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THE LIBRARY OF THE
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In Jeopardy. By GreorGce MANVILLE FENN.
The Master of the Ceremonies. By G. MAnvILLE
FENN.
Double Cunning. By G. MAnvILLe FENN.
The Lady Drusilla: A Psychological Romance.
By Tuomas PurNgELL.
Tempest Driven. By RicHarp DowLina.
The Chilcotes. By Lrestiz Keiru.
A Mental Struggle. By the Author of * Phyllis.”
Her Week’s Amusement. By the Author of
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The Aliens. By Henry F. KEENAN.
Lil Lorimer. By Tueo. Girt.
Louisa. By KarHarine S. Macgquoip.
A Lucky Young Woman. By F.C. Puitirs.
As ina Looking Glass. By F.C. Puitires.
Social Vicissitudes. By I. C. Puiuips.
That Villain, Romeo! By J. FirzGeratp Mottoy.
The Sacred Nugget. By B.L. FarjEon. ~
Proper Pride. By B. M. Croker. 7
Pretty Miss Neville. By B. M. Croker.
The Prettiest Woman in Warsaw. By Maser
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A Terrible Legacy. By G. Wess APPLETON.
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Three-and-Sixpenny Novels.
Two Pinches of Snuff. By Witiiam WESTALL.
The Confessions of a Coward and Coquette.
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A Life’s Mistake. By Mrs. Loverr CAMERON.
In One Town. By the Sn of « Anchor Watch
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Anchor Watch Yarns. By the Author of ‘‘ In One
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Atla; A. Story of the Lost Island. By Mrs. J.
GREGORY SMITH.
Less than Kin. By J: E. PAanrTon.
A Reigning Favourite. By Anniz Tuomas (Mrs.
PENDER CUDLIP).
The New River; A Romance of the Days of Hugh
Myddelton. . By SoMERVILLE GIBNEY.
Under Two Fig Trees. By H. Francis LESTER.
Comedies from a Country Side. By W. OuTRAM
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Great Porter Square. By B.L. Farjeon. 6th Edition.
The House of White Shadows. By B. L. FarjEon.
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Grif. By B.L. Farjzon. 6th Edition.
Snowbound at Hagle’s. By Bret Harre. 3rd
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The Flower of Doom. By M. BetrHam-EpwarbDs.
2nd Edition.
Viva. By Mrs. Forrester. 3rd Edition.
A Maiden all Forlorn. By the Author of ‘ Molly
Bawn.” 4th Edition.
Folly Morrison. By FRANK BARRETT. 4th Edition.
Honest Davie. By Frank Barretr. 3rd Edition.
Under St. Paul’s. By RicHarp DowLinc. 2nd
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The Duke’s Sweetheart. By RicHarp DowLIna.
and Edition.
The Outlaw ofIceland. By Vicror Huao.
G R I F | ; it - >
A Story of Australian Bite
iY
B. L. FARTEON.
TENTH EDITION.
LONDON :
WARD & DOWNEY,
12, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN.
LONDON:
KELLY & CO., PRINTERS,
GATE STREET, LINCOLN’S INN FIELDS, AND
MIDDLE MILL, KINGSTON, SURREY.
CONTENTS.
Seen
CHAP.
I.—GRIF RELATES SOME OF HIS EXPERIENCES
IJ].—HUSBAND AND WIFE ss 2 A : :
Ij].—GRIF LOSES A FRIEND . 4 i 4
IV.—THE CONJUGAL NUTTALLS . ; : é :
V.—THE MORAL MERCHANT ENTERTAINS HIS FRIENDS
AT DINNER . : : :
VI.— FATHER AND DAUGHTER ; é : : 3
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 r ‘ : é ad go
XII.—THE NEW RUSH ; : . , ;
XIII—oLpD FLICK : : ‘ . ‘ : :
XIV —LITTLE PETER IS PROVIDED FOR . :
XV.—A HOT DAY IN MELBOUKNE . : : ; ‘
XVI.—POOR MILLY , - : F :
XVII.—BAD LUCK é , : i :
V1 CONTENTS.
CHAP, PAGE
XVIIL—HONEST STEVE : : ‘ : : : z eo eae
XIX.--THE WELSHMAN READS HIS LAST CHAPTER IN
THE OLD WELSH BIBLE . ‘ : : : eS
XX.—THE TENDERHEARTED OYSTERMAN TRAPS HIS
GAMER S716 N@e te, a eee, LR Ne) fe et oe ee
XXI.—THE MORAL MERCHANT CALLS A MEETING OF
HIS CREDITORS 4 : : : , : anOD
XXII.—ALICE AND GRIF MEET FRIENDS UPON THE ROAD 275
XXIJI.—THE STORY OF SILVER-HEADED JACK . ‘: Ame ees
XXIV.—MRS. NICHOLAS NUTTALL TAKES POSSESSION Asti
XXV.—MRS. NICHOLAS NUTTALL RECEIVES VISITORS . 814
XXVi.—A NIGHT OF ADVENTURES : ; F ; <2 LO
XXVII.—GRIF BEARS FALSE WITNESS . ; ; d mb OAS
GRIF;
& STORY OF AUSTRALIAN LIFE.
CHAPTER I.
GRIF RELATES SOME OF HIS EXPERIENCES.
In one of the most thickly populated parts of Mel-
bourne 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 lkened 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 pre-
mature 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
B
2 GRIF.
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 shame-
faced consciousness that it had no business to be where
it was:—comprised all the furniture of the room. The
eloominess 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 cmbers, 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
eirl, 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 pock-
marked 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 companion-
ship. 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 Stful glare brought nothing of pleasure to
GRIF RELATES SOME OF HIS DXPERIENCES. 3
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 sudden her eyes with tears, and to cause her
lips to qniver 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 respon-
sive 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,—
Be Ad tyeli?
“Yes,” she replied vacantly, as if she were answer-
ing the voice of her fancy.
“« What are you thinkin’ of, Ally ?”
“Tam 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
aze.
~ © Blest if I don’t think she can sée 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 ol
are you, Grif ?”
« Blest if I know,” Grif replied, with a grin. “1
ain’t agoin’ to bother! I’m old enough, I am !”
“ Do you remember your father, Grif?”
“Don’t 1! He was a rum ’un, he was. Usen’t he
to wallop us, neither |”
‘Lost in the recollection, Grif rubbed his back, sym-
pathetically. © B2
4, GRIF.
« 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 ve heerd him say so. He was worse nor me—oh,
ever so much; but then, of course,” he added, apolo-
getically, 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
fieht, 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 con-
fetchoner’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
Id 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, Pve been to quod. ‘ What for? he arks.
‘Yor takin’ a pie,’ I ses. Blest if I didn’t get the
worst wallopin’ I ever had! ‘ You’ve been and dis-
graced your family,’ he sed; ‘ git out of my sight, you
warmint ; / 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,’ »
GRIF RELATES SOME OF HIS EXPERIENCES. i)
thought I, ‘when a cove want’s grub? I was awful
hungry, as well as savage; so | made for the con-
fetchoner’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 con-
fetchoner’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 pleesemen
they make me. I ain’t goin’ agin, that I’m determined
on, Here! Here’s a pie for you!’ and she ’olds out
abigun. ‘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 ’d make hera 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
6 GRIF,
she looked another way. -‘When I’ve eat it,’ I ses,
‘Tl couch, 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 pic,
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 otfer, so I ses, ‘Tone 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 | 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
cuttin’ 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 lke other
coves. Father he never give us no eddication ; per-
haps 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
GKI¥ RELATES {JME OF HIS EXPERIENCES, 7
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?’ sesI. ‘I can’t go up there
and fetch it. Then he groans, and tells me a story
about a mfant 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
you steal no more,’ he ses, ‘or your sole *Il go to mor-
chal perdition. Men is charitable and good; jist you
try ’em, and give up your evil courses.’ ‘ How can I
help my evil courses?’ Ises. ‘I only wants my grub
and a blanket, and I can’t get em no other way.’ ‘ You
can, young sinner, youcan,’ heses. ‘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 pro-
mised him I’d try. So when I gets out of quod, I
thort, Pll see now if the preacher cove is right. I
waited till I was hungry, and couldn’t get nothin’ to
eat, without stealin’? it. JI 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 | 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
8 GRIF.
I see coming along but the preacher chap. ‘ Here’sa
slant!’ ses I to myself. ‘He’s charitable and good,
he is, and ’ll give me somethin’ ina 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 adjoinmg
apartment roused her.
“Who isthat?” + |
“ 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, Griff” 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
wont 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 Tender-
hearted 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’’* 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
* “Sticking-up” is an Australian term for burglary and highway
robbery.
GRIF RELATES SOME CF HIS EXPERIENCES. 9
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!’
*°Ts 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 pre-
sently I hears ’em talkin’ agin, between-whuiles, like,
‘If the escort’s too strong for us,’ ses Jim Pizey, ‘we
can tackle the squatters’ stations. Some of the squat-
ters 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.
““T was considerin’, 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. [or 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.
10 GRIF.
‘* 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 Presa:
ing 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!”
‘“‘T 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. ‘hey was a tryin’ to per-
suade him to jom ’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. J’) never say it agin. [m a
ignorant beast, that’s what I am!” he exclaimed, dig-
ging his knuckles into his eyes. “ l’malwaysa puttin’
my foot in it.”
‘‘Never mind, Grif,” said the girl, sobbmg. “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.
GRIF RELATES SOME OF HIS EXPERIENCES. 11
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 ’ecap of shiners without
nobody bein’ the worse for it.2 But they couldn’t get
him to say Yes; and at last Jim Pizey he gets up ina
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—”
“T didn’t hear nothin’ more. I fell right off asleep,
and when I woke up they was gone.”
“ Grit,” said the girl, “ he must not join in this plot.
I must keep him from crime. He has been unfortu-
nate—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 busi-
ness here, you haven’t. You ought to have a ’ouse of
your own, you ought.”’
“JT 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 de-
sert him while I have life. God grant that 1 may save
him yet !” |
The boy was hushed into silence by her solemn
earnestness.
“He is weak, Grif, and we are poor. It was other-
wise once. Those who should assist us will not do so,
iZ GRIF.
unless I break the holiest tie—and so we must suffer
together.”
“T 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 im-
mediate conclusion upon the point, did not reply.
“Tt is so with me,” Alice continued. “I would
sacrifice everything for him and for his happiness: for
Llove 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 unwortuy of the sacritice she had already made for
him tainted the purity of her love, or weakened her
sense of duty.
