mrs.
Nicholas Nuttall, suddenly bouncing into the room, and seating
herself, demonstratively, in her own particular arm-chair, on the
other side of the fire, puffed away his dreams in a trice.
Mrs. Nicholas Nuttall was a small woman. Mr. Nicholas Nuttall was a
large man. Mrs. Nichols Nuttall, divested of her crinolines and
flounces and other feminine vanities, in which she indulged
inordinately, was a very baby by the side of her spouse. In fact, the
contrast, to an impartial observer, would have been ridiculous. Her
condition, when feathered, was that of an extremely ruffled hen,
strutting about in offended majesty, in defiance of the whole poultry
race. Unfeather her, and figuratively speaking, Mr. Nicholas Nuttall
could have put Mrs. Nicholas Nuttall into his pocket--like a doll.
Yet if there ever was a man hopelessly under petticoat government; if
ever there was a man completely and entirely subjugated; if ever there
was a man prone and vanquished beneath woman's merciless thumb; that
man was the husband of Mrs. Nicholas Nuttall. It is a singular fact,
but one which may be easily ascertained by any individual who takes an
interest in studying the physiology of marriage life, that when a very
small man espouses a very large woman, he is, by tacit consent, the
king of the castle: it is an important, unexpressed portion of the
marriage obligation; and that, when a very small woman espouses a very
large man, she rules him with a rod of iron, tames him, subjugates
him, so to speak, until at length he can scarcely call his soul his
own.
This was the case with the conjugality of the Nuttalls, as was proven
by the demeanour of the male portion of the bond. For no sooner had
the feminine half (_plus_) seated herself opposite the masculine half
(_minus_) than the face of Mr. Nicholas Nuttall assumed an expression
of the most complete and perfect submission.
Mrs. Nuttall was not an agreeable-looking woman. As a girl she might
have been pretty: but twenty-five years of nagging and scolding and
complaining had given her a vinegarish expression. Her eyes had
contracted, as if they had a habit of looking inward for consolation;
her lips were thin, and her nose was sharp. This last feature would
not have been an ugly one if it had not been so bony; but constant
nagging had worn all the flesh away, and brought into conspicuous
notice a knob in the centre of the arc, for it was a Roman. If such
women only knew what a splendid interest amiability returned, how
eager they would be to invest in it!
Mrs. Nuttall sat in her chair and glared at her husband. Mr. Nuttall
sat in his chair and looked meekly at his wife. He knew what was
coming--the manner, not the matter. He knew that something had annoyed
the wife of his bosom, and that she presented herself before him only
for the purpose of distressing him with reproaches. He waited
patiently.
"Mr. Nuttall," presently said Mrs. Nuttall, "why don't you speak? Why
do you sit glaring at me, as if I were a sphinx?"
To throw the _onus_ of the interview upon Mr. Nuttall was manifestly
unfair, and the thought may have kept him silent; or, perhaps, he had
nothing to say.
"This place will be the death of me, I'm certain," Mrs. Nuttall
remarked with an air of resignation.
Nicholas shrugged his shoulders with an almost imperceptible
motion--shrugged them, as it were, beneath his shirt and coat, and in
such a manner that no movement was imparted to those garments. Ever
since they had been married, something or other was always going to be
the death of Mrs. Nuttall; about six times a day, on an average, since
the honeymoon, Mr. Nuttall had heard her utter the complaint,
accompanied by an expression of regret that she had ever married. That
regret she expressed upon the present occasion, and Mr. Nuttall
received it with equanimity. The first time he heard it, it was a
shock to him; but since then he had become resigned. So he merely put
in an expostulatory "My dear"--being perfectly well aware that he
would not be allowed to get any further.
"Don't my-dear me," interrupted Mrs. Nuttall, as he expected; he would
have been puzzled what to say if she had not taken up the cue. "I'm
tired of your my-dearing and my-loving. You ought never to have
married, Nicholas. You don't know how to appreciate a proper and
affectionate wife. Or if you were bent upon marrying--and bent you
must have been, for you would not take No, for answer--you ought to
have married Mary Plummer. I wish you had _her_ for a wife! Then you
would appreciate me better."
No wonder, that at so thoroughly illogical and bigamy-suggesting an
aspiration, Mr. Nuttall looked puzzled. But Mrs. Nuttall paid no
attention to his look, and proceeded,--
"I went to school with her, and I ought to know how she would turn
out. The way she brings up her family is disgraceful; the girls are as
untidy as can be. You should see the bed-rooms in the middle of the
day! And yet her husband indulges her in everything. He is something
like a husband should be. He didn't drag his wife away from her home,
after she had slaved for him all her life, and bring her out to a
place where everything is topsy-turvy, and ten times the price that it
is anywhere else, and where people who are not fit for domestics are
put over your heads. He didn't do that! Not he! He knows his duty as a
husband and a father of a family better."
Mr. Nuttall sighed.
"The sufferings I endured on board that dreadful ship," continued Mrs.
Nuttall, "ought to have melted a heart of stone. What with walking
with one leg longer than the other for three months, I'm sure I shall
never be able to walk straight again. I often wondered, when I woke up
in a fright in the middle of the night, and found myself standing on
my head in that horrible bunk, what I had done to meet with such
treatment from you. From the moment you broached the subject of our
coming to the colonies, my peace of mind was gone. The instant I
stepped on board that dreadful ship, which you basely told me was a
clipper, and into that black hole of a hen-coop, which you falsely
described as a lovely saloon, I felt that I was an innocent convict,
about to be torn from my native country. The entire voyage was nothing
but a series of insults; the officers paid more attention to my own
daughter than they did to me; and the sailors, when they were pulling
the ropes--what good they did by it I never could find out!--used to
sing a low song with a chorus about Maria, knowing that to be my name,
simply for the purpose of wounding my feelings. And when I told you to
interfere, you refused, and said it was only a coincidence! That is
the kind of consideration I get from you."
Mr. Nuttall sighed again.
"There's Jane," observed Mrs. Nuttall, approaching one of her
grievances; "the best servant I ever had. At home she was quite
satisfied with ten pounds a year; and now, after our paying her
passage out, she says she can't stop unless her wages are raised to
thirty pounds. Thir-ty pounds," said Mrs. Nuttall, elongating the
numeral. "And at home she was contented with twelve. Do you know how
you are to meet these frightful expenses? I'm sure _I_ don't. But
mind, Nicholas, if we come to ruin, don't blame me for it. I told you
all along what would be the result of your dragging us to the
colonies. I pray that I may be mistaken; but I have never been
mistaken yet, and you know it;" and Mrs. Nuttall spread out her skirts
(she was always spreading out her skirts, as if she could not make
enough of herself) complacently.
Still Mr. Nuttall made no remark, and sat as quiet as a mouse, gazing
humbly upon the household prophet.
"Thirty pounds a year for a servant-of-all-work!" continued the lady.
"Preposterous! The best thing we can do, if that's the way they're
paid, is all of us to go out as servants-of-all-work, and lay by a
provision for Marian."
A vision of himself, in feminine attire, floor-scrubbing on his knees,
flitted across the disturbed mind of Mr. Nuttall.
"She must have the money, I suppose. I know who has put her up to it;
it is either the baker's or the butcher's man. The two noodles are
hankering after her, and she encourages them. I saw the pair of them
at the back-gate last night, and she was flirting with them nicely.
You must give information to the police, Nicholas, and have them
locked up."
"Looked up!" exclaimed Mr. Nuttall.
"Certainly. Do you think the police would allow such goings on at
home?"
"Perhaps not, my dear," said Mr. Nuttall, with a sly smile; "the
police at home, I believe, are said to hold almost a monopoly in
servant-girls."
"I don't understand your coarse allusions, Mr. Nuttall," said Mrs.
Nuttall, loftily. "What I say is, you must give information to the
police, and have these goings-on stopped."
"It is perfectly impossible, Maria. Do be reasonable!"
"Sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Nuttall, glaring at her husband.
"What I meant to say, Maria," said Mr. Nuttall, clearing his throat,
as if something had gone down the wrong way, "is, that I don't believe
it is a criminal offence for a servant-girl to talk to a baker, or
even a butcher, over a gate; and I doubt if giving information to the
police would lead to any satisfactory result."
"It will be a very satisfactory result--won't it?--if Jane runs away
and gets married. Servant-girls don't think of that sort of thing at
home. I shall be in a nice situation. It would be like losing my right
hand. I tell you what this country is, Mr. Nuttall--it's demoralizing,
that's what it is." And Mrs. Nuttall wept, through sheer vexation.
All this was sufficiently distressing to Mr. Nuttall, but he did not
exhibit any outward show of annoyance. Time was when Mrs. Nuttall's
tears impressed him with the conviction that he was a man of hard
feeling, but he had got over that. And so Mrs. Nuttall wept, and Mr.
Nuttall only experienced a feeling of weariness; but he brightened up
as his eyes rested upon the letter which had occasioned him so much
pleasure, and he said--
"Oh, Maria, I have an invitation for you. At short notice, too. For
this evening. From Mr. and Mrs. Blemish. Great people, you know,
Maria."
Mrs. Nuttall instantly became attentive.
"And whom do you think we shall meet? When I tell you, you will be as
surprised as I was when I read it."
"Whom, Nicholas?" asked Mrs. Nuttall, impatiently. "Do _not_ keep me
in suspense."
"My brother Matthew!"
"Alive!" exclaimed Mrs. Nuttall.
"Of course. You would not wish to meet him in any other condition,
would you?"
"That you should make such a remark," observed Mrs. Nuttall, "of a
brother whom we all thought dead, is, to say the least of it,
heartless, Nicholas. Of course, if the Blemishes are, as you say,
great people, and he visits them, it is a comfort, as showing that his
position is not a bad one. But, if we are to go, can you tell me what
to wear? I don't know, in this outlandish colony, whether we are
expected to dress ourselves like Christians or aboriginals."
"The last would certainly be inexpensive, but it would scarcely be
decent, Maria," remarked Mr. Nuttall, slily.
"That may be very witty, Mr. Nuttall," responded his lady, loftily;
"but it is hardly an observation a man should make to his own wife.
Though for what you care about your wife's feelings I would not give
that," and she snapped her fingers, disdainfully.
From long and sad experience, Mr. Nicholas Nuttall had learned the
wisdom of saying as little as possible when his wife was in her
present humour. Indeed, he would sometimes lose all consciousness of
what was passing, or would find himself regarding it as an unquiet
dream from which he would presently awake. But Mrs. Nuttall was always
equal to the occasion; and now, as she observed him about to relapse
into a dreamy state of inattention, she cried, sharply--
"Nicholas!"
"Yes, my dear," he responded, with a jump, as if half-a-dozen needles
had been smartly thrust into a tender part.
"What am I to wear this evening?"
"Your usual good taste, Maria," he commenced--
"Oh, bother my good taste!" she interrupted. "You know that we are to
meet your brother to-night, and I am only anxious to do you credit.
Not that I shan't be a perfect fright, for I haven't a dress fit to
put on my back. If I wasn't such a good contriver, we should look more
like paupers than respectable people. My black silk has been turned
three times already; and my pearl grey--you ought to know what a state
that is in, for you spilt the port wine over it yourself. Is your
brother very rich, Nicholas?"
"They say so, Maria; he owns cattle stations, and thousands of sheep
and cattle. He is a squatter, you know."
"A what?" she screamed.
"A squatter."
"What a dreadful thing!" she exclaimed. "What a shocking calamity! Is
he always squatting, Nicholas?"
"My dear;" said Nicholas, amazed.
"Not that it matters much," she continued, not heeding him; "he may
squat as long as he likes, if he has plenty of money, and assists you
as a brother should. Thank heaven! none of my relations ever squatted.
Has he been squatting long, Nicholas?"
"For ever so many years," he replied.
"What a disagreeable position! Why, his legs must be quite round. You
ought to thank your stars that you have a wife who doesn't squat--"
But observing a furtive smile play about her husband's lips, she rose
majestically, and said,
"I shall not waste my conversation upon you any longer. I suppose the
cab will be here at half-past nine o'clock; everybody else, of course,
will go in their own carriages." (Here she took out her watch, and
consulted it.) "Bless my soul! it is nearly seven o'clock now. I have
barely three hours to dress."
And she whisked out of the room, leaving Mr. Nuttall, nothing loth, to
resume his musings.
CHAPTER V.
THE MORAL MERCHANT ENTERTAINS HIS FRIENDS AT DINNER.
On the same evening, and at about the same hour, of the occurrence of
the foregoing matrimonial dialogue, Mr. Zachariah Blemish entertained
his friends at dinner. Mr. Zachariah Blemish was a merchant and a
philanthropist; he was also a gentleman of an imposing mien, and of a
portly appearance. Some of his detractors (and what man lives who has
them not?) said that the manly bosom which throbbed to the beats of
his patriotic heart was filled with as earthly desires as other
earthly flesh. If this assertion, which was generally made spitefully
and vindictively, was the worst that could be said against him,
Zachariah Blemish could look the world in the face without blushing.
True or untrue, he did look, unmoved, in the world's face, and if
either felt abashed in the presence of the other, it was the world,
and not Blemish. There was a self-assertion in his manner when he
appeared in public, which, if it could have been set down in so many
words, would have thus expressed itself:--"Here am I, sent among you
for your good; make much of me. You are frail, I am strong; you are
mean, I am noble. But do not be abashed. Do not be afraid of your own
unworthiness. I do not wish to hold myself above you. I will eat with
you, and talk with you, and sleep with you, as if I were one of
yourselves. It is not my fault that I am superior to you. Perhaps, if
you look up to me, you may one day reach my level. It would be much to
accomplish, but you have my best wishes. I am here to do you good, and
I hope I may." As he walked along the streets, people fell aside and
made way for him, deferentially. They looked after him, and pointed
him out to strangers as the great Mr. Blemish; and it was told of one
family that, when the children were put to bed at night, they were
taught to say, "God bless papa and mamma, and Good Mr. Blemish." His
snowy shirt-front, viewed from a distance, was a sight to look upon,
and, upon a nearer acquaintance, dazzled one with its pure whiteness.
At church he was the most devout of men, and the congregation wondered
how so much greatness and so much meekness could be found in the
breast of any one human being. There was not a crease in his face; it
was fat, and smooth, and ruddy; it looked like the blessed face of a
large cherubim; and it said as plainly as face could say, "Here dwell
content, and peace, and prosperity, and benevolence." He was Chairman
of the United Band of Temperance Aboriginals; President of the Moral
Boot-blacking Boys' Reformatory; Perpetual Grand Master of the Society
for the Total Suppression of Vice; the highest dignitary in the
Association of Universal Philanthropists; and a leading member of the
Fellowship of Murray Cods. He subscribed to all the charities; with a
condescending humility he allowed his name to appear regularly upon
all committees for religious and benevolent purposes, and would
himself go round with lists to collect subscriptions. In this
direction his power was enormous. Such a thing as a refusal was not
thought of. People wrote their names upon his list, in the firm belief
that twenty shillings invested in benevolence with Zachariah Blemish
returned a much larger rate of interest than if invested with any
other collector. Once, and once only, was he known to be unsuccessful.
He asked a mechanic for a subscription to the funds of the United Band
of Temperance Aboriginals, and the man refused him, in somewhat rough
terms, saying that the United Band of Temperance Aboriginals was a
Band of Humbugs. Blemish gazed mildly at the man, and turned away
without a word. The following day he displayed an anonymous letter, in
which the writer, signing himself "Repentant," enclosed one pound
three shillings and sixpence as the contribution of a working man
(being his last week's savings) towards the funds of the United Band
of Temperance Aboriginals, and a fervent wish was expressed in the
letter that the Band would meet with the success it deserved. There
was no doubt that it was the mechanic who sent it, and that it was the
magnetic goodness of the Moral Merchant that had softened his heart.
At the next meeting of the United Band of Temperance Aboriginals
(which was attended by a greasy Australian native clothed in a dirty
blanket, and smelling strongly of rum) a resolution was passed,
authorizing the purchase of a gilt frame for the mechanic's letter, to
perpetuate the goodness of Blemish, and the moral power of his eye.
On the present evening he was seated at the head of his table, round
which were ranged some dozen guests of undoubted respectability. He
was supported on his right by a member of the Upper House of
Parliament; he was supported on his left by a member of the Lower
House of ditto. One of the leading members of the Government was
talking oracularly to one of the leading merchants of the city. One of
the leading lawyers was laying down the law to one of the leading
physicians. And only three chairs off was Mr. David Dibbs, eating his
dinner like a common mortal. Like a common mortal? Like the commonest
of common mortals! He might have been a bricklayer for any difference
observable between them. For he gobbled his food did Mr. David Dibbs,
and he slobbered his soup did Mr. David Dibbs, and his chops were
greasy, and his hands were not nice-looking, and, altogether, he did
not present an agreeable appearance. But was he not the possessor of
half-a-dozen cattle and sheep-stations, each with scores of miles of
water frontage, and was not his income thirty thousand pounds a year?
Oh, golden calf! nestle in my bosom, and throw your glittering veil
over my ignorance, and meanness, and stupidity give me thirty thousand
pounds a year, that people may fall down and worship me!
The other guests were not a whit less respectable. Each of them, in
his own particular person, represented wealth or position. Could it
for a single moment be imagined that the guests of Mr. Zachariah
Blemish were selected for the purpose of throwing a halo of
respectability round the person of their host, and that they were one
and all administering to and serving his interest? If so, the guests
were unconscious of it; but it might not have been less a fact that he
made them all return, in one shape or another, good interest for the
hospitality he so freely lavished upon them. This evening he was
giving a dinner party to his male friends; and later in the night Mrs.
Zachariah Blemish would receive _her_ guests and entertain them.
The gentlemen are over their wine, and are conversing freely.
Politics, scandal, the state of the colony, and many other subjects,
are discussed with animation. Just now, politics is the theme. The
member of the Lower House and the member of the Upper House are the
principal speakers here. But, occasionally, others say a word or two,
which utterings are regarded by the two members as unwarrantable
interruptions. The member of the Government says very little on
politics, and generally maintains a cautious reticence.
"I should like to have been in the House last night," said one of the
conversational interlopers; "that was a smart thing Ritchie said."
"What was it?" asked another.
"Speaking of Beazley, who is awfully rich you know, and an
incorrigible miser, he said, 'He congratulated himself upon not
belonging to a party which had, for its principal supporter, a man
whose office was his church, whose desk was his pulpit, whose ledger
was his Bible, and whose money was his god.'"
"Very clever, but very savage," remarked one of the guests. "I do not
believe in such unbridled licence of debate."
"I met Beazley the other day, and he complained that the times were
dreadfully dull. He did not know what things were coming to. He had
seventy thousand pounds lying idle, he said, and he could not get more
than five per cent. for it. He shook his head and said, 'The golden
days of the colony are gone!'"
"And so they are," said the member of the Lower House, whose
proclivities were republican, "and they will not return until we
have Separation and Confederation. That's what we want to set us
going--separation from the home country, and a confederation of the
South Sea colonies. We don't want our most important matters settled
for us in the red-tape office over the water. We don't want our
Governors appointed for us; we want to select them ourselves from the
men who have grown up with us, and whose careers render them worthy
and prove them fit for the distinction. If we were in any serious
trouble we should have to extricate ourselves as best we could, and if
we _did_ have help from the home country, shouldn't we have to pay the
piper? That's the point--shouldn't we have to pay the piper?"
"Nay, nay," expostulated Mr. Zachariah Blemish. "Consider for a
moment, I beg--we are all loyal subjects, I hope--"
"I maintain," said the member of the Lower House, excited by his
theme, "that, notwithstanding our loyalty to the reigning Sovereign,
the day must come when we shall not be dependent upon the caprices of
a colonial office fourteen thousand miles distant, which very often
does not understand the nature of the difficulty it has to legislate
upon. I maintain that the day must come--"
"Gentlemen," called Mr. Zachariah Blemish, horrified at the utterance
of such sentiments over his dinner table, "gentlemen, I give you The
Queen! God bless her!"
"The Queen! God bless her!" responded all the guests, rising to their
feet, and drinking the toast enthusiastically. And then the
conversation took another turn. Presently, all ears were turned to the
leading physician, who was relating a circumstance to the leading
lawyer.
"It is a curious story," he said. "The man I speak of was always
reported to be very wealthy. No one knows more of his early career
than that, when the gold-diggings were first discovered, he was a
Cheap-Jack, as they call them, trading at all the new gold-fields. He
bought tents, picks, shovels, tubs, anything, from the diggers, who
were madly running from one place to another. He bought them for a
song, for the diggers could not carry those things about with them,
and they were glad to get rid of them at any price. When he sold them
he made enormous profits, and by these means he was supposed to have
amassed a great fortune. Then he speculated largely in sheep and
cattle, and grew to be looked upon as a sort of banker. Many men
deposited their savings with him, and, as he did not pay any interest
for the money, and traded with it, there is no doubt as to the
profitable nature of his operations. The great peculiarity about him
was that his face from beneath his eyes, was completely hidden in
bushy, brown, curly hair, He had been heard to say that he had never
shaved. Well, one night, at past eleven o'clock, he knocked up a
storekeeper at the diggings, and bought a razor and strop, a pair of
scissors, a pair of moleskin trousers, a pair of watertight boots, and
a blue serge shirt. In the course of conversation with the
storekeeper, and while he was selecting the articles, he said that
they were for a man whom he had engaged as a shepherd, and who was to
start at daybreak the following morning. That was the last
indisputable occurrence that was known in connection with him; the
next day he disappeared and was not heard of again. For a day or two,
no notice was taken of his absence; but, after that, depositors and
others grew uneasy, and rumour invented a hundred different stories
about him. A detective who knew him intimately, said that he was
standing at the pit entrance of the Theatre Royal in Bourke Street,
when a man passed in, the glitter of whose eyes attracted the
detective's attention strangely. He could not recall the man's face,
which was clean shaven, and he thought no more about it at the time.
The missing man was traced to Melbourne, but no further. Some three or
four weeks after his disappearance, the body of a drowned person was
found in a river in New South Wales, and, from certain marks about it,
it was supposed to be that of our missing friend. The inquest was
adjourned, to allow time for the production of evidence from Victoria,
and twelve medical men, all of whom knew the missing party were
subp[oe]naed for the purpose of identifying him, or otherwise. The
body was much decomposed, but some of the witnesses said that they
would know if it was the missing man by the peculiar shape of one of
his toes. The singularity of the affair lies in this. Six of the
witnesses swore that it was the missing man, and six of them swore
that it was not. Both sides were very positive. Some months after the
inquest, a story was current that he had been seen at Texas, which
story was shortly afterwards followed up by another, that he was shot
in a tavern in South America. Then came other reports that he was
living in great magnificence in all sorts of out-of-the-way places.
But whether he is alive or not, no one in the colony knows, and to
this day the mystery is not cleared up, and probably never will be."
"And the depositors' money?" asked the lawyer.
"Was never heard of. Vanished. If he was drowned, he did not like to
part with it, and he took it into the other world with him."
Everybody at the table was much interested in the story, and commented
upon it; after which there was a lull in the conversation.
"I have a great surprise in store for you to-night," said Mr. Blemish;
addressing a gentleman of about sixty years of age, whose face was
covered with iron-grey whiskers, beard, and moustache.
From some unexplained cause, the gentleman addressed looked suddenly
and excitedly into the face of his host, and exclaimed, in a quick,
nervous voice--
"A surprise!"
"Yes, and I hope a pleasant one."
"What surprise?" he asked, in the same agitated manner.
"Nay." returned Mr. Blemish, gently, "it will not be a surprise if I
tell you beforehand."
The flush that had risen to that portion of the gentleman's face which
the iron-grey whiskers, beard, and moustache allowed to be seen,
slowly died away, and was replaced by a whitish-grey tint, which
almost made him look like the ghost of an antique warrior. He
debated within himself for a few moments, and then, taking out his
pocket-book, wrote upon a leaf, "I shall take it as a particular
favour if you will let me know what is the surprise you have in store
for me; I have urgent reasons for asking;" and passed it, folded, to
his host. Mr. Blemish read it, smiled, and wrote beneath, in reply,
"Do you remember your brother?" and repassed the paper to his guest.
"Brother!" exclaimed that gentleman, in a voice betokening that,
although he was considerably astonished, he was also considerably
relieved.
"Yes," said Mr. Blemish, "your brother Nicholas."
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Mr. Matthew Nuttall; and the rest of the
guests stared hard at him. Excepting Mr. David Dibbs, who was not
disposed to be diverted from the serious occupation of eating and
drinking. For Mr. David Dibbs lived to eat; he did not eat to live.
It _is_ a shock to a man to be wrenched, without forewarning, from the
groove in which his life has been gliding for twenty years. For fully
that time Mr. Matthew Nuttall, engrossed in his own pursuits and his
own cares, had never once thought of his brother; and now, at the very
mention of his name, memories, long buried and forgotten, floated upon
his mind like the sudden rising of a ghostly tide.
"Have you seen him?" he asked.
"No," said Mr. Zachariah Blemish, "I learned by accident that he has
but lately arrived in the colony. Singularly enough, he had a letter
of introduction to me from some of my people at home, and Mrs.
Blemish, out of respect to you, invited him this evening to meet you."
"Mrs. Blemish is always kind. I shall be very glad to see Nicholas,"
said Mr. Matthew Nuttall, slowly and thoughtfully; and then the
conversation became more general.
"Sheep are rising in the market, are they not, Mr. Dibbs?" asked the
member of the Upper House.
"It's time they was," replied the great squatter, his mouth full of
pine-apple.
"The people are complaining loudly of the price of beef," observed the
democratic member of the Lower House.
"They're always a-growlin'," said Mr. David Dibbs, who, having
swallowed his pine-apple, was enabled to speak with greater clearness.