“VTve got a dawg, Ally,” Grif said, musingly, after
a pause. “ He ain’t much to look at, but he’s very
fond ofme. Rough is his name. The games we have
together, me and Rough! He’s lke 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
ounces 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!
Kall 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 7s only a dawg !”
HUSBAND AND WIFE. 13
The girl laid her hand upon Grif’s head, and looked
pityingly at him. As their eyes met, a tender expres-
sion stole into his face, and rested there.
“Tm 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. “Jf ever
you want me to do anythin’—never mind what it is, so
long as I know I’m a-doin’ of it for you—Tll do it,
true and faithful, I will, so’elp me—! Her hand
upon his hps 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 16 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.”
“T 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!”
8 Se
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
T4 GRIF.
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 hke Alice. ‘The exquisite ten-
derness 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
streneth 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
elimpse 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 imto by a band of rufhanly bacchanals.
They came up the stairs, laughing, and singing, and
screaming. A motley thr ong—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!
HUSBAND AND WIFE. 5 3)
The company were iv 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 boy
gently with her foot. On the instant, he was stand-
ing, watchful by her side. “ Listen! Can you hear
his voice t”’
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
a short struggle with herself, she rose again, and. lis-
tened 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! Ok, Grif, Grif,
what shall I do? what shall I do?”
“ Hush!” Grif whispered. “Youkeep quiet. You
pretend to be asleep, and don’t let ’em’ear you. If
anybody comes in, you shut your eyes, and breathe
’ard. 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, aimost noiselessly, and to her questioning
lock replied,
io GRIF.
* He’s there, all right.”
“ What is he doing ?”’
“‘ He’s a settin’ ina corner, ’arf asleep, all by ’isself,
and he hasn’t sed a word to no one. Where are you
goin’ ?” he inquired qnickly, a; Alice walked towards
the door.
“Tam going in to him.”
“ What for?” cried Grif hoarsely, gripping her arm.
** Ally, are you mad ?”
“T 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 711 ’appen.
Pizey 71 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 pro-
per, Idersay. 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 7Il 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 ?”
“1 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
MUSBAND AND WIFE. 1?
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 adjoin-
ing 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 lke a cat. ITll 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 mo-
ments afterwards Alice’s husband entered the apart-
ment. 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
C
i8 GRIF,
some wish to avoid her, and not be conscious of her
presence,
“Richard,” she whispered.
But he doge edly turned his head from her.
“ Richard,” she whispered again, softly and sweetly.
“‘T 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 :—
“Itis right that you should reproach me, yct it 1s
bitter enough for me without that.”
“T do not say it to reproach you, dear,—indeed, in-
deed, 1 do not!”
“That makes it all the more bitter. This day six
months we were married, you say! SBetter 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 remem-
brance. 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 cf 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 re-
paration 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 ccurage—”
“But I have not the courage,” he interrupted. “I
am beaten down, crushed, nerveless. J was brought
up with no teaching that existence was a thing to
struggle for, and Iam too old or too idle to learn the
lesson now. What do such men as I in tho world?
HUSBAND AND WIFE. 19
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 con-
cerns 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 [ am so; itis 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, l tremble before you; I tremble, when I
look upon your pale face;’’ and turning to her sud-
denly, 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,
“af you will be true to yourself and to me. Have
patience—”
“Patience!” he exclaimed. ‘ When I think of the
past, L iash myself into a torment. Will patience feed
us? Willit give us a roof or abed? 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 for-
ward, with clasped hands, waited in anxious expec-
tancy. c 2
20 GRIF.
“Do you know how I have spent to-night and many
previous nights ?”? he asked. “In what company, and
for what purpose ?”
he had been standing during all this time, and her
strenoth 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.
2 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 cow-
ard to say that you and | 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 per-
formed my part of husband! How you should bless
my name, respect, and love me, for the true manli-
ness 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 as-
pect. 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 to-
wards him, reluctantly. ‘“ What are you?”
“What am I?” replied Grif, with a puzzled look ;
“Vm a pore koy—Grif.”
“Yowre a poor boy—Grif!” the man repeated.
“ How do you live!”
** By eatin’ and drinkin’,”
HUSBAND AND WIFE. 2!
“How do you get your living?”
“T makes it as [ 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, Pve 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 degrada-
tion!”
She turned her eyes to the ground, but did not
reply.
“J was once a good arithmetician,’ he continued.
** |-et 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 hfe
that [ 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 1t
was not, I got into debt upon the strength of my ex-
pectations, 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 oxpectations had
22, GRIF.
gone to hmbo. The news did not hurt me much,
Alice, for I had determined on a scheme which, if sre-
cessful, 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.
f said, ‘This girl will be rich, and her money will com-
pensate for what I have lost. This girl has a wealthy
tather, not too well educated, not too well connected,
who will be proud when he finds that his danghter 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 mer-
cenary 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 wher
your father wished to force you into a marriage with
aman, ignorant, brutal mean, and vulgar,—but rich.
You came to me in your distress—Good God!” he ex-
claimed 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. ‘l’he 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
HUSBAND AND WIFE. oo
that had vrvught 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 commor
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.”
“‘T 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. J 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. Iam fit for no-
thing in this colony. I was born a gentleman, and [
live the life of adog; 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 1s
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 anythin’ to ’elp her, I would—sooner than ’urt
24 GRIF.
her, ’d be chopped up first. You talk better than
the preacher cove ! ”’
“Very well. Now attend. ,These mci 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 hve in a more respectable
house than this for a few weeks until you hear from
me.”
“ How will you go?”
“T shall walk—lI 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 con-
cerned. 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 :—
“‘T 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 quarre\
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
mmKe any situation, thankfully, in which I could carn
breac. fur you. He turned away impatiently. I fol- |
lowed nios, and continued to address him humbly, en-
treatingly. l’or your sake, Alice, I did this,”
HUSBAND AND WIFE. 25
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. ‘Tull then,
you may starve. I ama hard man, as you know, obsti-
nate 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.
““T cannot tell,” he said, doggediy, turning his face
from her; “I know what mine would be.”
“ What would it be ?”
“T should say this” (he did not look at her while he
spoke)—“ You, Richard Handfield, Scapegrace, For-
tune-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 know-
ledge 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
26 GRIF.
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 for-
get 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 sad-
ness in her voice, he did not reply. For full five
minutes therv was silence in the room. ‘Then the
erief which filled her heart could no longer be sup-
pressed, 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.
Low]
GRIF LOSES A FRIEND, 27
‘if in the time that has gone, my dear,” she con-
vinued, “there is any circumstance, any remembrance,
connected with me, that gives you pain, forget it for
my sake. If you have believed that uny thought that
you have done me wrong exists, or ever existed, in my
mind, believe it no longer. Think of meas I am--see
me as. | am—your wife, who loves you now with a
more perfect love than when she was a simple girl, in-
experienced 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 witely
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. Iam happier
now than I have been for a long, long time! And
oh, my dear !—hend your head closer, Richard—there
may come a little child to need our care—”
The light had gone out and the room was in dark-
ness. But mean and disreputable as it was, a good
woman’s unselfish love sanctified it and made it hcely !
CHAPTER III.
GRIF LOSES A FRIEND.
“Tis 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
28 GRIF.
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 lis-
tened with his ear to the ground.
“T 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.
“Tf I was to mention that dawe’s name,” Grif said
in a confidential tone, as if he were addressing a com-
panion, “he’d be here ina minute. He would! It’s
wonderful how he knows! Ive 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, Pll 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 demonstra-
tive 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 under-
stood and appreciated the faithfulness of his dumb
servant. After this interchange of affectionate senti-
ment, Grif and his dog crept out of the house. Tt
| 7
GRIF LOSES A FRIEND. 39
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. Slouchin
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, lead-
ing to a room used asa 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 atits master. _
“Pll stay here,” said Grif, resting against the wall.
“ Milly’s in there, I dare say, and she’ll give me some-
thin’ when she comes out, if she’s got it.”
Understanding by its master’s action that no fur-
ther movement was to be made for the present, Rough
sat upon its hauncles 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 be-
sides 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.
“Ts that you, Milly ?” asked Grif, starting to lus
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, stoop-
ing, and caressing the dog, who licked her hand.
30 GRIF.
“ He knows friends from enemies, A gocd job if ae
of us did!”
There was a certain bitterness in the girl’s voice |
which jarred upon the ear, but Grif, probably too ac-_
custcmed 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 sor-
rowful to witness in a girl so young, and it would have
been one which a painter would have been pleased to
gaze upon.
“IT have been looking for Jim,” she said, “and I
cannot find him.”
“T sor him to-night,” Grif said; “he was up at the
house—him and Black Sam end 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
sooked 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.
“Ts Ned Rutt the worst?” asked Grif.
The dog repeated the performance.
“Ts Jim Pizey the worst?” asked Grif.
Milly caught the lad’s arm as he put the last ques-
tion, and looked in the face of the dog as if it were a
sibyl about to answer her heart’s fear. But the dog
wageed its tail, and was silent.
“Thank God!” Milly whispered to herself. .
“Ts the Tenderhearted Oysterman the worst ?”
asked Grif.
Whether Grif spoke that name in a different tone,
GRIF LOSES A FRIEND, el
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.”
“j{ don’t care if he did. It can’t make any differ-
ence 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 nicht ?”
“T 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 mo,
Grif.” .
“Well, if I must tell you, it was with Ally I was
sittin’. You never seed her.”
“No, ve never seen her,” said Milly, scornfully.
“Tve 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
spokcu to about her. But she isn’t prettier than me
32 GRIF.
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 httle hand—*“ nor smaller feet, 1
know, though I’ve never seen them. And yet she’s a
lady !”
“Yes, she is.”
“AndIam not. Of course not. Well, I shall go.
Good-night.”’ |
“ Good-night, Milly,” Grif said, in a conflict of agi-
tation. For he knew that he had hurt Milly’s feelings,
and he was remorseful. He knew that he was night
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.
“T didn’t say she was,’ Grif responded, swinging
one foot upon the pavement.
« And she hasn’t got smaller hands than me ?”
“ T 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. J often
wonder if it is mine! It’s hard to tell ; isn’t it ?”
GRIF LOSES A FRIEND. oe
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
' Pve 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 ?’
“T dow’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 strug-
gling to his eyes.
“‘ Don’t be a stupid boy,” Milly said; “TI have only
been joking with you. I don’t mean half I said; [
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 im it
which he could not solve, made straight for a coftee-
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 te it.