"They don't know what they want, don't the people. Beef ought to be
double the price. My motto all'as has been, 'Live and let live.' They
lay the blame on us squatters, but it's the butchers as sticks it on."
"It lies between the two of you, I suppose. Did you read in the papers
that Mr. Froth said at the Eastern Market last night that the
squatters were the ruin of the country?" asked the member of the Lower
House, who, in virtue of his position, did all he could to make
himself disagreeable.
"Mr. Froth wants his head punched," said Mr. Dibbs, elegantly, "and I
wouldn't mind a-doin' of it for him. Why doesn't he stick to his
business? He's a ignorant, lazy--a--a--" Here Mr. Dibbs wanted a word,
and could not get it.
"Demagogue," suggested one of the guests.
"That's it. He's a ignorant, lazy demagogue, and is always trying to
stir up the mob."
"The fact of it is, sir," said the member of the Upper House, seizing
the opportunity to give a blow to democracy, "the people, as you call
them, are a discontented set. Manhood suffrage has done it all. No man
ought to have a vote who has not a property qualification."
"Quite right, sir," said Mr. Dibbs. "A glass of wine?"
"With pleasure. For, sir, what is the result?" (This oracularly, as if
he were addressing the House.) "These men, sir, who have no property,
but have a vote, exercise a pressure upon property detrimental to the
interests of gentlemen who have property. What has property to do with
them, or what have they to do with property? When they have property,
let them speak; until then, let them be silent, and not interfere with
what does not concern them."
"Them's my sentiments," nodded Mr. Dibbs, approvingly, helping himself
to more wine and pine-apple.
"To what, sir, is this state of things to be attributed?" continued
the orator. "The answer is plain. It is to be attributed to the
unfortunate state of independence in which the working-man finds
himself in these colonies. The working-classes all over the world,
sir, are democratic, often dangerously democratic. But in such a
country as England they are kept in their proper position by a
sense of dependence. They cannot afford to quarrel with their
bread-and-butter there. But, sir, when the working-man lands upon
these shores, this spirit of dependence vanishes. Speaking vulgarly,
sir, he says within himself, 'Jack's as good as his master;' and
acting up to the spirit of that old adage (the author of it sir, ought
to have been put into the pillory)--acting, I say again, sir, up to
the spirit of that adage, he aims a blow at the interests of all of us
who have property in the colony. He does not pay property the respect:
to which it is entitled. He becomes democratic to a dangerous degree,
and has no regard for conservative interests. This must be put a stop
to, sir. It is incumbent upon us, who are loyal subjects, to put a
stop to it--as loyal subjects, I say, sir, for we all know what is the
meaning of democracy. It behoves all of us who have settled interests
in the colony to look sharply about us. We must, if necessary, band
together for the protection of our own interests; and, above all, sir,
we must stick to the Constitution."
"Quite right again, sir," assented Mr. Dibbs, whose only idea of the
Constitution was thirty thousand pounds a year for himself.
All the guests, with the exception of the member of the Lower House,
agreed to the proposition that they must stick to the Constitution.
The way that poor word was tossed about, and flung across the table
and back again, was deplorable. It was settled that the Constitution
was in danger, and, at all hazards, must be protected. No one could
define precisely the nature of the danger. It appeared, as far as
could be gathered, to resolve itself into this--that times were very
dull, and that, therefore, the Constitution was imperilled. They all,
with one exception, appeared to think that something was very wrong
somewhere, and that the country was in a most distressing condition.
Mr. Zachariah Blemish was the only person at the table who ventured to
remark that "We are young, gentlemen, we are young, and have plenty of
time before us for improvement. In all new colonies evils are sure to
creep in. We have a fine estate in our hands, gentlemen; one of the
finest estates in the world; and all it wants is proper management.
Certainly the state of commercial morality is very bad--"
Ah, here was a theme! Commercial morality! The guests grew eloquent
upon it. The member of the Upper House said it was deplorable; the
member of the Lower House said it was disgraceful; the leading
physician said it was frightful; the leading lawyer said it was
unparalleled; Mr. Dibbs said it was beastly; and they raised their
hands and their eyes, and shook their heads as much as to say, "Is it
not dreadful that we, who are immaculate, who are undefiled, should
live in the midst of such a state of things, without being able to
remedy the evil?" But the most impressive of all was Mr. Zachariah
Blemish; and, as a merchant of the highest standing, his words were
listened to with deep attention.
Commercial morality (he said) was at its lowest ebb. The spirit of
over-speculation among traders was something frightful to contemplate,
and disastrous results were sure to follow. Indeed, indications of the
approaching crisis were already observable in the records of the
Insolvency Court. It was all occasioned by the easiness with which men
got credit--men who commenced with nothing, who had nothing, with the
exception of self-assurance, and who speculated recklessly, with the
knowledge that when the crash came--and come it must, sooner or later,
with such-like speculators--their creditors would only be too glad to
take five shillings in the pound; would feel delighted at seven
shillings and sixpence; would congratulate themselves at ten
shillings; and then, after giving a full release, would actually do
business again, upon terms, with the very man who had robbed them.
Where was honesty? Where was morality? What would become of vested
interests if that sort of thing were to continue? Steps must be
taken--it behoved all of them to take steps. A check must be put to
the spirit of reckless speculation, and he himself had some idea of
initiating a movement in furtherance of the desired result. All that
was required was that merchants should be true to themselves and to
their own interests, and the country would soon recover from its
present depressed condition.
And after the utterance of these platitudes, Mr. Zachariah Blemish
stuck his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, and looked round upon his
guests, who, one and all, bowed down to the spirit of honour and
integrity shining in the face of their merchant host!
CHAPTER VI.
FATHER AND DAUGHTER.
The house of Mr. Zachariah Blemish looked out upon the sea. It was a
magnificent mansion, worthy of the greatness of its inmate, and was
the resort of the most fashionable, as well as the most influential,
residents of Melbourne and its charming suburbs. It had a balcony
round three of its sides--a broad, spacious balcony, on which the
guests could promenade, and talk politics, or love, or philosophy, as
suited them. It was grand, on a quiet night, to sit thereon, and watch
the moon rising from the sea; it was grand to watch the sea itself,
cradled in the arms of night, while myriad cloud-shadows floated on
its breast, and flashed into lines of snow-fringed light with the
rising and the falling of the waves.
Lights were gleaming in the windows and round the balcony, and the
house was pleasant with the buzz of conversation, and soft laughter,
and sweet music. The party seemed altogether a very delightful one;
for a smile was on every lip, and distilled honey dropped from every
tongue, while the presiding genius of the establishment was benign and
affable, and moved among his guests like Jove dispensing agreeability.
The brothers Nuttall had met in the ball-room. The only words they
exchanged were "Matthew!" "Nicholas!" and then, after a long pressure
of the hand, they adjourned to the balcony, where their conversation
would be more private than in the house.
They felt somewhat awkward; the days they had passed together might
have belonged to another life, so long gone by did that time seem. The
bridge between their boyhood and their old age had crumbled down, and
the fragments had been almost quite washed by the stream of Time.
Still, some memory of the old affection was stirred into life by the
meeting, and they both felt softened and saddened as their hands lay
in each other's clasp.
They paced the balcony in silence at first. Then the elder, Matthew,
asked some stray questions as to the old places he used to frequent,
and smiled and pondered wonderingly as he heard of the changes that
had taken place.
"And the yew, where the parrot used to swing, gone!" he said. "And the
wood where we went nutting?"
"Almost a city, Mat. A tree here and there, that's all. I was thinking
only to-night of that wood, and of one happy day we spent there--you
know with whom?"
"I know--I know. Good God! I have not thought of it or them for twenty
years. And now they come to me again. Do they live?"
"Drowned!"
"Poor girls! There, Nick, let us talk of something else. It is no
wonder things have changed. We have changed more than they."
"Yes, we are old men now," responded his brother. "This is a strange
meeting, Mat, and in a new world, too."
"What did you come out to the colonies for?" asked the elder brother.
"For the same reason, I suppose, that thousands of other people come
out--to better myself. I don't know that I had any particular other
reason, and I don't know that I exactly knew how I was going to better
myself. But I thought it would come right somehow.
"Then there were the goldfields, eh, Nicholas?"
"Yes; then there were the goldfields. They did excite me certainly. I
heard of people picking up nuggets--of course you laugh--and I thought
it possible that such a thing might happen. I know now how foolish
even the stray thought of such a thing was for me, an old man. But
still the gold seemed to say to me, Come, and I came."
"You are not rich?"
"No," was the reply.
"Any fixed plans of what you are going to do?"
"No--a dozen things have occurred to me, but, to tell you the truth, I
am puzzled. Everything here appears to be so--so go-ahead," he said,
after hesitating for a term, "that I am bewildered somewhat. Then,
there is Mrs. Nuttall!"
"Mrs. Nuttall!"
"Yes," replied Nicholas, smiling; "my wife. I will introduce you
presently. She will be agreeably surprised at your appearance," and he
chuckled to himself as he thought of his wife's notions of squatting.
"Then there is the girl--"
"What girl?"
"My daughter."
"Daughter!" cried Matthew, almost convulsively. But he controlled
himself the moment after, and said, "A spasm, Nicholas, nothing more.
What is her age?"
"Sixteen," said Nicholas. "She is here to-night. I am very proud of
her, and hope you will like her."
"Marian! That was our mother's name."
Then there was silence, and, as they stood on the balcony looking out
upon the ocean, the snow-fringed waves might have been bringing back
to them the time that seemed to belong to another life.
"Stay here a moment, Mat," said Nicholas; "I will bring Marian to
you."
And going into the house, he returned with a beautiful girl, whose
face was rosy with youth and health, and whose eyes beamed with
pleasure. Her graceful person and her soft white dress made her a
pretty figure in the scene.
"Marian, my dear, your uncle."
He turned and took her hand, and made a movement as if about to kiss
her. But he restrained himself with a sudden impulse.
"This is her first ball, Mat," said Nicholas, with an affectionate
look at his daughter. "Are you enjoying yourself?"
"Oh, so much, papa!"
As she spoke, her uncle dropped her hand, and faced the sea. She was
moving away towards her partner, who was waiting for her, when her
uncle wheeled round, and said, as if the words were forced out of
him--
"Kiss me, child."
She raised her face to his, and he bent down and kissed her, then
pushed her lightly towards her partner.
"She is a dear good girl, Mat," said Nicholas; "and the greatest
blessing I have; that is," he added, not at all enthusiastically,
"next to Mrs. Nuttall, of course. By the bye, Mat--how careless of me,
to be sure, perhaps you have a family of your own. Are _you_ married?"
"Nicholas," said his brother, not answering the question, "do you
remember my character as a boy?"
"Quite well, Mat. Eager, pushing, brave, and determined."
"Very determined, Nicholas."
"Very determined. I often wish I had your determination of character.
Old Mr. Gray, our schoolmaster--you remember him, Mat?--used to say
your determination was so determined, that it was nothing less than
obstinacy. I heard him say of you one day, 'When Mat Nuttall makes up
his mind to do a thing, he'll do it, whether it be good or bad, and
whatever may be the result.' He said it was not a good trait--but he
was mistaken, Mat. There is nothing so manly as determination of
character. I wish I possessed it."
"Don't wish it, Nicholas. It often proves a curse."
"It has not proved so to you, Mat, for it has brought you riches and
prosperity."
"I am rich and prosperous, as the world goes; but let that pass.
Whether it be good or bad, I am not a whit less determined now than I
was when a boy. I cannot help it. It is my nature. Old Mr. Gray was
right. I am not to be turned from a determined purpose, whether I
think I am right or wrong. Now, I have made up my mind to do what is
in my power, so far as prudence goes, to advance your fortunes. But
when I say to you, you must not do such and such a thing, I expect you
not to do it. You are attending to me?"
"Yes."
"I am glad to have seen you--I am glad to have seen your--your Marian.
But there is one subject which must never be mentioned between us, and
that is the question of my family. Say that I have none. Tell Mrs.
Nuttall this, and spare me any questions from her. Tell her and
your"--(and here the same indecision expressed itself when he spoke of
his brother's daughter)--"your Marian, that I am wifeless and
childless. I must not be questioned upon the point. I have made up my
mind not to be. I will not allow it to be referred to, or hinted at."
He spoke with distinctness, and yet with a strange hurriedness, as if
he wished to be done quickly with the subject.
"You see those two figures yonder," he said, pointing to where the
shadows of two persons could be seen upon the seashore.
"Yes, Mat, I can see them, although my eyes are not so good as they
were."
"Suppose those two should walk out upon the sea, and sink, and sink,
and be lost to the world--you can suppose it?"
"I can suppose it, Mat," said his brother, wonderingly.
"Suppose they are walking out upon the sea, and that they are taking
this subject with them, and that it sinks with them, and is heard no
more. See" (and he waved his hand as the two figures disappeared),
"they are gone, and the subject is gone, and they are lost to us for
ever. And there is an end to them and to it. You understand me,
Nicholas?"