Grif was wending his way to bed; and lest any mis-
z i
84 GRIF.
conception 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 lony
_ 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 in-
quiring for the landlord. Whereby he clearly laid him-
self open to an action for ejectment. And Grif was
not the only tenant, for when he arrived at his sleep-
ing-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 ap-
peared to afford him much satisfaction. Grif’s action
had disturbed the occupant of the barrel, who had evi-
dently been sleeping, and he presently appeared, rub-
bing his eyes.
Such a strange little tenant! Such a white-faced,
thin-faced, hageard-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 16, rubbed his little hands
gladly, and was wide-awake in an instant.
“You haven’t had nothin’ to eat to-night, Pll 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 LOSES A FRIEND. co
Grif said. “It’s Milly you have gct 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.
“ Yowve 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-lke 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.
“T 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 rave-
nously. “ Well, if this isn’t a puzzler, I don’t know
what is,” observed Grif. “ Where did you get that
from? Yow’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 1t. He then
stretched himself on his face, and was soon fast asleep
avain. Grif, having eaten his half of the pie, coiled
himself up, and prepared for sleep. No fear of rheu-
matism 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 perme he
Da
36 GRIF.
did not have a more comfortable bed. He was very
vired, but the remembrance of the events of the day
kept him dozing for a httle while. Alice, and her hus-
band, and Milly, presented themselves to his imagina-
tion 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
tichard 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; ?'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 ask-
ing Rough who was the worst of all Jim Pizey’s lot?
he was listening to the T’enderhearted 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 r unnine commentary
of his dreams. He fancied that, after he and Little
Peter had eaten the pies, the T'enderheartcd 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 ana fastened ; that then the Oyster-
man 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
2
CS
GRIF LOSES A FRIEND.
could not release it. The weight upon Grif’s chest
erew heavier and heavier; ib was forcing the breath
out of his body. In his sleep he gasped, and fought
to 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 lick-
ing 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 doe 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,” con-
tinued 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 barrelis! 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 tho roof of the barrel. “ Blest if [ 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
-eould 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.
ite} GRIF.
‘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 dis-
cover 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 power-
ful. 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 doz 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 whis-
pered 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. Quictly 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 Mel-
bourne 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 npon the dog’s wet coat, and rained warm tears
upon it.
“ After all the games we’ve had together !’’ he con-
tinued. ‘ After the times he’s stood up for me! He’ll
never stand up for me agin—never agin !”
fle 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. Hverybody
GRIF LOSES A FRIEND. 39
liked him—everybody except the Tenderhearted Oyster-
man. ‘ihe Tenderhearted Oysterman !”’ he cried, jump-
. Ing 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 feel-
ing.
“He’s been pizened. The Tenderhearted Oyster-
man’s pizened him. Say Damn him!”
“Damn him!” Little Peter said, readily.
“Tm 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 some-
times 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,
40 GRIP.
but they got in over a low wall at the back. Hvery-
thing about him was very solemn, very mournful, and
very dreary. ‘he 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 pef-
forming a sacred duty which demanded sacred ob-
servances was "pon 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 overit. 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 uot a lazy hum, a droning whisper, with an invi-
tation 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
TIE CONJUGAL NUTTALLS. 4]
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 stronely 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
hight, wiping their mouths unblushinely, and through
the swinging doors of which you catch glimpses of ex-
cited men, eating, drinking, talkine, 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 un-
comfortably—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
hanes, 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 be-
fore the burning sun had waged fierce war with 1b
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 plea-
GRIF.
sant 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
jletter as if it were sentient; “ alive and prosperous !
T'o 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 oniy 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
iong beard and a very long scythe, looked down upon
him from the famiuy 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 ciap
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 ex-
cused them had they been rusted, but they were not
so. ‘They came up quite bright at his bidding, and
smiled in his face. ‘hey twinkled in his eyes, those
memories, and made him young again. In the glow-
ing wood fire rose up the ,.2tures 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 atthe touch of a magician’s hand,
TIE CONJUGAL NUTTALLS. 43
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 swect and loving remem-
brance. 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. JI’or 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. Nicholas
Nuttall, divested of her crinolines and flounces and
other feminine vanities, in which she indulged inordi-
nately, 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 rnfiled hen, strutting about in
offended majesty, in dztiance 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 petti- -
coat government ; if ever there was a man completely
4.4, GRIF,
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. Itis a singular fact, but one which may be
easily ascertained by any individual who takes an in-
terest 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 18 an important, unexpressed portion of the mar-
riage 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 Nut-
talls, 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 sub-
mission. |
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 con-
tracted, as if they had a habit of looking inward for
consclation; her lps 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 con-
spicuous 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
THE CONJUGAL NUTTALLS. 45
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 im-
perceptible motion—shrugged them, as it were, be-
neath his shirt and coat, and in such a manner that no
movement was imparted to those garments. ver
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, ac-
companied 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 wonld not take No for an answer—you ought to
have married Mary Plummer. I wish you had fer for
a wife! Then you would appreciate me better.”
No wonder, that at so thoroughly illogical and
bigamy-suggesting an aspiration, Mr. Nuttall looked
43 GRIF.
puzzled. But Mrs. Nuttall paid no attention to his
look, and proceeded,—
“T went to school with her, and [ ought to know
how she would turn out. The way she brings up her
family is disgraceful; the girls are as untidy as ean be.
You should see the bed-rooms in the middle of the
day! And yet her husband indulges her in every-
thing. He issomething lke 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 [ 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, ’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. Irom the moment you broached
the subject of our coming to the colonies, my peace ot
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 tome; 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
aame, simply for the purpose of wounding my feclings.
.HE CONJUGAL NUTTALLS. | 4?
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 1 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 con-
tented with twelve. Do you know how you are to
meet these frightful expenses? I’m sure J 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) com-
placently.
Still Mr. Nuttall made no remark, and sat as quiet
as a mouse, gazing hambly’ 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, 1s 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-scrub-
bing 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 js either the baker’s or
the butcher’s man. The two noodlcs 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.”
4.8 GRIF.
* Locked up!”? exclaimed Mr. Nuttall.
“ Certainly. Do you think the police would allow
such goings on at home ?”
i 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.”
“<1 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.”
“Tt is perfectly impossible, Maria. Do be reason-
able |’
«Sir !?? exclaimed Mrs. Nuttall, glaring at her hus-
band.
“ What I meant to say, Maria,” said Mr. Nuttall,
clearing his throat, as if something had gone down the
wrong way, ‘1s, 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 informa-
tion to the police would lead to any satisfactory re-
sult.”
“ Tt will be a very Pere: result—won’t 1t ?—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 lke losing my right hand.
I tell you what this country is, Mr. Nuttall—it’s de-
moralizing, 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 fecling of weari-
ness; 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 yon. Atshort
THE CONJUGAL NUTTALLS. 49
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 mect ? When I
tell you, you will be as surprised as I was when I read
it.”
“Whom, Nicholas?” asked Mrs. Nattall, impa-
tiently. ‘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 1s a comfort; as showing that his
position is not a bad one. Rut, if we are to go, can
you tell me what to wear? J don’t know, in this out-
landish colony, whether we are expected to dress our-
selves like Christians or aboriginals.”
“The last would certainly be inexpensive, but it
would scarcely be decent, Maria,” remarked Mr.
Nuttall, shly.
“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 un-
quiet 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 @
‘dreamy state of inattention, she cried, sharply—
, 5
39)
50 GRIF.
“ 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 lke 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 isin, 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, Ni-
cholas ¢” |
“ My dear ;” said Nicholas, amazed.
“Not that it matters much,’ she continued, not
heeding him; “he inay 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 hus.
band’s lips, she rose majestically, and said,
“T shall not waste my conversation upon you any
longer. I suppose the cab will be here at half-past |
THE MERCHANT ENTERTAINS HIS FRIENDS. 5]
nine o’clock; everybody else, of course, will co im
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, F
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 din-
ner. Mr. Zachariah Blemish was a merchant and a
philanthropist ; he was also a gentleman of an impos-
ing 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 pre-
sence of the other, 1t 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, 1am strong; you
are mean, [am noble. But do not be abashed. Do
uot be afraid of your own unworthiness. tele not
E@
52 GRIF.
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 1 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, de-
ferentialily. 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 mght, 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 ''emperance 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 al-
lowed his name to appear regularly upon all commit-
tees for religious and benevolent purposes, and would
himself go round with lists to collect subscriptions.
Jn 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 Zacha-
THE MERCHANT ENTERTAINS HIS FRIENDS. 53
riah 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, say-
ing that the United Band of Temperance Aboriginals
was a Band of Humbugs. Blemish gazed mildly at
the mas;, and turned away without a word. The fol-
lowing 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) to-
wards 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 me-
chanic who sent it, and that it was the magnetic good-
ness 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 me-
chanic’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 Par-
liament; he was supported on his left by a member ot
the Lower House of ditto. One of the leading mem-
bers of the Government was talking oracularly to one
of the leading merchants of the city. One of the lead-
ing 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 common-
54 GRIF.
est of common mortals! He might have been a brick-
jayer for any difference observable between them. For
he oles his food did Mr. David Dibbs, and he slob-
bered 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 front-
ace, and was not his income thirty thousand pr-unds 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.
Hach of them, in his own particular person, repre-
sented wealth or position. Could it for a single mo-
ment 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 uncon-
scious 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 enter-
tain them.
The gentlemen are over their wine, and are con-
versing 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,
éccasionally, 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 cau-
tious reticence.
THE MERCHANT ENTERTAINS HIS fRIENDS. ve.
“T should like to have been in the House last night,”
suid 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 con-
gratulated 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.”’
“T 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 thou-
sand pounds lying idle, he said, and he could not get
more than five per cent. for it. We 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 Confede-
ration. ‘That’s what we want to set us going~-sepa-
ration from the home country, and a confederation of
the South Sea colonies. We don’t want our most im-
portant matters settled for us in the red-tape office
over the water. We don’t want our Governors ap-
vointed 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 distinc-
tion. 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 sub-
jects, | hope—”
56 GRIF.
“ T 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 difh-
culty it has to legislate upon. I maintain that the day
must come—”
“Gentlemen,” called Mr. Zachariah Blemish, horri-
fied 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 en-
thusiastically. And then the conversation took an-
other turn. Presently, all ears were turned to the
leading physician, who was relating a circumstance to
the leading lawyer.