"I understand you, Mat."
"Very well. We will go in now, and you shall introduce me to your
wife."
Meanwhile, the two persons, whose shadows the brothers had noticed,
were pacing the shore. The tide was running out, and each receding
wave rippled in sympathy with the soft touches of melody which floated
from the brilliantly-lighted mansion. The music brought no pleasure to
the couple walking slowly upon the sands; they were too much engrossed
in their melancholy condition. The boy had been crying at some tale he
had told, and the girl's voice expressed much sympathy as she said--
"So poor Rough is dead!"
"Yes, he's dead," replied the boy. "I shall never see him agin. I hate
the sight of dawgs now. I was very fond of 'em before. But didn't you
say you wanted me to do somethin', Ally?"
"Wait a minute, Grif; I will tell you presently." Alice appeared to be
struggling with some powerful agitation which threatened to master
her, for she stopped, and placed her hand to her heart, as if to check
its beatings. "You see that house," she then said.
"Yes," Grif said; "I peeped in there a little while ago. They're very
jolly, all of 'em, Ally. There's lots of swells with their white
chokers, and lots of gals lookin' very sweet and nice."
"They are happier than we are, Grif."
"I should think they was--they'd be precious fools if they wasn't! I
got a squint at the kitchen--there's ducks, and geese, and turkeys,
and jellies painted all sorts of colours, and sugar cakes--such a
spread! I wish we had some of it here. They ought to be happy with
such lots to eat. I tell you what, Ally; if I thought I was agoin' to
be hung, I wouldn't mind it a bit if they'd put me down in that there
kitchen jist as it is now, for about three hours. I'd like to have
Little Peter with me, though--wouldn't we go it!" Grif's eyes
glistened at the bare anticipation.
"I want you to take a letter for me to that house. You don't mind?"
"Not a bit of it. I'll jist do anythin' as you tells me, Ally."
"You can't read."
"I can spell large letters on the walls. I never bothered about
nothin' else."
"Pay attention to what I say, and do exactly as I tell you," said
Alice, placing her hand on the boy's shoulder. Grif' s face assumed an
expression of close attention. Alice took a letter from her pocket,
and continued, "Go to the house, and ask if the gentleman to whom this
letter is addressed is within. If they say he is, tell them that the
letter is to be given to him at once--it is very important. Do not
drop it, Grif, or lose it. It contains my hope, my happiness, perhaps
my life. Be sure you give it to some one who will promise to deliver
it without delay."
She spoke in short broken gasps, and stayed her speech to recover her
breath.
"Don't cry, Ally," said Grif; "am I to arks to see the gentleman?"
"No. You can give the letter to any of the servants; then go away and
keep out of sight. If you see a gentleman speaking with me, do not
disturb us, but when he is gone, and I am alone, come to me, and we
will go home."
Her voice was very desolate as she spoke the last word. Grif gave a
nod of comprehension, and walked to the house, while the girl strained
her eyes thitherward in eager watchfulness. The night was changing
now; a low wail of wind came across the sea, striking a colder chill
of desolation to her heart. She shivered, and wrapped her shawl more
closely about her. But for this movement she might have been an image
of Sadness, so drear and lonely did she appear as she stood upon the
glistening sands.
Grif mused as he walked along; Alice's words had deeply impressed him.
He weighed the letter in his hand, and thought, "It contains her
happiness, perhaps her life; then the cove who gets it has got
somethin' to do with Ally. I wonder who he is: I'll have a good look
at him; I'll know him agin, _I_ bet, after I've seen him once." Thus
soliloquising, he reached the house, and, standing in the shade,
watched the people flitting about. They were all so beautifully
dressed that he felt ashamed of his rags; it was clearly, to his mind,
an act of presumption to speak to such well-dressed people. With an
instinctive exercise of good judgment, he resolved to ask one of the
maids to deliver the letter. A man-servant might hustle him away; a
girl would be more susceptible to pity. So, plucking up courage, he
walked boldly to the back-door, and, seeing a girl with a pretty face,
with a tray of custards in her hand, he approached her.
"Oh, dear!" exclaimed the girl, almost dropping the tray, as ragged
Grif emerged from the shade into the light. "What do you want? Go
away; I mustn't give you any."
Grif eyed the custards hungrily and longingly. Then he wrenched his
attention from the tempting glasses, and said, falsely, "I don't want
nothin', miss; only if you'll please to tell me if the gentleman's
name writ on this letter is in this house."
The girl looked at it, and said he was, she thought.
"Will you please give him the letter? It's very partic'ler, it is."
The girl took the letter, and said she would deliver it. Grif ducked
his head, and turned slowly away. But he cast a wistful glance over
his shoulder at the food for which he was longing. The kind-hearted
maid saw hunger in his face, and, catching up a half-devoured fowl,
ran after him. She looked round hurriedly, to see that she was not
observed, and saying, "Here, dirty boy!" thrust the food into his
eager hands, and ran back to the house as fast as her legs would carry
her. Grif, walking carefully in the shade, commenced at a wing; he was
dreadfully hungry, but in the midst of his enjoyment he stopped, and
thought of Rough, and wished the dog was there to eat the bones. The
tears ran down the boy's face as he thought, and he strolled on,
munching and crying. When he got to the front of the house, he saw the
servant girl delivering the letter. The gentleman went in the light to
read it, and Grif had an opportunity of seeing his face. "I shall know
_you_ agin," Grif thought. "You ain't much to look at, _you_ ain't.
He's goin' to Ally, and I'm not to bother 'em. All right; I'll watch
for all that."
During the whole of this time Alice had not stirred. She stood where
Grif had left her--her eyes turned towards the house. So fixed and
rapt was her attention that her very breathing could scarcely be
heard. As the form of the man came nearer and nearer to her, she
shrank, and then stretched forth her arms, as if in supplication; but
her feet seemed rooted to the spot. He came close to her, and said in
a hard, stern voice--
"Is it you who wish to speak with me?"
"Father!" she cried.
"Alice!"
The sadden surprise robbed his voice of its sternness. He recoiled a
step from her as she addressed him, and his face grew pale; but if the
next moment the moon had shone upon it, no trace of emotion would have
been there observable.
"So!" he said, coldly. "A trick! Another lesson you did not learn in
my house."
She looked down and twisted her fingers nervously, but did not reply.
"Why did you address a note to me in a strange hand?"
"I thought you would not have come if you recognised my writing," she
answered, sadly.
"What do you out at this time of night, and alone?"
"I am not alone, father," she said, glancing to where Grif was
crouching.
"What! Is your husband here?" he exclaimed with suppressed passion,
following her look.
"No, sir; it is but a poor lad. I was afraid to come out by myself."
"And your husband?"
"He does not know, sir, that I have come. If he had--"
"He would have kept you away; it would have been wise in him."
"Father, have you no pity?"
"What do you want of me?"
"Help and forgiveness."
"I will give you both. You can come to my home, and I will receive you
as my daughter."
"And Richard--my husband--"
"I will have nought to do with him. I give you once again your choice.
You are my daughter, or his wife. You cannot and shall not be both. As
this is the first, so it shall be the last time I will see you upon
the subject. You shall juggle me no more with false writing. The day
you ran away from your home, from me who was hoarding and saving for
you, I resolved to shut you from my heart as long as you were tied to
that scheming scapegrace. You know how constant I can be when I
resolve."
"Alas! I know."
"So I have resolved on this, and no power on earth can change me.
Richard Handfield came to my house a guest, and he played the knave.
He stopped in my house a servant, and he played the cheat. He took my
money, he ate my bread, he displayed his fine gentleman's airs and
accomplishments at my expense. And all this time he was stealing you
from me, and laughing in his sleeve at the trick he was playing
the wealthy squatter. He robbed me of the one object of my life. What!
shall a father toil and scheme for a lifetime, and set his heart upon
a thing, and be foiled in a day by a supercilious cheat! What does a
child owe a father? Obedience. You owed me that--but a small return
for all I had lavished upon you, but a small return for the fortune I
was amassing for you. Did I ask you for anything else? What was this
for a father to ask a daughter, that she should play the traitress to
him?"
"Father, have pity!"
"You have thwarted the scheme of my life. But what was my strongest
wish when it clashed with your girlish fancy? Listen. Do you know what
I have suffered in this colony? I have suffered privation, hunger,
misery, raging thirst, over and over again. I have walked, with
blistered feet, hundreds and hundreds of miles; I have laboured with
my axe till I was faint with fatigue; I have hidden from Blacks in
fear of my life; I have been left for dead upon the burning plains; I
have been lost in the bush until my whole being was one great despair!
Was this a pleasant life to lead, and did I deserve no recompense? Was
life so sweet to me, with those burdens, that I should enjoy it in the
then present? I had a child--a daughter. But for her I might have
grown into a wild man of the bush, and growled at the world and at
humanity. I had provocation enough, for I was poor. Men who knew me
when I first came to the colony, and when I had money, knew me not
when I lost it. I lost my wife, too; and I had but my daughter and my
poverty left. Then, when men turned their backs to me, and I felt the
bitterness of it--(I know now that they were right; poverty should be
shunned)--I bent all my mind and soul to the one desire--to make
money. A slice of good fortune fell to my share. I resolved to grow
rich, and to make my daughter rich. I toiled, I slaved, I schemed for
her. I had an object, and life was less bitter than before. I said, My
daughter shall be the envy of those who knew me when I was poor; she
shall marry riches, and grow into fashion and into power from the
force of her father's and her husband's money. She shall be called the
rich squatter's daughter, and her children shall be educated to rule
the State. I knew well then, and know well now, the power of gold; it
could do all this for me, and more. There is no aristocracy in this
colony but the aristocracy of wealth; money is the god all worship
here! It ennobles the mean, it dignifies the vulgar. It is all
powerful. See what it does for me. What fascinations, what graces,
what virtues, do I possess, that people should cringe to me and
adulate me? And as they idolize me, a man of money, for my wealth, so
I idolize my wealth for what it brings me."
As he spoke from the vile selfishness of his heart, did the wailing
wind, sighing mournfully around him, suggest to his mind no more
precious thing in the world than gold? Did the pale stars and the
restless waves teach no lesson that such an egotist might learn, and
be the better for the learning? Did they tell no story from which he
might have learned a noble creed, had he but listened to their
teaching? No! he felt not their influence. He lived only in himself.
What was Nature to him? She gave him nothing that he should be
grateful for; what he received, all others received. And so he beheld
the swelling waves, and heard the wailing wind, and looked up to the
glimmering stars with indifference. What was the glory of the heavens
to him or to his life? A handful of gold and a sightful of stars! Was
not the gold which bought him human worship, more precious to him than
all?
"Oh, father!" murmured Alice: "money is not everything."
"Money is everything," he replied; "everything to me. Can you undo,
with a word, the study of my life? It was but little I asked in return
for the future I was working out for you. The man I selected for you
had wealth, position. Even if you had failed (as you _have_ failed,
but in a different manner) in the duty you owed to me, I could not
have forced the man upon you; even although you knew it was the only
reward I coveted for my life's labour, and refused at the last moment
to give it to me, you might still have been the daughter of my heart,
as you are of my blood. But to fly from me to _him_--a penniless
adventurer, a shallow, brainless coxcomb!" The thought seemed to cool
his passion, and exclaiming, "Why do I waste my time here?" he made a
movement towards the house.
"Stop, for pity's sake," Alice cried, stretching forth her arms; "stop
and hear me."
"Speak on," he said, between his clenched teeth. There was no hope in
his voice; it was hard and bitter.
"I came to-night, sir," Alice said, humbly bowing her head, and
forcing back her tears, "to appeal to you for the last time. You
may send me away, unhappy and broken-hearted--indeed, I am that
already--but oh, sir! reflect before you do so, and let your better
feelings guide you. Ah, sir! are all your thoughts about yourself and
your money, and have you no thought of me? I do not know a parent's
feelings, but soon"--and here her voice faltered--"soon I may become a
mother--forgive me, sir, these tears--I try to conquer them, but they
are too strong for me." She paused a few moments, and then continued:
"What sympathy, sir, could you expect me, a simple girl, to have with
your aspirations? I knew them not, and if you had confided them to me,
I should not have understood them--"
"Have you come to tutor me, girl?" he asked, coldly.
"No, sir. If my distress and my misery have no weight with you, what
can my poor words do? My husband--forgive me--I must speak of him."
"Go on."
"My husband, to whose fate and lot I am linked for ever--for ever,"
she repeated firmly, "is willing to work for me, is contented to keep
me, poor and friendless as I am. But he needs help. Give it him; give
it me, and I will trouble you no more. I will be content, so that you
assist us to live."
"Your husband is a man; he can work like other men. Let him do so. He
shall not live upon my bounty. No man need starve in this land of
plenty. Let him work, if he be not too proud."
"He is not too proud, sir. He has tried to get work, but failed. Help
him in his endeavor--you can do so. You have power, influence. And
think, sir, that even if I would, I cannot undo the past."
"Would you, if you could?"
"For pity's sake, sir, do not ask me."