“Tt isa 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-diggines 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, any-
thine, 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. Ue had been
THE MERCHANT ENTERTAINS DIS FRIENDS. 57
heard to say that he had never shaved. Well, one
night, at past eleven o’clock, he knocked up a store-
keeper at the diggings, and bought a razor and strop,
a pair of scissors, a pair of moleskin trousers, a pair of
watertignt 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 fora 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. Jor a day or two, no
notice was taken of his absence; but, after that, de-
positors and others grew uneasy, and rumour invented
a hundred different stories about him. 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 at-
tention to the remorseless wind than was expressed by
a cold shiver now and then, and an involuntary hud-
Ga
§2 GRIF.
ding together of their limbs. “IT wouldn’t care if
Rough was alive,” mused Grif. “If he’d only come
when [ whistle!” And the next moment he abso-
lutely 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
Jattle Peter for sympathy.
He got none. Little Peter’s nature was not sympa-
thetic, 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 cf 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 hfe-blood squeezed clean out of him.
Gazing at the drooping figure, Grif forgot his own
erief, 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
Dien
But Little Peter did not move.
“Asleep, Peter ?” asked Grif.
A shght quivering of Little Peter’s body was th2
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.
we
fo 4
GRIF PROMISES TO BE ILONEST. 85
“ He’s took ill!”’ cried Grif, with a sudden appre-
_ hension. ‘ 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 se-
curity. 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. | 3
“He’s my brother,” said Grif, telling the le without
the smallest compunction, “and he’s took ill. Pm
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 quictest
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
Yy
a
G sod
84 GRIF.
softly to herseif, and looking at the face of her baby,
_ the while she gently swayed her body to and fro. He
stocd 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 hang-
ing 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 ten-
derness.
“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
dow
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
snillin’. Rough was all right then. But he was
pizened that night.”
“‘ Poisoned !”
GRIF PROMISES TO BE HONEST. 85 i
“Yes,” very mournfully.
‘*Who poisoned him?”
‘The ‘l'enderhearted Oysterman.”
“The mean hound !”’
“fe heerd me say somethin’ agin him when I was
speakin’ to you, Milly, so he took it out of me ly
pizenin’ the dawg. But Vl 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.
V’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.
“Vd 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 G fj in a tone sufficiently indica-
tive of his sense of his abasement.
3 + I say, Milly,” he continued, “I didn’t know
you had a baby. May T look at him?”
“Tt’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.
“‘Tt?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?”
86 GRIF.
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. ‘’o 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 1s 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 revela-
tion to him, this child of Milly’s. Milly herself was so
different. He had never seen her in so good a heght
as now. Hitherto he had in his thoughts drawn a
wide lne between her and.Alice; a gulf that seemed
impassable had divided them. Now the gnlf 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 occu-
pation 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 yester-
day 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
'
GRIF PROMISES TO BE HONEST. 87
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 Inttle 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. DPve got the devil in me sometimes, and I can’t
keep him down. But I mustn’t thmk—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. Hverybody used to tell me so.
'-I had a pretty face, pretty hands, pretty feet, pretty
hair. Umapretty daughter altogether! Why wasn’t
ITugly? Then I might have been good !’
She took the baby from Grif’s arms, and pressed 1t
to her bosom.
“ Tf I knew how to be good,” she said, in a softened
voice, I think [ 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, ’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.
4
88 GRIF.
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, hke
me. Qh, 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 itis; 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 ?”
““T 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. Whoelse? The Tender-hearted Oysier-
man.”
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 beasleep. Quick! For God’s
wake 1”
GRIF PROMISES TO BE HONEST. 89
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 com-
panion 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 conver-
sation. ‘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, Pll 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 cars. That was the Station which Alice had
spoken of in their conversation a couple of nights ago.
But when, the next instant, the Tenderhearted Oyster-
man uttered Richard Handfield’s name, he started, and
eaught 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 httle 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 dis-
cussed 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.
“ vou’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.)
“T know well enough that you don’t mean it.”
“ Now Jim,” expostulated the Oysterman, and yet
$0 ; GRI¥.
evidently regarding his comrade’s words as a complie
ment. ‘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 youd 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
sald.
“Tf I didn’t know you for that, then, I’d have
nothing to do with you, for your infernal cant sickens
Hie.
‘There was a pause in the conversation. Grif still
held Milly’s hand hard. He felt there was some-
thing coming which would affect Alice, and every
word that was being uttered stamped itself upon his
mind.
“ Dick Handfield we must have, and Dick Hand-
field we will have,’ resumed Jim. “Jf we can’t
have him one way, we will another. Tve got a hook
m 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?”
“T 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 Pve bought for you. It belonged
to a lady.”
GRIF PROMISES TO BE HONEST. 91
“Oh, what a beauty!’ cried Milly, her eyes spark-
ling 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 Tender-hearted
Oysterman ; “he’s as soft as a piece of putty. But I
can’t see how that watch 1s a dose, Jim.”
“T gave Dick Handfield five pounds for that watch,”
said Jim, “and I paid him for 1t 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, [
think. I shal! 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. Hand-
field will be glad enough to jom 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 ber name is,’ said the ‘T'enderhearted
Oysterman, sneeringly. ‘She’s as much his wife as
I am.”
“Tt?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
92 GRIF.
husband! He dug his nails in his hard, and his farth-
ful 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
IV] s how
he came to know ail 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!”
“T wonder what sort of a woman you'd ever be fond
of, Oysterman !”’ said Milly, with bitter sarcasm. “TI
wonder if yow’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.
SiN ever you speak against women when a woman
1SEOy Ae
The Tenderhearted Oysterman had tur ned white in
the face when Milly spoke.
“You’re a nice sort of woman, you are,” he ex-
claimed, with a snarl. “Id 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 down-
stairs.”
“Come, come, Milly,” said Jim, “ we’ve had enough -
of that.”
“ No, we haven’t,” cried Milly, who was thoroughly
GRIF PROMISES TO BE HONEST. 93
roused. “ You’re a man, you are. You're bad enough,
_God knows! but there 7s 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
anery and half amused, taking his comrade by the
arm. “It’s no use answeripg her. She talks to me
sometimes lke 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. “Tl 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 strug-
gling with his doubts.
“Ym not, nor ever shall be. That watch”? (point-
ing to it) “was hers, I suppose.”
“Ts’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 wero
hard up, perhaps, and Jim bought it of him with a
9.4 GRIF.
forred note. Oh, my God! What a web of wicked-
ness and goodness !’ |
“T 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 7Il 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 mast
go, Milly. Il 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
kina to me, though he is a bad man, and you shan’t
peach upon him.”
“Let me go, Milly,” cried Grif, gently strugeling.
“You don’t go till Jim comes in,” she said, still
retaining her hold of him, “and then—eood 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, “dou’t take on so. I won’t hurt
you or Jim. But I must be true to Ally. If I couldn’t
be, ’'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 L
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, em-
i]
GRIF PROMISES TO BE HONEST. 95
phatically. ‘ 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+'me; 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! Ill tell Ally that her husband must go away
to-night. He was agoin’ away—lI heerd him say so—
and perhaps he’s gone already. I won’t tell her about
the forged note. Tl say that I heerd a plot, and I
won’t tell her what 16 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 lke
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’
_IT?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, al-
though 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 any-
thing about the forged note ft”
“No, Milly. Take care of poor Little Peter. If
96 GRIP.
ever I can do you a good turn, I’ll do it—you mind if
donate 72
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. ‘ender 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.
“T can’t tell you,” he said, in a rapid, sharp tone ;
“1m 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 711 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 ?”
3
i]
GRIF PROMISES TO BE HONEST. Q7
“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 Ive
overheerd, for I can’t—I mustn’t—I darn’t! Tve 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 ike Richard Handfield’s are easily im-
pressed, 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 faithtul friend.”
Grif nodded his head, and his eyes brightened. “ After
all, it is but afew hours more. They would soon be
past. Bless you, darling! 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 Alicein his arms and
held her to him. While thus they clung together, she
whispered,—
“ Be strong and firm, Richard dear
“T will, dearest and best,” he said, as with a pas-
sionate love-clinging he held the good and faithful
woman to his breast.
“Tf the thought that Iam 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
i
7
98 GRIF.
if with you, keep it in your mind, for, ch! it is true,
my darling, it is true!”
“TL know it, Alice, I know it.”
“TI 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
\ ‘ess and preserve you!”
And she broke from him, and then, meeting his eyes,
a look of electric love brovght 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. Hven 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 super-
stitious. The shape of the stone was comforting to
him. Aheart! Itwasa good omen. He put it care-
fully 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 —
i}
GRIF PROMISES TO BE HONEST. 99
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 ten-
derness 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 mourn-
ing 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 with-
out a farewell nod.
Left alone with Alice, Grif, with a delicacy of fecl-
ing 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.
“ rif,” sho 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 thie
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 Fd never stolen any-
thine but food, and then only when hunger sharply
pressed him. The thought flow swiftly to his ue that
H 2
100 GRIF.
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 per-
plexed, and the logical sequence of his thoughts be-
came 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 woald like to see you better, for your sake and
for mine, Grif.’’
“T never know’d how to be honest, Ally,” he said.
Then he thought of Milly’s words to him that night.
“If T knew how to be eood,” 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 lke 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, pail
ran earn if you like.”
7]
GRIF PROMISES TO BE HONEST. 10)
“Can I? Id 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. [ve
got a precious bad character, Ally, there’s no mistake
about that; and I’ve been to quod a gocd many times.
I can’t look a pecler 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.
“ Youw’re willing to work,” she said.
“ Yes, ’m willin’ enough.”
“Every one can get work if he likes, and if ho
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 ?”
“JT want you to give me a promise to be honest,
Grif,”’ she said, earnestly.
“Tl do it,” he replied, without a moment’s hesita-
tion. And then he added seriously, for he felt he was
undertaking a great responsibility, “Ill 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, ’ll come to you, Ally,” he said, almost crying,
for he knew how poor she was.
102 GRIF.
“ 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 ?”
Sa eeey WA
“This 1s the last night I shall be here. Iam 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-y
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 grate-
fal 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 pos-
session 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 tp his
mind to retire to rest. Knowing there was a cellar to
the house, he groped his way down to it.
“YT wish I hada 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 sohloquising, he crept into
it. ‘Now then,” he said, as he lifted the cover of
i]
GRIF IS SET UP AS A MORAL SHOEBLACK. 103
the packing-case on the top, popping his head down
- quickly to avoid a bump; ‘“ that’s warm and comfort-
_ able, that is. It’d be warmer, though, if Thad Rough
here, or Little Peter. Wouldn’t it be jolly! Pm
honest now,” he thought, recurring to his promise, as
he closed his eyes. “ I’m honest now, that’s what I am.
J 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 circum-
stance of birth had placed him upon the lowest rung
of the social ladder, and, being grovelling by nature,
he had no thought of striving upwards, and was
always prowling about, hke a hungry dog searching
for a bone. Being gregariously inclined, he was to
be depended upon as anitemina mob. The object
of a gathering of people was not a thing to be con-
sidered—politics, religion, amusement, were all one ta
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
104 GRIF.
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
sonorance 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 hin, 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 poli-
ticians gnashed their teeth at and wept over; and it
was remarkable to observe with what complacency
the PeopJe 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 out-
pourings 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
Brita, 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
GRIF IS SET UP AS A MORAL SHOEBLACK. 105
his own experience. But he, for one, bore his lot
uncomplainingly, and with an unconscious exercise
of philosophy, walked in the gutters (not feeling him-
’ self 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 Wel-
lington 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 lis own level, and forfeited their position in society.
They may have been occasionally scraped, but they
were never polished; and so they lost their respect-
ability, 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 houest, that his mind was
disturbed. “She’s right, o’ course she is,” he said,
“T 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!”
106 GRIF.
and he looked down upon his boots, not with disgust,
but with distrust, and stepped out of the gutter on to
the pavement. “Inever wanted to steal; I only
wanted my grub anda blanket. If any swell ’d have
given ’em to me, it 7d have been all right. But they
ain’t a bit of use to any one, ain’t the swells. Dve got
to try to get 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 covelam. 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 hfe, 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 secing 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 ina sort of
measure exultant at each rebuff. ‘“Itold her so,” he
muttered to himself, triumphantly ; ‘ who'd have any-
thing to do witha beggar like me? ButI promised
her I’d try, and I ain’t agoin’ to deceive her.” Two
or three times he was surlily spoken to by the police- —
men, and on each occasion he slunk off, without a
GRIF I8 SET UP AS A MORAL SHOEBLACK, 107
murmur, not without a dim consciousness that le 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 un-
kindness and uncharitableness, just as much charity
and benevolence, just as much ignorance, just as
much noble-mindedness, as can be found amongst
masses of human creatures anywhere. It is true that
men get into false positions oftener than in older
countries, but that 1s 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 same light as he would be
looked upon if he were prowling about London streets.
To the Melbourne constable, he was just what aragged
pilferine boy would be to a 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 con-
servators 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
gtood at the door of the great place of business of
108 GRIF.
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. Tor 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 Parlia-
ment, of Ministers, and of merchants of the highest
standine—in sight of his books, wherein were daily
entered records of transactions amounting to thou-
sands 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 re-
turn.
“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 dis-
posed 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.
GRIF IS SET Up AS A MORAL SHOEDLACK. 109
“Umph!” said Mr. Blemish. “He looks like it.
Bui thank you, policeman,” this with a stately affa-
bility, “TI 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 .nis face was hidden from Grif. ‘ Now,
then,” said Mr. Blemish, when Grif had disposed
himself before the great merchant hke a criminal;
“what do you mean by coming into my place of busi-
ness?”
“T 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 area 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.”
“Starvo!” exclaimed Mr. Blemish, lifting up his
hands in pious wonderment. ‘Starve! In this land
of plenty!”
HY GBIF.
“Tt 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 raga-
muffins as this give the lie to political economists 1s
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.
Nos |
“Why did you come, then?”
“{ promised her to try, though I told her it wasn’t
a bit 0’ 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 hkeness was unmistakeable. Even in his deep
voice there was a ring of Alice’s sweeter tones. If
anything could have shaken Grif, it was tho sight of
that stern face, and the knowledge that the man be-
fore him could make Alice happy if he chose. Hager
words rushed to Grif’s lips, but he dared not give
them utterance. What good could a ragamuffin hke
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, re-
covering his composure.
“A lady!” and Mr. Nuttall langhed.
“ Ah, if you knew!” thought Grif, but be contented
himself with saying, “‘ Yes, she is, and so you'd say if
you sor her.”
“ Upon my word,” remarked Mr. Blemish, blandly,
“T did not know that vagabonds like you associated
with ladics. ‘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.”
GRIF IS SET UP AS A MORAL SHOEBLACE. 11)
Better and better,” observed Mr. Blemish, com.
posedly. “Now, this is something in my way, al-
though f am not aware that I have met with sucha
eharacter before to-day. Why did you start when
this gentleman spoke to you?”
“T thort I knew his voice,” returned Grif.
“And do youknow it? Have you had the pleasure
of this gentleman’s acquaintance?” this said so plea-
santly that both the gentlemen smiled.
“Never seed the gentleman afore, as I knows on,”
said Grif, to whom a he was of the very smallest con-
sequence. }
“What do you do for a living?” asked Mr.
Blemish.
“ Nothin’ partikeler.”
“ And you find it very hard work, I have no doubt,”
observed Mr. Blemish.
“Yes, Ido; very hard,” replied Grif, literally ; and
then, with sudden exasperation, he exclaimed, ‘‘ What’s
the use of badgerin’ me? You ain’t agoin’ to do no-
thin’ forme. Why don’t you let me go?”
“Come,” said Mr. David Dibbs, who up to this
time had taken no part in the dialogue, “I tell you
what it is, young feller! You keep a civil tongue in
your head, or Pll commit you on the spot. I’m a
magistrate, that’s what I att and V’ll give you a
month, as sure as eggs is eges, if you don’t mind
what you’re up to!”
“T don’t care,” responded Grif. “I ain’t a-goin’
te be badgered.”
“You don’t care!” exclaimed Mr. David Dibbs, ©
turning as red as a turkey-cock. ‘Send for the
policeman, Blemish. J’ll have him put in jail, and
flogecd. Isa magistrate to be sauccd at in this here
way?”
Tho small puffed-up soul of Mr. David Dibbs swelled
with indignation. Things were come to a preily pass,
indecd, when the possessor of thirty thousand pounds
112 | GRIP.
a year, and a magistrate into the bargain, was thus
openly defied by a ragged boy, probably without six-
pence in his pockets! They glared at each other, did
Grif and Mr. David Dibbs, and Mr. Dibbs did not
have much the best of the situation.
“Nay, nay, Mr. Dibbs,” said Mr. Blemish, sooth-
ingly; “you have every right to be angry, but let me
deal with the boy, I beg.—Now, suppose,” he said,
addressing Grif, impressively, “ suppose I were to take
it into my head (I haven’t any such idea, mind you) to
give you a situation as errand boy, what remuneration
would you require in return ?”
“What what?”
“What remuneration—what salary—how much a
week would you expect?”
“T don’t expect nothin’ a week,” answered Grif;
“T only wants my grub and a blanket. But if you
ain’t got no such idea, what’s the good of keeping me
here ?”’
“Of course you know nothing of religion ?”
“ve been preached to,” responded Grif, “ till ?m
sick of it.”
“This boy interests me,” remarked Mr. Blemish,
speaking to society in general; “I should like to
make an experiment with him. Who knows but that
we might save his soul?”
“ You can’t do that,” said Grif, moodily.
“ Can’t save your soul! ” |
“No; the preacher chap sed it’d go to morchel
perdition; and I s’pose he knows.”
Mr. Blemish raised his eyes to the ceiling, and an
expression of sublime pity stole over his countenance.
Grif edged closer to the door, as if anxious to be dis-
missed.
“Mr. Blemish folded his hands with a sort of pious
horror, and exclaimed—“ I am amazed! ”
“What are you amazed at?” inquired Mr. David
Dibbs. “I’ve scen hundreds of boys like this here
GRIF IS SET UP AS A MORAL SHOEBLACK. 113
one—he ain’ no different to the rest. They’re a bad,
vicious lot.”
Grif assented to the last remark by a nod.
“But our duty is clear,’ said Mr. Blemish, as if in
answer to a voice within him, perhaps the voice of
morality. “ Listen to me”’—this to Grif, with a fore-
finger warningly held up; ‘I am about to give youa
chance of reforming.”’
“Allright; I’m agrceable,” said Grif, in a tone that
betokened utter inditference of the matter.
“In my capacity as President of the Moral Boot
Blacking Boys’ Reformatory, I will provide you with a
boot-stand, a set of brushes, and a pot of the best
blacking. You can polish boots ?”
“T’ve only got to rub at ’em, I s’pose,” said Grif,
wishing his own feet, with their dirty bluchers, would
fly off his legs.
Mr. Blemish waived the question as one of detail,
which it was evidently beneath him to enter upon.
“You can take up your stand at once. What do
ou say? Are you willing to be honest ?”
“Didn’t I tell you that this is my first day at it,”
_replied Grif. “Tm willin’ enough; I only wants my
erub and a blanket. It don’t matter to me how I
gets ’em, so long as I do get ’em.”
“Vory well,” and Mr. Blemish touched the bell,
which on the instant brought a clerk, to whom
he gave instructions. ‘“‘Go with this young man,
and he will provide you with everything that is ne-
cessary, and come to-night to the meeting of the
Moral Boot Blacking Boys’ Reformatory. Do you
know why it is called the Moral Boot Blacking Boys’
Reformatory ?”
£6 Nor’
“ Because all the boys are moral. If they are not
moral when they are admitted, they are made moral.
So mind that youw’re moral. Thc mcre moral you ares
the bettcr you will get on,”
114 GRIF.
“T’ll be very moral, I will,” promised Grif, without
the slightest idea of the meaning of his promise.
“ Now you can go; I shall keep my eye on you, and
watch how you conduct yourself ;” and Mr. Blemish
straightened himself, and swelled and puffed, as who
should say, “I have done a noble and a moral action,
and now I can transact my business with an easy con-
science.”
Grif, finding himself set up in life as a moral shoe-
black, felt uncomfortably strange as he stood behind
his stand in one of the Melbourne streets. He had
been provided with a boot-stand, a set of brushes, and
a pot of the best blacking; and as he surveyed his
stock in trade, he was not quite certain whether he
ought to be gratified or disgusted. He was so awk-
ward altogether; and he did not know what to do
with his hands. He placed them behind him—that
was not business-like; he let them hang before him,
and he became so painfully conscious of them, that he
absolutely began to hate them. Never until now had
he experienced what a dreadful responsibility it was to
have two hands and not know what to do with them.