"Would you, if you could?" he repeated, relentlessly.
"Then, sir, as you insist," she returned, "I reply, as is my duty, No.
He is my husband, and my future life is linked with his."
"Have you done?"
"I have but little more to say, sir. I feel from your voice that there
is scant hope for me! But oh, sir, before you turn from me, think of
what my future may be if you remain inexorable. You, who have
undergone privations in your early life, know what a stern master is
necessity. As yet, my husband is saved from crime--"
"Is this your last argument?" he interrupted. "It has no weight with
me. You cannot more disgrace me than you have already done. Here let
this end. I _am_ inexorable."
His voice, stern and unforgiving, carried conviction with it.
"Heaven help me!" she exclaimed sadly. "Then we must trust to chance."
And she turned from him, weeping.
There was a pause, and then he said, "I will not leave you entirely
unsatisfied. It is money, I suppose, you want. Here are fifty pounds.
It is the last you will ever receive from me while he and you are
together. Good night."
She raised her arms imploringly, but he was making towards the house.
He saw not the entreating action, nor did he hear the low wailing sobs
which broke from her as he walked away. A sad contrast was her
drooping figure upon the lonely sands to the glad life that moved in
the merchant's house! A sad accompaniment were her sobs to the strains
of music and the sounds of light laughter with which they mingled! The
guests within were joyous, while she, who should have been his one
joy, stood desolate on the shore. But despite her misery there was
hope deep within her heart--hope of a happy future yet with the man
with whose lot hers was linked. Her father had cast her off; but love
remained--love strong and abiding. How great the contrast! A good
woman's love and a hard man's greed of gold!
CHAPTER VII.
GRIF PROMISES TO BE HONEST.
Hunger has many phases; but in every phase except its physical one it
is comparative. Thus, a person may be eagerly desirous, hungry, for
something which his neighbour has, but which his neighbour,
possessing, does not value and thinks of no regard. What is wanted is
a moral, equable dispensation; yet if by any possibility such could be
arranged, false weights would be sure to be introduced, and things
would be unequal as before. And so the world goes on hungering, and
one hungry class groans for that with which the belly of another
hungry class is filled. Every step in the ladder of life is thronged
with climbers ready to reach the next, and although some be twenty
rounds above others, they are as restlessly unhappy in their high
position, and as restlessly desirous of getting a foot higher, as
those who are so far beneath them. It is the way of the world. The
heaven is always above us, and we climb, and climb, and climb, and
never reach our hopes.
And yet some of our desires are very small. Ambition is various;
large-souled aspirations and the meanest of cravings come within its
scope. Casually, we admire the aspirations of a noble mind which looks
above and beyond the grovelling littleness of humanity, and strives to
reach a goal where dwell the nobler virtues, studded with the jewels
of their worth and goodness. Casually, we pass by, as scarcely worthy
of contempt, certainly not worthy of notice, the paltry desires for
common things which fill some creatures' souls. Nevertheless, the
aspiration which stretches itself towards the nobler virtues may be no
finer than the paltry desire which pines for common things. 'Tis ten
to one that the latter is more human; and what is human must be good,
notwithstanding what some preachers say about the corruption of flesh,
and the vanity of desire.
Ask Grif. How paltry, how mean is his ambition! Ask him, in such
language as he can understand, what it is he most desires, what it is
he most craves for? He will answer, in his own way, Sufficient of the
commonest food to eat in the day, and a shelter and blanket to cover
him in the night. Is it his fault that he strives no higher? His
hungry body cries out to him, and he responds to its prompting. He
does not openly rebel against his fate. He knows that _it is_, and,
without any concerted action of the mind to assist him to that
conclusion, he feels that he cannot alter it. He does not repine; he
only wonders sometimes that things are so. Of course, when he is
hungry he suffers; that he cannot help. But he suffers in silence, and
thereby shows that he has within him the qualities that would make a
hero. But still the fact remains that he aspires no higher; still the
fact remains that he is dead to the conscious exercise of the nobler
virtues. Spread them before him, if such were possible, and he would
not even wonder. But his eyes would light up, and all his intellectual
forces would be gratified, at the sight of a bone with a little meat
upon it. Such is Grif, a human waif living in the midst of a grand and
mighty civilisation.
Is it possible that this same civilisation, of which we comfortable
ones prate and vaunt, depraves as well as ennobles? The thought is
pertinent to the subject. For here is Grif (unquestionably depraved
and debased in the eyes of that civilisation which does nothing for
him, which absolutely turns its back upon him), a piece of raw
material out of which much good might be wrought, suffering
much unmerited suffering, and surrounded by an atmosphere of
actively-conscious vice. The law looks unkindly upon him; policemen
push him aside as if he were an interloper in the world; and
well-dressed people shrink from contact with him as he slouches by.
Civilisation presses upon him unkindly. He does not deserve it. There
is a better nature within him than he is called upon to exercise in
his intercourse with his enemy, the world. The chord of that better
nature has been touched by Alice, so kindly, so commiseratingly, that
every nerve in his frame quivers with a passionate longing to serve
her. He can reckon on the fingers of one hand the objects for which he
has any human affection. Alice he loves far beyond the others, for he
feels that she is different to them. He has seen that she is unselfish
and self-sacrificing; and he knows (though he could not express it in
so many words) that she is good from principle, and that she is pure
because it is her nature to be pure. He has heard her renounce ease
and comfort, and choose poverty and suffering, so that she might play
the good angel to the man whom she loves. And at the goodness of that
renunciation, at the holiness of it, Grif fell down and worshipped her
with all his soul. Then there was Milly: his love for her had no
adoration in it, but was born of pity, tenderness, and gratitude. He
would do much to serve Milly, for she had been very kind to him. Then
came Little Peter. Grif loved that other little waif because he was so
helpless, and because it was so sweet to have some one to cherish and
take care of. His love for Little Peter had in it something of the
love of a mother. He asked for no reward in the shape of gratitude. It
was sufficient for him that Peter was dependent upon him--was his to
protect. It is truly more blessed to give than to receive!
Counting, then, upon one hand the objects of his love, Grif could
mention Alice, Milly, and Little Peter, and still leave a finger
unprovided for. A short time since--only two days ago--the dog Rough
would have closed the list; but Rough was dead, and the finger might
be regarded as widowed. Yes, Rough was dead. Grif's faithful follower,
his dumb companion, his honest servant, was gone--poisoned, murdered,
meanly killed! Tears, born of rage and desolation, came into Grif's
eyes as he thought of the death and the manner of it. But the
murderer! Revengeful justice found strong expression when Grif swore
and swore again that he would be even with the villain who had
murdered his dog.
It was the second night after the burial, and Grif and Little Peter
were sitting upon the ground near the grave. Grif was mourning for his
lost friend; if Rough had been his brother he could not have mourned
with more genuine grief. The night was chilly, and the wind whistled
sharply about the rags in which the boys were clothed. But they were
too much engrossed in special cares and griefs to pay more attention
to the remorseless wind than was expressed by a cold shiver now and
then, and an involuntary huddling together of their limbs. "I wouldn't
care if Rough was alive," mused Grif. "If he'd only come when I
whistle!" And the next moment he absolutely whistled the old familiar
call, and looked down, almost expecting to feel Rough's cold nose
rubbing against his hand. Disappointed in this, he looked to Little
Peter for sympathy.
He got none. Little Peter's nature was not sympathetic, and Grif
obtained no response from Little Peter's eyes or tongue as he placed
his hand against the lad's cheek. How thin and pale was that poor
little face of poor Little Peter's! What weariness of the trouble of
living was expressed in the attitude of his body and in every line of
his features! As he sat, drooping, trembling, hollow-cheeked,
wistful-eyed, he looked like a shrunken old child-man with every drop
of healthful life-blood squeezed clean out of him.
Gazing at the drooping figure, Grif forgot his own grief, and saying
"Poor Little Peter!" in a tone of much pity, drew closer to the lad,
and sat motionless for many minutes. Then he rose.
"Come along, Peter," he said, "it's time we was off."
But Little Peter did not move.
"Asleep, Peter?" asked Grif.
A slight quivering of Little Peter's body was the only reply.
"Wake up, Peter!" persisted Grif, shaking him gently by the shoulder.
Still Little Peter made no response, but sat quiet, with head drooping
to his knees.
Grif knelt quickly upon the ground, and raised Peter's head. The large
eyes opened slowly and gazed vacantly at Grif, and a strong trembling
took possession of Peter. His limbs relaxed, and he would have fallen
upon his face to the earth had not Grif caught him in his arms. Where
he lay, trembling and shivering.
"He's took ill!" cried Grif, with a sudden apprehension. "They won't
take him in at the horspital! What shall I do?"
Grif, aware of the necessity of immediate action, lifted Little Peter
upon his shoulder. As he did so, and as Little Peter's head sank
forward upon Grif s breast, a small stone heart, hanging from a piece
of common string, fell from the little fellow's neck. Grif caught it
in his hand and held it. Ever since he had known Peter this little
stone heart had been round the boy's neck. He would have lost it long
ago, had it been of any value; but its worthlessness was its security.
So with the stone heart in his hand and Peter upon his shoulder, Grif
walked slowly back to the city. Now and then a wayfarer stopped and
looked after ragged Grif and his ragged burden. But Grif walked
steadily on, taking no notice of curiosity mongers. Once he was
stopped by a policeman, who questioned him.
"He's my brother," said Grif, telling the lie without the smallest
compunction, "and he's took ill. I'm carryin' of him home."
Carrying of him home! The words caused Grif to reflect and ask himself
where he _should_ carry Little Peter. The barrel? Clearly, that was
not a fit place for the sick lad. He knew what he would do. He would
take Peter to Milly's house. Grif's instincts were nearly always
right.
Soon he was in the city, and choosing the quietest streets, he made
his way to the quarter where Milly lived. There was a light in her
room. He walked slowly up the stairs, and knocked at the door. No
answer came. He knocked again, and listened. A sound of soft singing
reached his ears, and opening the door, he entered the room and stood
still.
Milly was at the further end of the room, kneeling by the side of a
bed on which lay a baby asleep. Her hands were clasped, and she was
smiling, and singing softly to herself, and looking at the face of her
baby, the while she gently swayed her body to and fro. He stood
wondering. "I never knowed she had a baby," he muttered inly, under
his breath.
Love and devotion were expressed in every curve of the girl's body.
The outline of her face, her hair hanging loosely down, the graceful
undulations of her figure, were beautiful to look at. She was singing
some simple words which might have been sung to her when she was a
sinless child, and the good influence of sweet remembrance was upon
her, and robed her with tenderness.
"Milly!" whispered Grif.
She turned quickly at the sound, and seeing Grif, cautioned him by
signs not to make a noise; and then, after placing her cheek
caressingly against her baby's, came towards him.
"What do you want, Grif?" she asked. "Who have you got there?"
"It's Little Peter," said Grif, placing the boy on the ground; "he's
took ill, and I don't know what to do."
Milly raised Peter's head to her lap, and bent over him.
"Poor Little Peter!" she said. "How white he is, and how thin! Perhaps
he's hungry."
"No," said Grif. "I know what's the matter with him. He caught cold
t'other night, when I took him with me to bury my dawg. It was rainin'
hard, and we both got soppin' wet. It didn't matter for me, but he was
always a pore little chap. I ought to have knowed better."
"To bury your dog!" repeated Milly. "Why, I saw him with you the night
before last."
"Yes, Milly, that was when you gave me that shillin'. Rough was all
right then. But he was pizened that night."
"Poisoned!"
"Yes," very mournfully.
"Who poisoned him?"
"The Tenderhearted Oysterman."
"The mean hound!"
"He heerd me say somethin' agin him when I was speakin' to you, Milly,
so he took it out of me by pizenin' the dawg. But I'll be even with
him!"
By this time Milly had undressed Little Peter, and placed him in the
bed by the side of her baby.
"There!" she said. "He'll be all right to-morrow. I'll make him some
gruel presently. He's got a bad cold, and wants keeping warm."
"You're a good sort, Milly," said Grif, gratefully. "I'd have carried
him to the horspital, but I didn't think they'd take him in."
"No; they wouldn't take him there without a ticket, and where could
you have got _that_ from?"
"Blest if I know!" exclaimed Grif. "Nobody would give _me_ a ticket, I
shouldn't think!" This remark was made by Grif in a tone sufficiently
indicative of his sense of his abasement.
"But I say, Milly," he continued, "I didn't know you had a baby. May I
look at him?"
"It's a little girl," said Milly, smiling, leading Grif towards the
bed, and turning down the coverlid so that he might get a peep of
baby's face. "Isn't she a beauty?"
Grif bent over the bed, and timidly put his hand upon baby's. The
little creature involuntarily grasped one of Grit's dirty fingers in
her dimpled fist, and held it fast.
"It's like a bit of wax," said Grif, contemplating with much
admiration the difference between baby's pretty hand and his own
coarse fingers. "Will she always be as nice, Milly?"
"You were like that once, Grif," Milly remarked.
"Was I, though?" he replied, reflectively; "I shouldn't have thought
it. How did I come like this I wonder?"
Here the baby opened her eyes--which had a very wide-awake look in
them, as if she had been shamming sleep--and stared at Grif,
seriously, as at some object really worth studying. To divert her
attention from a study so unworthy, Grif smiled at the baby, who, thus
encouraged, reflected back his smile with interest, and crowed into
the bargain. Whereat Milly caught her in her arms, and pressing her to
her breast, covered her face with kisses.
"How old is she, Milly?" asked Grif, regarding this proceeding with
honest pleasure.
"Ten weeks the day after to-morrow," replied Milly, who, as is usual
with young mothers, reckoned forward. "And now, Grif, if you will hold
her, I will make some gruel for Little Peter. Be careful. No; you
mustn't take her like that! Sit down, and I will put her in your lap."
So Grif squatted upon the ground, and Milly placed the child in his
lap. He experienced a strange feeling of pleasure at his novel
position. It was a new revelation to him, this child of Milly's. Milly
herself was so different. He had never seen her in so good a light as
now. Hitherto he had in his thoughts drawn a wide line between her and
Alice; a gulf that seemed impassable had divided them. Now the gulf
was bridged with human love and human tenderness. Alice was all good;
but was Milly all bad?
He looked at her as she was making the gruel. Tender thoughts
beautify; a mother's love refines. She was kneeling before the fire,
pausing in her occupation now and then to bestow a smile upon her
child. Once she rested her face in baby's neck, caressingly. Her hair
hung upon Grif's hand, and he touched it and marvelled at the contrast
between Milly of yesterday and Milly of to-day. Then he fell to
wondering more about Milly than he had ever wondered before. Had she a
father, like Alice, who was unkind to her? What was it that she saw in
Jim Pizey that made her cling to him? Why was it that everything
seemed to be wrong with those persons whom he loved? Rough had been
poisoned, Little Peter was ill, Milly was attached to a bad man, and
Alice--well, it was a puzzle, the whole of it! While he thus thought,
Milly had been giving Little Peter the gruel.
"Milly," Grif said, when she returned from the bed, "have you got a
mother and father?"
The girl turned a startled look upon him, and was about to make some
passionate reply, but suddenly checked herself.
"Don't ask me, Grif," she said, in a hard voice. "How is your lady?"
Her old spirit was coming upon her. Grif knew that she meant Alice by
"your lady," and he was hurt by the scornful ring of her voice. Seeing
that he was grieved, Milly said:
"Don't mind me, Grif; now I'm soft, and now I'm hard. I've got the
devil in me sometimes, and I can't keep him down. But I mustn't
think--I mustn't think--I mustn't think. Of course, I've got a mother
and father, and my mother and father's got a daughter they might be
proud of. Everybody used to tell me so. I had a pretty face, pretty
hands, pretty feet, pretty hair. I'm a pretty daughter altogether! Why
wasn't I ugly? Then I might have been good!"
She took the baby from Grif s arms, and pressed it to her bosom.
"If I knew how to be good," she said, in a softened voice, "I think I
would be. But I don't know how. If I was to go out of this house
to-night, I shouldn't know which way to turn to be good. I'd be sure
to turn wrong. I don't care!" And then she sang, recklessly, "I'm
happy, I'm careless, I'm good-natured and free; and I don't care a
single pin what the world thinks of me!"
"Don't, Milly! don't!" pleaded Grif, placing his hand upon hers, and
looking earnestly at her.
She took his hand convulsively, and put it to her baby's lips.
"That won't do baby any harm," she said, after a pause. "I wonder if
baby will grow up pretty, like me. Oh, I hope not, I hope not!"
"She's got eyes like your'n," said Grif, wishing to change her humour.
"Prettier than mine," Milly replied. "But if it wasn't that I should
go mad if I was to lose her, I wish she would die! It would be better
for her, but I think it would be worse for me. What's that in your
hand?"
It was Little Peter's stone heart, which Grif had held all the while.
"It's Little Peter's heart," he said.
"Of course it is; I remember it now. It belonged to his mother."
"Where is she?" asked Grif, eagerly, for this was the first time he
had heard of Little Peter's mother.
"She died two years ago in the hospital."
"Did you know her, Milly?"
"I went with a friend to see her when she was dying. She was a Welsh
woman. She put the heart round Little Peter's neck when we took him to
wish her good-bye, for the doctor said she would die before night."
"What did she die of, Milly?" The subject was full of interest to
Grif.
"Broken heart. Somebody played her false, as usual. I shan't die of a
broken heart--not I! Drink will be my death--the sooner the better!
Hush! There's Jim. Who else? The Tenderhearted Oysterman."
Grif jumped to his feet, trembling with passion.
"He mustn't see you. He'll do you a mischief. Perhaps he won't stop
long. Get under the bed-clothes, and pretend to be asleep. Quick! For
God's sake!"
She thrust him hurriedly into the bed, and had barely time to conceal
him and resume her position, before Jim and his companion entered.
Milly smiled at Jim, but neither he nor his companion took heed of
her. They seated themselves near the fire, and Milly sat upon the bed,
which was in the shadow of the room.
"We must have him," said the Tenderhearted Oysterman, apparently in
continuance of a conversation. "The old bloke always keeps a heap of
money in his safe at Highlay Station; and Dick Handfield knows every
nook and cranny of the place. I've heard him say so. He knows all the
secret drawers, too, I'll be bound, and where the keys are to be
found, and where the hiding places are. We must have him, Jim."
At the mention of Highlay Station, Grif pricked up his ears. That was
the Station which Alice had spoken of in their conversation a couple
of nights ago. But when, the next instant, the Tenderhearted Oysterman
uttered Richard Handfield's name, he started, and caught Milly's hand
excitedly. Milly pressed him down with quiet, warning action, and,
recalled to the necessity of being cautious, Grif lay still and
listened. Milly paid but little attention to the conversation. She did
not know anything of Highlay Station, nor that Alice was Richard
Handfield's wife, and it was no novelty to her to hear schemes of
robbery discussed by Jim and his associates.
"You talk," said Jim Pizey. "But I like to do."
"What do you mean by that?" asked the other.
"Not that you're not cool enough," continued Jim, "you're as good a
pal as I ever want to have, if you'd only stop that damned cant of not
hurting people." (The Tenderhearted Oysterman gave a quiet chuckle.)
"I know well enough that you don't mean it."
"Now Jim," expostulated the Oysterman, and yet evidently regarding his
comrade's words as a compliment. "It's a good job there's no one by to
hear you take away my character."
"But others don't know you as well as I do, and there's plenty of them
would think you were chicken-hearted."
"Do I look like it?" asked the Tenderhearted Oysterman in a tone of
villanous humility.
"No, you don't. But you'd make believe that you was. If I didn't know
you for one who would stick at nothing--nothing, not even short of--"
"Never mind what," interrupted the Oysterman, looking at Milly, who
was employed nursing her baby, and did not appear to be taking heed of
what was said.
"If I didn't know you for that, then, I'd have nothing to do with you,
for your infernal cant sickens me."
There was a pause in the conversation. Grif still held Milly's hand
hard. He felt there was something coming which would affect Alice, and
every word that was being uttered stamped itself upon his mind.
"Dick Handfield we must have, and Dick Handfield we will have,"
resumed Jim. "If we can't have him one way, we will another. I've got
a hook in him already, and if he hangs on and off as he's been doing,
the white-livered skunk! the last two weeks, he'll get a dose that'll
pretty well settle him."
"What sort of a dose, Jim?"
"I bought a watch of him this morning--here it is. I gave him five
pounds for it. It's a pretty little thing. Just the thing for Milly!
Milly."
"Yes, Jim," answered Milly, disengaging her hand from Grif's grasp,
and walking towards Jim, for fear he should come to the bed, and
discover Grif.
"Here's a watch I've bought for you. It belonged to a lady."
"Oh, what a beauty!" cried Milly, her eyes sparkling with eager
delight as she looked at the pretty bauble.
"Well, it's yours now, my girl. I promised you should have one when
the young 'un came."
"Thank you, Jim," said Milly, returning to the bed, with the present
in her hand.
"He's just like me, Milly," said the Tenderhearted Oysterman; "he's as
soft as a piece of putty. But I can't see how that watch is a dose,
Jim."
"I gave Dick Handfield five pounds for that watch," said Jim, "and I
paid him for it with a forged note."
At these words, Milly, who had been looking at the watch, and
examining it with the pleasure of a child when it receives a new toy,
dropped it upon the bed, with a heavy sigh.
"Then I took him to Old Flick's, and Old Flick gave him five
sovereigns for the note. There was a man in the store when Dick
Handfield changed the note, and Old Flick, who knew all about the lay,
asked Dick Handfield all sorts of questions and regularly confused
him. That's a pretty good dose for him, I think. I shall ask him
to-morrow for the last time to join us. If he refuses, Old Flick shall
give him in charge for passing a forged note, and the man who was in
the store at the time will be the witness. Handfield will be glad
enough to join us when he finds he's in the web. He'd sooner go up the
country with us than go to quod--if it was only for the sake of that
woman of his, that white-faced piece of virtue he calls his wife."
"Alice her name is," said the Tenderhearted Oysterman, sneeringly.
"She's as much his wife as I am."
"It's a lie, Milly, a lie!" whispered Grif, in an agony of rage and
despair at what he had heard. "She _is_ his wife!" Oh, if he could get
away from the room to tell Alice of the danger which surrounded her
husband! He dug his nails in his hand, and his faithful heart beat
furiously.
Milly placed her hand upon his lips.
"You're a liar, Oysterman!" she said, quietly. "The girl _is_ his
wife."
Grif took Milly's hand, and kissed it again and again for the
vindication.
The Tenderhearted Oysterman turned sharply upon Milly, and was about
to answer her when Jim Pizey said,--
"Milly's right. The girl is his wife. You don't know everything,
Oysterman. But now I'll tell you that that girl is the daughter of Old
Nuttall, the rich squatter of Highlay Station. Dick Handfield was
living on the Station for a goodish time--that's how he came to know
all about it. The girl fell in love with him, and they ran away and
got married."
"And a pretty nice thing she made of it!" sneered the Oysterman. "I
hate these milk-sop women!"
"I wonder what sort of a woman you'd ever be fond of, Oysterman!" said
Milly, with bitter sarcasm. "I wonder if _you'd_ ever get a woman to
love you, and think you a model of anything but what's mean!"
"Serve you right, Oysterman," said Jim, laughing. "Never you speak
against women when a woman is by."
The Tenderhearted Oysterman had turned white in the face when Milly
spoke.
"You're a nice sort of woman, _you_ are," he exclaimed, with a snarl.
"I'd never want _you_ to love me and think me a model."
"A good job for you," she exclaimed. "I pity the woman you'd take a
fancy to, or the man either, for that matter. If I was Jim, I'd pitch
you downstairs."
"Come, come, Milly," said Jim, "we've had enough of that."
"No, we haven't," cried Milly, who was thoroughly roused. "You're a
man, you are. You're bad enough, God knows! but there _is_ something
of a man in you. But that cur!" She placed her baby on the bed, and
advanced a step towards the men, and pointed to the Oysterman. "That
cur!" she repeated in a tone of such contempt that the Oysterman's
blood boiled with fury. "That kicker of women and poisoner of dogs!
What do you think he did, the night before last, Jim? He crawled to
where poor little Grif was sleeping, and gave a piece of poisoned meat
to Grif's dog. He did, the mean hound! That was a nice manly thing to
do, wasn't it!"
"Come along, Oysterman," said Jim Pizey, half angry and half amused,
taking his comrade by the arm. "It's no use answering her. She talks
to me sometimes like that. Come along, and have a drink."
And by sheer strength he forced the Oysterman out of the room.
"That's done me good," said Milly, when the men were gone, taking her
baby to the fire.
Grif started to his feet.
"Thank you, Milly," he said. "I'll tell Ally how you stood up for
her."
"Don't you do anything of the sort," said Milly, who, now her passion
was over, was crying. "It isn't fit that my name should be mentioned
to her. She's a good woman."
"And so are you, Milly," said Grif, inwardly struggling with his
doubts.
"I'm not, nor ever shall be. That watch" (pointing to it) "was hers, I
suppose."
"I s'pose so. I never sor it."
Milly took it in her hand and opened the case.
"Here's her name," she said. "Alice Handfield. And here's a motto:
Hope, Faith, and Love. And she gave it back to her husband, because
they were hard up, perhaps, and Jim bought it of him with a forged
note. Oh, my God! What a web of wickedness and goodness!"
"I must go" cried Grif, "I must go and tell them--I must go and put
Ally up to it."
"Up to what?" exclaimed Milly, a light breaking upon her. "Up to the
forged note! You'll go and tell her that you heard Jim say he paid for
the watch with a forged note? And her husband 'll have Jim took up,
and you'll be witness against him!" She glided swiftly to the door,
and turning the key, put it in her pocket.