For an hour no customer came. ‘Thinking that the
state of his own boots was not a recommendation to
business, he set to work brushing and polishing them
up. It is amazing what a difference a well-polished
pair of boots makes in one’s appearance. As he sur-
veyed his shining leathers, Grif felt that an important
change had taken place in his prospects. He was al-
ready a respectable member of society. But still no
customer came. He was a shrewd lad, and, thinking
to tempt the passers-by, he took off his boots, and
placing them upon his stand, courted custom with bare
feet. In vain. Most of those who passed took no
heed of him; a few looked at him and smiled—some
in pity, some in derision. It was like standing in the
pulory. He turned hot and cold, and flushed and.
paiea, by turns. In truth, it was no enviable task for
G#i5 IS SET UP AS A MORAL SHOEBLACK, 115
Grif, who had been a Bedouin of the byeways all his
life, to stand stock-still, as if proclaiming that he was
ashamed of his past life, and begged to be admitted
“into the ranks of honest respectability. Besides, he
was hungry, and gnawing sensations within made him
restless and unhappy. But Grif behaved bravely.
He did not flinch from his post. For hours he stood,
patiently waiting. And then an incident occurred.
Iwo men, Jim Pizey and the Tenderhearted Oyster-
man, stopped before him. The sight of the Oysterman
so inflamed Grif, that he felt inclined to do one of twe
things—to catch up his boots and fly away, or to
spring upon the Oysterman and choke him for mur-
dering Rough. But he did neither.
“ Here’s the young imp,” said Jim Pizey; “he’s
turned respectable.” Grif’s first impulse was to in-
dignantly deny the imputation, but no time for utter-
ance was given him. “ Have you seen Dick Hand-
field to-day ?”’ asked Pizey.
“No,” answered Grif, shortly.
“Where have they gone to, him and his wife?”
asked Jim. “Tell me any lies, and I'll break your
neck for you. Here, clean my boots.” Jim bade him
do this, for he was fearful of attracting attention.
Grif would have liked to refuse; but he felt that to
do so would be a clear infraction of his promise to
Alice.
“ How should I know where they are ?”” exclaimed
Grif, brushing at Jim’s boots.
“You were there last night, and they were there
last night. You and the girl have been together lots
of times, and you know well enough where they’re
gone to. Youw’re a pet of hers, I’m told.”
“She’s been very good to me, Ally has,” said Grif,
gently. ‘‘And because o’ that, you don’t think Pd
let on where they are, do you? You don’t think Pd
let on, if I knew, do you? No, I’d have my tongue
eut out first.” 3
I
116 GRIF.
“7’ll tear it out and pitch it down your throat, if
you talk to us like that,” said the Oysterman, fiercely.
“Will you?” said Grif, standing up. ‘Or you’ll
pizen me, the same as you pizened my dawg! You’d
like to, wouldn’t you? And because o’ that, if I didn’t
have no other reason, I wouldn’t tell you where Dick
Handfield is, if I knew where you could put your
hands on him this minute. There!’
“You won’t tell us?” asked Jim.
“No,” answered Grif, bravely.
Jim looked darkly at him, and giving the stand a
kick, sent the blacking-bottle, the brushes, and Grit’s
boots, rolling in the gutter; and, while Grif was busy
picking them up, he took his companion’s arm, and
walked away.
This was not an encouraging beginning to Grif’s
honest career, and dark doubts entered his mind as to
whether he really had made a change for the better.
“ What’s the use of bein’ moral,’’ he grumbled, as
he rearranged his stand, “if this 1s the way I’m to be
served? ‘lhey’ve soon found out that Dick Hand-
field’s gone; and ain’t they mad at it, neither! Itsa
good job he went away to-day. Old Flick will be mad,
too, at buyin’ the bad note. It’s a reg’lar game, that’s
what it is. I’m precious hungry. I wish I was near
the confectioner’s. T’d go and arks for a pie. But
I'll see it out. I promised Ally I would, and I will.
Hallo! what do you want ?”
This was addressed to a boy, if possible dirtier and
more ragged than Grif himself. Indeed, dirt and this
boy had become so inseparable that he was known by
the simple but expressive name of Dirty Bob. Now,
Dirty Bob had seen Grif take up his stand, and had
disdainfully watched him wait for customers. In Dirty
Bob’s eyes Grif was a renegade, a sneak, for setting up
as a shoeblack. And he determined to show his dis-
dain in his own particular way. Ile possessed only .
one sixpence in the world, and he resolved to spend it
juxuriously.
GRIF IS SET UP AS A MORAL SHOEBLACK. 117
“ Oh, it’s you, Dirty Bob, is it ?”’ said Grif.
“Yes, it’s me,” responded Dirty Bob, loftily.
“What do you want ?” asked Grif.
“What do I want?’ echoed Dirty Bob. “ Why,
yow’re a bootblack, ain’t you ?”
“Yes,” replied Grif, with dignity. “I’m a moral
shoeblack now.”
“Ho! crikey!” exclaimed Dirty Bob. ‘ What do
you call yourself?”
“1m a moral shoeblack,” repeated Grif, with an in-
clination to punch Dirty Bob’s head.
“?Hre’s a go!” cried Dirty Bob. “A moral shoe-
black, are you? Well, then, clean my boots, and
mind you clean ’em morally ;” and he flopped upon the
stand a foot encased in a boot in the very last stage of
decay.
In Grif’s eyes this was a humiliation, and he almost
quite made up his mind to pitch into Dirty Bob; but
the thought that by so doing he might injure his cha-
racter as a moral shoeblack, restrained him.
“< Now, then,” exclaimed Dirty Bob, “‘ what are you
waiting for? Clean my boots, d’ye hear! What are
you blockin’ up the street for if you won’t clean a
genelman’s boots when you're told t”
“ Where’s your tanner?” asked Grif, gloomily.
“?Hre it is,” replied Dirty Bob, producing it. “It’s
a good un. It’s the only one I’ve got, but Pm goin’
to spend it ’spectably and genteelly. Brush away.”
After a little uncomfortable communing, Grif spat
upon his brush, and commenced to rub, submitting
silently to the scornful observations of Dirty Bob.
“J say, sir,” observed Dirty Bob (and be it remarked
that the “ sir’? was a nettle which stung Grif sharply) ;
“T say, sir, do you want a ’prentice ?”
“TJ don’t want none of your cheek,” said Grif, rub-
bing so smartly that he almost rubbed off the upper
leather; “that’s what I don’t want. So you'd better
hold your jaw.”
118 GRIF.
“T bee your pardon, sir,” said Dirty Bob, meekly ;
“T forgot that I was speakin’ to one of the Hupper
Class. And ho! sir!” he exclaimed, in a tone of an-
guish, “don’t tell the perlice, or they’d put me in
quod for cheekin’ a moral shoeblack.”
“There; your boots are done!” ejaculated the dis-
eusted Grif. ‘‘ Where’s the tanner ?”
“Don’t you think, sir,” said Dirty Bob, surveying
his boots critically, “‘that one on ’em is a little more
polished than t’other? Would you please make ’em
even, and give this cove another rub ?””
Grif commenced again rubbing viciously.
“Ho! don’t rub so ard, sir,” exclaimed Dirty Bob.
«I was brought up very tender, I was, and I’ve gota
wopping corn on my big toe. Thankey, sir! ’Hre’s
the tanner; and when you’re Lord Mayor, don’t forget
Dirty Bob !””
And he walked off, whistling. It was late in the
day now, so Grif prepared to close business. His
heart was not very light, for the first sixpence he had
honestly earned in his life had beon earned with a
sense of bitter humiliation.
CHAPTER IX.
_ A BANQUET IS GIVEN TO THE MORAL MERCHANT.
The world is full of shams. As civilization ad-
vances, shams increase and multiply; indeed, they
multiply so fast that human nature in the einen
century might be likened to a pie, with very little
room inside for the fruit, so thick is the crust of shams
with which it is ed: And as a chief lieutenant
of shams—as a sham which takes precedence of a host
A BANQUET TO THE MORAL MERCHANT. 119
of other shams, from its very shamelessness, may be
ranked the toast of Our Guest, or Our Host, proposed
at public dinners and entertainments. The unblush-
- ing fibs told in the speeches are dreadful to contem-
plate. Surely, some day a fearful retribution will fall
upon that man who is in the habit of rising when the
dessert is on the table, and endowmg Messrs. Smith,
Brown, Jones, and Robinson with every virtue under
the sun, and who unctuously dilates upon their sub-
limities, their virtues, and their goodnesses. Beware!
thou weak and false platitudinarian! Think not to
escape thy fate, because the word which describes thee
is not to be found in the dictionary. Beware! and
reform thy evil courses ere it be too late!
It is not to be supposed that any such thoughts as
these entered the mind of Mr. Zachariah Blemish, as
he sat on the right hand of the chairman at a grand
public dinner given in his (Blemish’s) honour. Tor
public enthusiasm with regard to this great and good
man had risen to a very high pitch—to such a pitch
indeed, that it was resolved to give Mr. Zachariah
Blemish a banquet; and, all the preliminaries being
arranged, more than two hundred gentlemen, repre-
senting wealth and position, sat down, and ate and
guzzled to do him honour. The guest himself ato
sparingly, but Mr. David Dibbs made up for him.
Mr. Dibbs had but few articles of faith, and to eat as
much as he could was one of them. Ifit had not been
that his gold threw a glare of sanctity around hin,
Mr. Dibbs would have been looked upon as a glutton.
As it was, what would have been a vice in a poorer
man, was in him nothing but an amiable eccentricity.
The company was composed of very influential atoms:
politics, religion, and L.S.D. were largely represented,
the latter especially. The Honourable Mr. Peter Puff
was in the Chair; another Honourable undertook the
Vice; anda Bishop said grace before meat. It was
carious to note the conduct of the guest in whose
{20 GRIF.
honour the entertainment was given. He appeared to
be quite oblivious of the occasion, and but for a shade
of self-consciousness which now and then passed across
his face, he might have been regarded as a perfectly
disinterested observer. ‘The committee would have
been justified in regarding this conduct as somewhat
ungrateful, for they had been indefatigable in their
exertions. Tish of river and sea, game of forest, fruit
of hothouse, were cunningly served up in every pos-
sible varicty in honour of Blemish. For long weeks,
celebrated cooks had ransacked their brains to invent
new dishes, and every one admitted, when the dessert
was laid, and the wine was passing, that the result
produced was glorious and worthy of the occasion.
Thump—thump—thump! Rattle—rattle—rattle !
Gentlemen, Her Most Gracious Majesty the Queen!
Proposed with patriotic enthusiasm. The Queen!
Each gentleman, standing, drains his glass, and sits
down again with becoming solemnity. Buzz of con-
versation. Thump—thump—thump! Ratile—rattle—
rattle! Gentlemen, His Royal Highness the Prince
of Wales, and the rest of the Royal Family; and may
he and they, etc., etc., etc. Enthusiasm and general
geniality. Thump—thump—thump! Rattle!—rattle—
rattle! Gentlemen, His Excellency the Governor!
With appropriate flunkeyism. As Her Most Gracious
Majesty’s Representative—most important and flourish-
ing portion of Her Most Gracious Majesty’s dominions
—upon which the sun never sets—and so on, and so
on; with The Army and Navy, The Clergy, etc., until
the important moment arrives when the toast of the
evening is to be proposed.
“‘ Gentlemen, are your glasses charged ?”
“ All charged in the Hast,” responds an indiscreet
Freemason, and then there is a shifting and shuffling,
until the Honourable Mr. Peter Puff rises. He looks
round upon the guests, blows his nose, lifts his glass,
puts it down again, coughs, and proceeds to speak.
A BANQULT TO THE MORAL MERCHANT. 121
* Gentlemen, it is now my proud task to perform a
duty, which is no less a duty than it is a pleasure.
(Hear, hear.) I wish that it had fallen to the lot of
‘some more eloquent speaker than myself—(No, no !)—
to propose the toast of the evening ; but being asked to
preside on this memorable occasion, I felt that I should
have been wanting in respect to myself, and in respect
to the gentleman who sits upon my right hand, if I had
not at once joyfully and gratefully accepted the honour-
able position. Gentlemen, some men are born great,
some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust
upon them. (Considerable doubt here intrudes itself
into the minds of fifty per cent. of the guests, whether
this is an original observation or a quotation.) Gentle-
men, I have, in this instance, had greatness thrust upon
me; for no one can doubt that the devolvement upon
me to propose the toast I am about to propose, reflects
honour and greatness upon—upon the proposer. We
have amongst us this evening, a gentleman—(here
every one looks at Mr. Zachariah Blemish, who looks
up to the ceiling, as if he considers it likely that the
gentleman about to be referred to may be discovered
somewhere in that locality) —a gentleman whose unde-
viating rectitude, whose integrity, whose moral charac-
ter, whose wealth, whose position, are not only credit-
able and honourable to himself, but creditable and
honourable to the city which he has made his dwelling-
place. (Hear, hear.) We might say, with Hamlet,
that in this gentleman (in a moral sense) may be scen
a combination and a form indeed, where every god
doth seem to set his seal to give the world assurance
ofaman. (Great rattling of glasses and thumping of
knives; Mr. Zachariah Blemish looks curiously and
unconsciously interested, as if still wondering who is
the individual indicated; and the Honourable Mr.
Peter Puff gives a sigh of relief, having delivered him-
self correctly of a quotation which he had taken great
pains the day before to learn by heart.) Need I say,
122 GRIF.
gentlemen, that I refer to our guest, Mr. Zachariah
Blemish? (Prolonged applause; the thumping and
rattling are terrific. Mr. Blemish appears much as-
tonished to learn that he is the individual referred to,
and perceiving that all eyes are turned towards him,
wrinkles his brows, as much as to say, ‘ Really! can
this be? I am surprised?’? and afterwards assumes
au air of exceeding humility.) Gentlemen, we all know
hin (Cries of ‘We do!’) and we are all proud to know
him. (Cries of ‘We are!’) Say that we know him
only as Chairman of the United Band of Temperance
Aboriginals, and he is entitled to our approval; say
that we know him only as President of the Moral Boot-
blacking Boys’ Reformatory, and he is entitled to our re-
spect; say that we know him only as the Perpetual Grand
Master of the Society for the Total Suppression of Vice,
and he is entitled to our esteem ; say that we know him
only as the head of the Association of Universal Philan-
thropists, and he is entitled to our admiration ; say that
we know him only as a leading member of the Fellowship
of Murray Cods, and he is entitled to our veneration.
But say that we know him as all of these combined,
and as a merchant of integrity, and as a gentleman of
honour, and words fail us in speaking of him. Gentle-
men, words fail me when I speak of him. Far better
for me to stay my speech, and leave what is unsaid to
your discrimination and your intelligence. Suffice it
for me to say that I am proud to know hin, and that
I am proud of this opportunity of expressing my senti-
ments. With these few remarks—inadequate as they
are to the occasion—lI conclude, and propose the health
of our guest, Mr. Zachariah Blemish—in bumpers!??
Hurrah! In bumpers! Our guest, Mr. Zachariah
Blemish. No heeltaps! Three cheers for Mr. Zacha-
riah Blemish! with a hip, hip, hip, hurrah! hurrah !
hurrah! Three cheers for Mrs. Zachariah Blemish !
Three cheers for the little Blemishes (which fell flat, .
for the little Blemishes were not, and had never been).
A BANQUET TO THE MORAL MERCHANT. LS
For he’s a jolly good fellow—for he’s a jolly good fellow—
which nobody can deny—with a hip, hip, hip, hurrah!
hurrah! hurrah! And a little one n—hurrah!
All which being enthusiastically performed, the guests,
somewhat exhausted with their exertions, sat down with
the consciousness of having nobly done their duty.
Mr. Zachariah Blemish, in voice which trembled
with emotion, rose to thank the gentlemen who had so
enthusiastically responded to the toast of his health.
“Mr. Chairman, Vice-Chairman, and Gentlemen,”
he said, “ this is the happiest moment of my life, and
I am naturally much affected. (Pocket-handkerchief.)
When I look around and see the leading members of
every profession and every important interest in the
Colony, and when I consider that they are assembled
here to render a tribute of respect to so unworthy an
object as myself (cries of ‘ No, no !’)—yes, I repeat, so
unworthy an object as myself, I am lost in wonder as
to what I have done to entitle me to such an honour.
Iam conscious, gentlemen, of having only performed
my duty. It is no very hard task, and yet it is not
always done. As a merchant, as a citizen, and as a
public man, this has been my endeavour. In the per-
formance of my duty I may have done some little
good. (Cries of ‘A great deal”) You are kind
enough to say so. The good I have done reflects
but small credit upon myself; for it has been, as I
may say, evoked by my position as a not inconsider-
able merchant in this city. Gentlemen, I am proud of
my position as a merchant; and never in my hands
shall commerce be degraded—never in my hands shall
the spirit of fair and honest dealing which charac-
terises the British nation be abused. (Thumps and
rattles.) I am extremely affected by this demonstra-
tion. (Pocket-handkerchief.) You will excuse me if
my emotion overcomes me, and you will pardon the
little incoherences you may detect in my speech.
(Pocket-handkerchief.) It is usual on such occayions
124 | GRIF.
as this to give a brief résumé of the movements and
acts of the individual upon whom is conferred an
honour like the present; and I, with your permis-
sion, will touch upon one or. two little matters in
which I have taken a slight interest. Our worthy
chairman, my friend, the Honourable Mr. Peter Puff
(a beaming smile from that individual)—has men-
tioned the names of a few societies and associations
with which I am connected. You all know, gentle-
men, the difficulties with which the formation of the
United Band of Temperance Aboriginals was attended.
When the white man first set his foot upon these
shores he found the native savage wallowing in
ignorance and immorality. They ran about naked;
civilisation was a dead letter to them; they knew
nothing of Christianity; and although attempts have
been made to throw a doubt upon their practice of
cannibalism, we are all perfectly well aware that the
Australian aboriginals were in the habit of eating and
enjoying one another. Then, again, they were given
to intemperance, and would sacrifice anything for a
pint of ram. What was the duty of a Christian when
these things became known? ‘To reform the savage.
For this purpose the United Band of Temperance
Aboriginals was formed, blankets were distributed,
moralising influences were brought to bear, and I am
proud to be able to state my opinion, founded upon
statistics, that in the course of fifty years from the
present time, not a single intoxicated aboriginal will be
found in the length and breadth of the colony. (Loud
applause.) As for the Society for the Total Suppression
of Vice, we do our best. Vice is not yet totally sup-
pressed; but we look forward to the time when we shall
view, perhaps in the spirit, the successful accomplish-
ment of the work we have initiated in the flesh. The ope-
rations of the Moral Bootblacking Boys’ Reformatory,
of which I am President, are well known. ‘The institu-
tion of boot-stands in the streets of Melbourne has
A BANQUET TO THE MORAL MERCHANT. 125
been attended with inconceivable blessings. A large
number of boys, who did not even know the meaning
of morality, having been made moral through the in-
‘fluence of boot-stands. It is but a few days ago that
I was made the humble instrument of redeeming a
vagrant—a boy in years—who unblushingly admitted
that he was a thief; he had never before worked at
any honest employment, and when [I incidentally intro-
duced the subject of salvation, he actually told me that
his soul would go to immortal perdition, and could not
be saved. The saving of this lad’s soul—who bears
the extraordinary name of Grif—dates from the mo-
ment when he received from the Reformatory a set of
blacking-brushes and a boot-stand; and he may now
be seen, daily, in the streets, waiting for customers.
(Cheers.) What shall I say, gentlemen, of the Murray
Cods? You are acquainted with the gigantic difficul-
ties with which we had to contend, and which we have
successfully overcome. Here was a fish, vast in its
proportions, delicious in its flavour—(Hear, hear, from
Mr. David Dibbs),—which could only be caught in the
River Murray. Why should it not be transplanted, if
I may use the word, to other waters? ‘That was a
question, gentlemen, which naturally suggested itself
to the Murray Coddians.
Alice’s father; that would be one good thing done.
THE MORAL MERCHANT MEETS HIS CREDITORS. 263
It might be the means of reconciling father and
daughter; that would be sweet, though he himself
were lost. It would be sweet to be able to do some
httle good for Alice, even though she would not know
he had done it. He knew the desperate character of
the men he had to deal with, and that it behoved him
to be wary. All this was thought out in less than the
two minutes he had asked for.
“J will join you,” he said to the Oysterman; “ not
because it is my inclination to do so, but because I
must,as you say. Itis better than being strung up by
the diggers; Ill keep my life as long as I can.”