"What do you do that for?" asked Grif. "I _must_ go, Milly. I'll break
open the door."
"No, you won't," said Milly, taking fast hold of him. "You shan't get
Jim into trouble. He's been kind to me, though he is a bad man, and
you shan't peach upon him."
"Let me go, Milly," cried Grif, gently struggling.
"You don't go till Jim comes in," she said, still retaining her hold
of him, "and then--good God!" she cried, in a voice of despair and
horror. "Then, he'll kill you!"
The conflict of thought was too much for her. She relaxed her hold,
and Grif flew to the door, and broke the frail lock. Then he looked
back. Milly had fallen to the floor, and was sobbing convulsively. Her
baby was lying by her side.
Grif went to her and raised her.
"Milly," he said, "don't take on so. I won't hurt you or Jim. But I
must be true to Ally. If I couldn't I'd go and drown myself. I
couldn't live, and not be true to her. She said I was her only friend,
and I swore that I'd be so till I die! And I will be, till I die--and
I'd like to die for her, for she's a good woman, Milly!"
"She is--she is," groaned Milly; "and I'm a bad and wicked one."
"You're not, Milly, you're not," said Grif, emphatically. "You're
good, but another sort of good! See what you've done for Little Peter
to-night," and he kissed her hand; "see what you've done for me many
and many a time; and see how you stood up for Ally jist now, although
every word you said was agin yourself!" he kissed her hand again. "You
can't be bad and wicked! And I won't hurt you, and I won't hurt Jim,
because of you. I won't, you may believe me! I'll tell Ally that her
husband must go away to-night. He was agoin' away--I heerd him say
so--and perhaps he's gone already. I won't tell her about the forged
note. I'll say that I heerd a plot, and I won't tell her what it is.
She'll believe me, I know she will. And so I shall do her good, and I
shan't do you any harm!"
Grif spoke earnestly, for as his words brought to his mind the
remembrance of Milly' s unselfish kindness, the conviction that it
would be wicked to harm her or wound her feelings, grew stronger and
stronger.
"God bless you!" said Milly.
Truly, Grif was not entirely unhappy or forsaken. The blessing, even
from Milly, fell upon his heart like dew upon a parched field.
"Ah, if you sor Ally!" Grif continued. "If you knew her! You wouldn't
wonder at me then for sayin' I'd like to die for her! Why, do you know
what I've heerd her do? I've heerd her refuse to go where she'd have
everything she could set her heart upon. I've heerd her refuse it
because it wouldn't be right, although lots of women would think it
was, and because she means to keep good if she dies for it! She'd make
you good, Milly!"
Milly looked at him and laughed hysterically.
"Make me good!" she exclaimed, half-defiantly. "She couldn't, she
couldn't! It's too late for that?" Then, as Grif rose to go, she said,
"You won't say anything about the forged note?"
"No, Milly. Take care of poor Little Peter. If ever I can do you a
good turn, I'll do it--you mind if I don't!"
He went to the bed where little Peter was sleeping. The lad was lying
on his side, hot and flushed, with his lips partly open, as if thought
were struggling to find expression there. Grif placed his hand
tenderly upon Peter's cheek, and then went out of the house.
When he arrived at Alice's lodging he crept up the stairs, and with a
settled purpose, which gave intensity to his face, opened the door.
Husband and wife were standing, looking into each other's eyes. Tender
words had evidently been exchanged, for they stood hand in hand, he
with the dawn of a good and strong purpose upon his face, she
encouraging him with hopeful, loving speech. A blanket, rolled up,
gold-digger fashion, was upon the ground. Grif walked swiftly towards
them and asked abruptly--
"Are you goin' away to-night?"
There was so much earnestness in his manner, that, with startled
looks, they asked for his meaning.
"I can't tell you," he said, in a rapid, sharp tone; "I'm under a
promise not to tell. But you must go away to-night."
"We were thinking just now, Grif," said Alice, "whether it would not
be better for him to go in the morning."
"Make up your mind at once," said Grif, looking round as if he were
fearful of being overheard, "that it won't do to wait here any longer.
I've overheerd somethin', Ally, and I'm bound down not to tell. If you
stop till to-morrow, somethin' dreadful 'll happen."
"Richard, you must go," said Alice, with gathering alarm, for Grif's
impressiveness was filling her with fearful forebodings. "You must go,
and at once."
"But why?" asked Richard, fretfully, and regarding Grif as if he were
anything but a friend. "Why must I go? Why can't he tell what he
knows? What difference will a few hours make?"
"All the difference," said Grif; "in a few hours perhaps you won't be
able to go at all, unless--"
"Unless--" repeated Alice, eagerly.
"Unless it's in company with Jim Pizey and the Tenderhearted
Oysterman. They've set a trap for you that you won't be able to get
out of, if you refuse to join 'em. Don't ask me again to tell you what
I've overheerd, for I can't I mustn't I darn't! I've run all the way
here to tell you that there's more and more danger every minute you
stop. It'll be all the better for you to go away in the dark."
Weak natures like Richard Handfield's are easily impressed, and more
easily impressed with fear, which springs from selfishness, than with
any other feeling. Almost without knowing what he was doing, Richard
proceeded to sling the blanket round his shoulders. Alice's eager
fingers assisted him.
"Grif is right, dearest," she said; "I'm sure he is. His looks are
against him, but he is a faithful friend." Grif nodded his head, and
his eyes brightened. "After all, it is but a few hours more. They
would soon be past. Bless you, darling I bless you, Richard!" She
kissed him again and again, and clung to him, and broke away from him,
choosing rather to endure the pain springing from repressed
tenderness, than do aught, in word or deed, to weaken him in his
purpose.
"Yes, I will go," he said, in a decided tone, and having made up his
mind, he took Alice in his arms and held her to him. While thus they
clung together, she whispered,--
"Be strong and firm, Richard dear!"
"I will, dearest and best," he said, as with a passionate
love-clinging he held the good and faithful woman to his breast.
"If the thought that I am true to you, darling--that I am yours in
life, and afterwards--that I would share a crust with you and be happy
if you were so--if that thought will strengthen and comfort you,
Richard, take it with you, keep it in your mind, for, oh! it is true,
my darling, it is true!"
"I know it, Alice, I know it."
"I shall bless you and pray for you every day. Until we are together
again, my eyes can never close without thinking of you. See, Richard,
I am not crying." She put his hand to her eyes, which were hot but
tearless. "I can send you away with gladness, for it is the beginning
of a better time. Though I feel that it is hard to part with you, I
can say cheerfully, Go, my dear, for I know that your going is for the
good of both of us. Write to me often, and tell me how and where to
write to you. Good bye, good bye--Heaven bless and preserve you!"
And she broke from him, and then, meeting his eyes, a look of electric
love brought them together again, and once more their arms were twined
about each other's neck. Then she glided from his embrace, and sank
upon the stool. Richard walked slowly out of the room, his heart
filled with love and tenderness, his eyes seeking the ground. It was
bitter to part. Even in the agony of separation he found time to
murmur at the hardness of his lot which tore him away from the woman
who was to him as a saint. As he walked down the stairs, his foot
kicked against something. He stooped and picked it up. A stone heart!
Indeed, Little Peter's stone heart which Grif had dropped without
knowing it. Richard's nature was superstitious. The shape of the stone
was comforting to him. A heart! It was a good omen. He put it
carefully in his pocket, and was about to close the street door when
an uncontrollable impulse urged him to look again upon Alice's face.
He ran up the stairs into the room. Alice was still sitting upon the
stool, her head and arms were resting upon the table; and she was
convulsed with outward evidences of a grief she had no longer any
motive to conceal.
He spake no word, but kneeling before her, bowed his head in her lap,
as a child might have done. She looked at him through her tears, and
placed her hands upon his head: in that action were blended the
tenderness of a mother to her child and a wife to her husband. He
raised his lips to hers; they kissed once more, solemnly, and he went
out of the house with her tears upon his face. As he walked along the
streets towards the country where was hidden the gold which had
tempted thousands to break up happy homes and sever fond ties of
affection, the picture of Alice mourning for him, and Grif quiet and
sad in the background, was very vivid to his mind. No forewarning of
the manner of their next meeting was upon him; if it had been, he
would have taken Grif's hand, and kissed it humbly, penitently,
instead of parting from him without a farewell nod.
Left alone with Alice, Grif, with a delicacy of feeling in keeping
with his general character, was about to retire, when Alice, in a
voice broken by emotion, said,--
"Do not go for a minute or two, Grif. I want to speak to you."
Grif gave a nod of acquiescence, and sat upon the floor, patiently.
Presently Alice dried her eyes and beckoned him to come closer to her.
"Grif," she said, in a sweet voice. "Why are you not honest?"
Now, Grif knew perfectly well the meaning of honesty--that is to say,
he knew the meaning of the word literally. To be honest, one must not
take what belongs to other people. Well, he was not honest; he had
often taken what did not belong to him. But he was not a systematic
thief; what he had stolen he had stolen from necessity. And he had
never stolen anything but food, and then only when hunger sharply
pressed him. The thought flew swiftly to his mind that if he had not
taken food when he wanted it, he must have starved. Was that right?
No, he was sure it was not. Little as he knew about it, he was sure he
was not sent into the world to starve. But he must have starved if he
had not taken what belonged to other people! Clearly, then, it was not
wrong to steal. Grif's mind was essentially logical, as may be seen
from the process of thought which occupied it directly after Alice
asked him the question. And yet if he were right, Alice was wrong.
Could she be wrong? Could the woman who was to him the perfection of
women, the embodiment of all that was pure and noble--could she be
wrong? Here came the doubt whether it would not have been the proper
thing to have starved, and not stolen. "There'd have been an end of
it, at all events," he muttered to himself, when his musings reached
this point. After which he grew perplexed, and the logical sequence of
his thoughts became entangled. He did not blame Alice for asking the
question; but, for all that, he bit his lip and looked imploringly at
her.
"You have been so good a friend to me and Richard," she said, "that it
pains me to see you as you are. I would like to see you better, for
your sake and for mine, Grif."
"I never know'd how to be honest, Ally," he said. Then he thought of
Milly's words to him that night. "If I knew how to be good," she had
said, "I think I would be. But I don't know how." That was just the
case with him. He did not know how to be honest. And yet he had told
Milly that Alice could make her good. Perhaps Alice could make him
honest. Not that he cared particularly about being honest, but he
would like to please Alice. "I don't want not to be honest," he said;
"all I wants is my grub and a blanket."
"And those, Grif," she said, gently, yet firmly, "you can earn if you
like."
"Can I? I'd like to know how, Ally?"
"You must work for them."
"Yes, that's all right. I'm willin' enough to work. I'd go out this
minute to work, if I had it to do. But I couldn't get no work--a pore
beggar like me! I don't know nothin', that's one thing. And then, if I
get a 'orse to mind, the peelers take it from me and tell me to cut
off. I tried to git papers to sell, and I did one day; but some of the
other boys told the paper man I was a thief, and when I went for more
papers the next mornin' he wouldn't give 'em to me. I've got a
precious bad character, Ally, there's no mistake about that; and I've
been to quod a good many times. I can't look a peeler in the face,
upon my soul I can't!"
Grif did not make this last remark in a humorous manner; he made it
reflectively. It really was a fact, and he stated it seriously.
But Alice was not convinced.
"You're willing to work," she said.
"Yes, I'm willin' enough."
"Every one can get work if he likes, and if he tries."
Grif looked dubious. His knowledge of the world was superior to hers.
He had battled with it and fought with it since he was a baby. "She
don't know what a bad lot we are," he thought. But he was sincerely
desirous to please her.
"What do you want me to do, Ally?"
"I want you to give me a promise to be honest, Grif," she said,
earnestly.
"I'll do it," he replied, without a moment's hesitation. And then he
added seriously, for he felt he was undertaking a great
responsibility, "I'll be honest, Ally, whatever comes of it."
"And if ever you want anything to eat and can't earn it, Grif, you
will come to me."
"Yes, I'll come to you, Ally," he said, almost crying, for he knew how
poor she was.
"Suppose now, to-morrow morning you go into all the shops and ask if
they want an errand boy. That does not require any learning, Grif."
"No, I could do that all right; I can run fast, too. But you'll see,
Ally; it'll be no go."
"You'll try, Grif, will you not?"
"I'll try, Ally."
"This is the last night I shall be here. I am going to other lodgings
to-morrow, and shall remain there until my husband writes for me.
Perhaps he will write for me to join him on the diggings; if he does,
and you fail in getting work, you shall come with me, Grif."
He stood before her, mute and grateful. She wrote an address on a
piece of paper. "This is where I am going to live," she said, giving
it to him. He took it, and seeing that she was weary, bade her good
night.
"Good night, Grif, my good boy. I am very grateful for the service you
have done us this night."
"You've got no call to be grateful to me, Ally," said Grif. "Only let
me be your friend, as you said I was, and I don't want no more."
Outside the door, Grif considered where he should sleep. He did not
care to go to the barrel, for it would be so lonely there without
Little Peter. It had been Grif's chronic condition, before he took
possession of the barrel, never to know in the morning where he was
going to sleep at night. It all depended upon where he found himself
when he made up his mind to retire to rest. Knowing there was a cellar
to the house, he groped his way down to it.
"I wish I had a match," he muttered, when he was at the bottom of the
stairs. "There was a empty packin'-case somewhere about; I remember
seein' it. Oh, here it is; it's hardly long enough, but I can double
myself up;" thus soliloquising, he crept into it. "Now then," he said,
as he lifted the cover of the packing-case on the top, popping his
head down quickly to avoid a bump; "that's warm and comfortable, that
is. It'd be warmer, though, if I had Rough here, or Little Peter.
Wouldn't it be jolly! I'm honest now," he thought, recurring to his
promise, as he closed his eyes. "I'm honest now, that's what I am. I
ain't a-goin' to crib no more pies or trotters. It's a rum go, and no
mistake!"
And Grif fell asleep, and dreamt that all the pies and trotters he had
pilfered were transformed into little hobgoblins, and were holding a
jubilee because he had turned honest!
CHAPTER VIII.
GRIF IS SET UP IN LIFE AS A MORAL SHOEBLACK.
Grif, although but a poor and humble member of the human family, was
as gregariously inclined as the rest of his species, and loved, when
opportunity offered, to associate with his fellows. The circumstance
of birth had placed him upon the lowest rang of the social ladder,
and, being grovelling by nature, he had no thought of striving
upwards, and was always prowling about, like a hungry dog searching
for a bone. Being gregariously inclined, he was to be depended upon as
an item in a mob. The object of a gathering of people was not a thing
to be considered--politics, religion, amusement, were all one to him.
If he but chanced to come across a throng, he added one more to the
number, from sheer force of habit. Thus he was a passive auditor of
street preachers of every denomination, and being in the habit of
standing quite still, with his mouth open and his hands in his
pockets, or where his pockets ought to be, he grew to be looked upon
as a godsend by the orators, who spoke at him, and scoffed at him, and
humbled him, and hurled anathemas at his head, as representing a class
entirely devoid of godliness. They twisted his moral nature, and
picked at it, and pulled it to pieces, and grew eloquent upon it. They
said--Look at his rags, look at his dirt, look at the ignorance
written on his countenance. They told him to repent if he wished to be
saved from damnation; and they prayed for him and wept for him so
earnestly that sometimes he experienced a dull wonder that the earth
did not open and swallow him, he felt so utterly and thoroughly bad.
To the political orators who were in the habit of "stumping-it" in the
Market-square he was not of so much importance. "The People" in the
aggregate was what the stump politicians gnashed their teeth at and
wept over; and it was remarkable to observe with what complacency the
People listened to these bemoanings. At the period during which Grif
played his insignificant part in the history of the gold-colony,
working-men-politicians were in great force, and night after night the
Market-square would be thronged with an auditory not unwilling to be
amused by listening to the outpourings of half-crazy or wholly-knavish
demagogues, who had either gone mad over "the people's wrongs," or
were working to get into the parliament, where they could make
"pickings" for themselves. Many a red-hot radical who could not get an
audience in Great Britain, and who had emigrated to what he thought
was to be the "people's paradise" here was listened to, and laughed
at, and applauded, and--did no harm after all. Grif did not understand
what it all meant. He heard a great deal about the ground-down people,
the crushed people, the poor starving people, upon whose substance the
oligarchs were fattening; but all he could make out was that things
were wrong altogether, a conclusion which precisely tallied with his
own experience. But he, for one, bore his lot uncomplainingly, and
with an unconscious exercise of philosophy, walked in the gutters (not
feeling himself good enough to indulge in the pavement) without a
murmur. Grif did not object to gutters; he had formed their
acquaintance in his earliest infancy, and time and association had
almost endeared them to him. Everything in the world is comparative.
Pleasure, pain, success, disappointment, act in different ways upon
different people: the effect depends upon constitution and education.
So, dirt and cleanliness are differently regarded by different classes
of society. To a well-regulated mind the spectacle of Grif walking in
a narrow street, and picking his steps carefully along the gutter,
would have caused a sensation of wondering disgust; and a pair of
well-polished Wellington boots might naturally have objected to come
into contact with the dirty broken bluchers in which Grif's feet
slip-slopped constantly. But, in the eyes of Grif, dirty boots were no
disgrace; he felt not the shame of them. From the moment he came into
possession of a second-hand pair (he had never known the respectable
bliss of a new tight-fitting boot, pressing on corn or bunion), they
were dragged down to his own level, and forfeited their position in
society. They may have been occasionally scraped, but they were never
polished; and so they lost their respectability, and became depraved
and degraded, and their seams and soles were eaten into with mud and
dirt, until they gave up the ghost in the boot world, and trod the
earth no more.
It might be gathered from Grif's mutterings, as he walked along the
streets the day after he had given Alice the promise to be honest,
that his mind was disturbed. "She's right, o' course she is," he said,
"I know that well enough; but what was I to do? I know it'll be no go
my tryin'. He must be a precious green cove who'd have anythin' to do
with me!" and he looked down upon his boots, not with disgust, but
with distrust, and stepped out of the gutter on to the pavement. "I
never wanted to steal; I only wanted my grub and a blanket. If any
swell'd have given 'em to me, it'd have been all right. But they ain't
a bit of use to any one, ain't the swells. I've got to try to got a
billet as a errand boy. All right. It ain't a bit of good, I know.
Every one on 'em knows what sort of a cove I am. But I'll try, at all
events. I promised her I would, and I ain't agoin' to deceive her!"
And thus it fell out that Grif had issued from his last night's bed,
the packing-case, with the intention, for the first time in his life,
of endeavouring to obtain an honest livelihood.
But Grif did not seem destined to be successful. He walked into scores
of shops and places of business with the timid yet half defiant
inquiry, "Do you want a errand boy?" and was sometimes roughly, often
ignominiously, turned out. Scarcely from one of the storekeepers did
he obtain a kind word, and it was not in his favour that many of them
knew him, and had been in the habit of seeing him prowl about the
Melbourne streets. He was not a savoury-looking boy, and did not bear
upon his outward appearance any recommendation to the situation he was
soliciting. His boots were muddy, his clothes were ragged, his skin
was dirty, his hair was matted. He did not add another word to the
query, "Do you want a errand boy?" and he did not at all take it in
bad part that he was treated with contumely. Indeed, if such a state
of mind can be conceived, he was in a sort of measure exultant at each
rebuff. "I told her so," he muttered to himself, triumphantly; "who'd
have anything to do with a beggar like me? But I promised her I'd try,
and I ain't agoin' to deceive her." Two or three times he was surlily
spoken to by the policemen, and on each occasion he slunk off without
a murmur, not without a dim consciousness that he was absolutely
compromising his character by attempting to obtain an honest
livelihood. Readers who are not acquainted with colonial life, must
not suppose that the police, or that other "institutions," differ in
any essential in the colonies from those of the older countries. The
colonies are certainly new, but they do not commence their career at
the year One, but at the year Eighteen Hundred and Odd. There is just
about the same comparative amount of vice and virtue, goodness and
wickedness, ruffianism and kind-heartedness, as is to be met with in
any other part of the world. Those who say otherwise, and cause others
to think otherwise, are in the wrong. There are in the colonies, just
as much average unkindness and uncharitableness, just as much charity
and benevolence, just as much ignorance, just as noble-mindedness, as
can be found amongst of human creatures anywhere. It is true that men
get into false positions oftener than in older countries, but that is
scarcely to be wondered at in new colonies where people of all classes
are thrown indiscriminately together, and have not had time to settle
into their proper positions. Those readers will therefore please not
to wonder that Grif should be looked upon in precisely the some light
as he would be looked upon if he were prowling about London streets.
To the Melbourne constable, he was just what a ragged pilfering boy
would be to London constable. It did not much affect him. He was
accustomed to be buffeted, and cuffed, and maltreated. The world had
given him nothing but hard knocks since his birth, and he took them
without murmuring. He looked upon it quite as a matter of course when
the conservators of public peace spoke harshly to him. But he had a
promise to perform; and he resolved to perform it conscientiously. So
it happened that he stood at the door of the great place of business
of Mr. Zachariah Blemish, with the intention of asking for the
situation of an errand boy. The green baize folding doors somewhat
daunted him; but hesitating for one moment only, he pushed them open
and entered. It chanced that, exactly upon his entrance, Zachariah
Blemish came out of his own particular private room for the purpose of
putting a question to one of his clerks, and that the great Blemish
and the small Grif stood face to face. It was a marvellous contrast!
The great Blemish, sleek and shining; the small Grif, rough and muddy:
the great Blemish clean and polished, smooth-shaved and glossy; the
small Grif, dirty and ragged, with the incipient stubble of manhood
upon his chin and cheeks. For nature is impartial in her supply of
beard and whiskers. Money will not buy them, nor will grease produce
them, though it be puffed and perfumed.
The rich, great Blemish, then, looked down upon the poor little Grif.
For a moment, the great man's breath was taken away at the sight. In
his counting-house, sanctified by the visits of Members of Parliament,
of Ministers, and of merchants of the highest standing--in sight of
his books, wherein were daily entered records of transactions
amounting to thousands of pounds--the appearance of a ragged boy, and
such a ragged boy, was, to speak of it in the mildest terms, an
anomaly.
"What do you want here?" asked Blemish.
"Do you want a errand boy?" asked Grif, in return.
"A what?" inquired Blemish, sharply.
"A errand boy," replied Grif, calmly.
At this juncture, a policeman, who had watched Grif enter the office,
and who was sycophantishly disposed to protect the interests of wealth
and position, popped his head in at the door, and touching his hat,
begged Mr. Blemish's pardon, but the boy was a thief, and he thought
he was up to no good.
"Umph!" said Mr. Blemish. "He looks like it. But thank you,
policeman," this with a stately affability, "I do not think you will
be wanted."
Whereupon the policeman touched his hat again, and vanished,
determining, however, to keep an eye upon Grif, and find out what he
was up to.
"Come this way," said Mr. Blemish to Grif, who, considerably
astonished that he had not been given into custody, followed the great
man into his private room. There he found himself in the presence of
two other gentlemen, Mr. Matthew Nuttall, and Mr. David Dibbs. Mr.
Nuttall was sitting at a table, writing, and his face was hidden from
Grif. "Now, then," said Mr. Blemish, when Grif had disposed himself
before the great merchant like a criminal; "what do you mean by coming
into my place of business?"
"I wants a sitiwation as a errand boy," immediately replied Grif.
"The policeman says you are a thief," interrogated Mr. Blemish; "what
do you say to that?"
"Nothin'," replied Grif, shortly.
"You _are_ a thief, then?"
"No, I ain't," said Grif: "I'm honest, now," and he blushed with shame
as he made the confession.
"Oh, you are honest now," Mr. Blemish observed, with a slight dash of
sarcasm. "Since when has that occurred?"
"Since this mornin'; this is my first day at it."
Grif's candid statement appeared to perplex the great merchant. He
paused a little before he said,--
"You _were_ a thief, then?"
"When I couldn't get nothin' to eat for nothin', I took it," returned
Grif, uncompromisingly; "I wasn't a-goin' to starve."
"Starve!" exclaimed Mr. Blemish, lifting up his hands in pious
wonderment. "Starve! In this land of plenty!"
"It ain't a land of plenty to me; I wish it was."
"Really," observed Mr. Blemish, to surrounding space, "the unblushing
manner in which such ragamuffins as this give the lie to political
economists is positively frightful. Do you believe in statistics,
boy?"
"Not as I knows on," said Grif.
"Did you expect a situation here?" inquired Mr. Blemish, looking down
upon the lad, as if wondering what business he had in the world.
"No."
"Why did you come, then?"
"I promised her to try, though I told her it wasn't a bit o' good."
"Who is 'her'?" inquired Mr. Matthew Nuttall, turning suddenly round,
and facing Grif.
Grif gave a great start, and threw a sudden sharp look at the
questioner's face. He knew him at once. The likeness was
unmistakeable. Even in his deep voice there was a ring of Alice's
sweeter tones. If anything could have shaken Grif, it was the sight of
that stern face, and the knowledge that the man before him could make
Alice happy if he chose. Eager words rushed to Grif's lips, but he
dared not give them utterance. What good could a ragamuffin like him
do? He had best hold his tongue, or he would make matters worse.
"Who is 'her'?" repeated the gentleman.
"She's a lady, that's what she is," replied Grif, recovering his
composure.
"A lady!" and Mr. Nuttall laughed.
"Ah, if you knew!" thought Grif, but he contented himself with saying,
"Yes, she is, and so you'd say if you sor her."
"Upon my word," remarked Mr. Blemish, blandly, "I did not know that
vagabonds like you associated with ladies. This boy is evidently an
original."
"Don't you call no names," said Grif. "If you don't want a errand boy,
say so, and send me away."
"Better and better," observed Mr. Blemish, composedly. "Now, this is
something in my way, although
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