“‘That’s well said,’ returned the Oysterman; “ but
look here, mate. You go in heart and soul with us.
No treachery, mind. We know who we’ve got to deal
with. You'll be looked after, I can tell you.”
“TI suppose I shall,” said Richard; “but I must
take my chance. It’s bad enough being compelled to
turn thief and bushranger, but it would be worse if I
was caught. I speak as plainly as you, don’t 1?”
‘Bravo, Dick,” said the Tenderhearted Oysterman,
clapping him on the shoulder ; “ you’re more sensible
than I took youfor. We shall make a good haul with
this job, and when it’s done you can get off to
America, and turn honest again, if you like. There’s
Jim Pizey at the door. Let’s join him. We'll start
directly.”
CHAPTER XXI.
THE esis MERCHANT CALLS A MEETING OF dIS
CREDITORS.
The office of Mr. Zachariah Blemish was situated in
one of the busiest and most respectable portions of the
264 GRIF.
City. There was an air of business about it which un-
mistakeably stamped its character; its polished ma-
hogany panels seemed absolutely to twinkle with
riches. The spirit of pounds, shillings, and pence
peeped out of its every corner, and appeared to be
cunningly busy over the sum of multiplication —a
sum which may be said to comprise the whole duty of
mercantile man. The swing-door of the office had a
hard time of it—from morn till night it creaked upon
its hinges, complainingly. If ever door had occasion
to growl that door had. If ever door bemoaned its hard
fate, or protested against being worked to death, that
door did. Sometimes it sent forth a piteous wail;
sometimes a long-sustaimed groan; sometimes an
agonised little squeak, as much as to say, “‘ Now it is
all over with me!” But it wailed, and groaned, and
squeaked in vain. ‘There was no rest for it. For
weeks, and months, and years, it had been flung open
with ferocity, and slammed to with vindictiveness ; for
weeks, and months, and years, it had been pushed and
banged with venomous cruelty. But a day came when
it rested from its labours, and when its wails, and
groans, and squeaks, ceased to be heard.
It is surprising what consternation the simple closing
of a door can produce. If the swing-door of the office
of Mr. Zachariah Blemish had been aware of the dread-
ful tremor that thrilled through commercial circles on
the day that it hung quiescent on its hinges, it would
have squeaked of its own accord with fiendish satisfac-
tion. If it could have seen the dismal taces of those
ruthless men who had for years so cruelly pushed, and
slammed, and banged it, it would have laughed in its
baized sleeve, vindictively. But it had no means of
satisfying its vindictive feelings, for 1t was shut out
from the busy world, and a gloomy shade encom-
passed it.
There was great dismay in the City. The office of
Mr. Blemish shut up! What could it mean? Was it
THE MORAL MERCHANT MEETS HIS CREDITORS. 265
a temporary suspension, or a total smash? Why,
everybody thought he was rolling in wealth. LEvery-
body asked questions of everybody else. Quite acrowd
. was congregated outside the office during the whole
day; and the outer door was stared at with feelings
somewhat akin to awe, as if, like the Sphinx, it con-
tained within its breast the knowledge of an awful
mystery. Among the crowd were many members of
the Moral Boys’ Bootblacking Reformatory, who stood
and stared with the rest, wondering what heroic deed
their Moral President had performed. In the midst of
the general wonderment came whispers of disastrous
speculations ; losses in sugar, losses in flour, losses in
saltpetre, losses in quicksilver, losses by underwriting,
and losses by guarantying. Ships had been wrecked,
cattle stations had fallen in value, large firms in India
had failed, debtors had absconded. But still, these
were trifles to a man of such immense wealth as
Blemish was reputed to be. And such a moral man,
too.
Later in the day, it was reported that a meeting of
creditors had been called, and a dark rumour was cir-
culated that the estate would not pay a shilling in the
pound. What were his liabilities? Some said fifty
thousand pounds, some said a hundred thousand, some
said half a million. The smaller sums were soon indig-
nantly rejected,and the liabilities were fixed, to the satis-
faction of everybody, at half a million. No—not to the
satisfaction of everybody ; not at all to the satisfaction of
his creditors, who were furious. hey were a numerous
class, but they were small in number compared to
those who were not his creditors. With the public,
Mr. Zachariah Blemish had never been so popular as
he was now. If he had made his appearance in the
streets, he would have been stared at and adulated
more than ever. For had he not failed for half a mil-
lion of money? What a rich, unctuous sound the
words had, as they were pronounced! ‘They rolled
266 GRIF.
deliciously round the tongue. MHalf-a-mullion of
money |
Certainly, he was a public benefactor. If he had
poisoned his wife, and murdered every one of his
ancient clerks—if he had enticed a dozen inoffensive
(and of course lovely) females into his office, and killed
them then and there with a deadly vapour—if he had
been for years quietlystrangling unsuspicious strangers,
and hiding their remains in his cellar until it was so
full that it could not hold another limb—if he had
been the author of any or all of these highly-spiced
sensations, he could not have been more popular than
he was in the present circumstances of his position.
He had provided the public with something to talk
about, something that it could take home to its wife,
and moralise over, and dilate upon virtuously. It
was not every day that a man failed for half-a-million
of money, and especially so good a man as Mr.
Blemish.
Great was the marvel how he had managed " keep |
his state unknown and unsuspected for so long a time.
For the rumoured losses had not come upon him at
once. People had heard him speak, upon various oc-
casions, of losses upon shipments here, of losses upon
consignments there, of debtors absconding heavily in
his debt, &c., &c.; but he had spoken upon those sub-
jects so pleasantly, that it rather enhanced his credit
than otherwise. ‘lhe impression conveyed was, that
those losses had been sustained, but that, large as they
were, they were too trifling to affect the position of
such a merchant as Blemish. How had he managed
to sustain his credit through all those losses, which
now, it was seen, must have been enormous? Why
at the time the great banquet was given to him, he
must have been hopelessly insolvent! He was cer-
tainly a marvellously clever man. He was undoubtedly
avery great genius; for he had failed for half-a-million ~
of money !
THE MORAL MERCHANT MEETS HIS CREDITORS. 267
And Mr. Blemish himself—how did he bear the
publication of his downfall? Was he pale, anxious,
nervous, humbled, crestfallen? Was he crying and
fretting inwardly at his displacement from the pedes-
tal upon which public opinion had seated him? Not
at all. He was comfortably located in one of the
coziest rooms of his mansion, in handsome dressing-
gown and slippers. He was smoking a fragrant Ha-
vanah cigar, and drinking iced claret, which he poured
from a costly jug, a portion of one of the numerous
testimonials presented to him in the course of his
moral career. From where he was sitting, he com-
manded a view of his garden, wherein were blossom-
ing the choicest exotics. His face was as ruddy and
as fat as ever—he looked like a man at peace with
himself and with all the world. And yet to-morrow
he was to meet a host of furious creditors, men whom
he had deceived, robbed, swindled, perhaps ruined.
He had given instructions that he was at home to
nobody except a legal friend, and he was passing the
afternoon luxuriously, and enjoying his leisure as such
a moral man as himself deserved to enjoy it.
In the evening he had a long consultation with his ~
lawyer, the most eminent man in the profession. Long
statements of accounts were examined and discussed ;
as to what might be said of this item, and of that.
The conversation sometimes assumed an anxious turn,
but leisure was found for a little pleasantry. ‘Do you
think it is all right?” asked the honest merchant, with
the slightest dash of nervousness in his voice. ‘ Quite
right,” replied the honest lawyer, cheerfully. Then a
few documents were burnt, Mr. Blemish devoting an
unusual amount of care to so trivial an operation.
After which the honest merchant and the honest law
yer shook hands, without any apparent reason, and
smiled approvingly at each other. The lawyer being
gone, Mr. Blemish retired to rest, and slept as men
sleep whose consciences are at ease. When he rose
268 GRIF.
in the morning, he indulged, as usual, in his shower
bath, and, strengthened for the battle, issued forth to
meet his foes.
Such foes! Such fierce, malignant foes! ‘The
meeting had been called in the commercial room of a
great hotel; and the atmosphere of the room was sur-
charged with scowls. ‘The creditors were broken into
knots of three and four each, all of whom were re-
counting their special grievances with glib volubility.
Black looks and savage growls fraternised in the cause
against the common enemy. Although each sufferer
put forward his case as the worst and blackest, there
were no particular distinguishing features in them.
All the creditors had believed Blemish to be a man of
vast means; all had been eager to swell the amount of
his indebtedness to them ; and all discovered that they
had been diddled. That was the word—Diddled.
They had no pity for each other. A dreadful selfish-
ness was rampant among them. It was all Mz. He
deceived Mz: he told Mz this: he led Mz to believe
that. It was more than human nature could stand.
They lashed themselves into a fury. They ground
their teeth, they clenched their fists, they anathema-
tised the name of Blemish. That is, when Blemish was
not present; when he made his appearance amongst
them, the storm, if it had not passed over, was lulled.
The great merchant had contrived to make himself
look a shade paler than usual. When he entered
the room he bowed gravely to the assembled throng,
and said that it would perhaps be as well that they
should at once proceed to business. ‘The common
sense of the proposal striking every one present, they
seated themselves immediately round the long table,
and waited in anxious expectation; Mr. Zachariah
Blemish being at the head, supported on his right by
his legal adviser, who had before him a formidable pile
of papers. After a short pause the great merchant said,
that no one regretted more than himself the occasion -
THE MORAL MERCHANT MEETS HIS CREDITORS. 269
which hed called them together. Or she will be tired of waiting,’ said Serious
Mugging, ‘and marry some one else.’
«She will never do that, as you know very well,’
returned Jack; ‘when I write home I will tell her
what you say.’
“Serious Mugegins did not reply; but a darker
shade stole over his countenance.
“You may guess from this that Silver-headed Jack
was in love. He had come away from home, be-
trothed to a young girl, whose face, judging from the
picture he had of her, was just the face that any one
might fall in love with, and be proud of. Now, let me
tell you what I learned at that time, from my own ob-
servation. Serious Muggins and Silver-headed Jack
had come out from the same village, had been school-
mates and companions all their lives, and were both in
love with the same girl. Jack made no secret of his
attachment; his friend tried to keep his locked up in
his breast.
“Yet I belicve that if ever there was a man madly
m love, and if ever thero was a man madly jealous of
the love he coveted, and which was given to another,
that man was Serious Muggins. He had so possessed
himself of the love he bore to her, that his lips would
quiver, and every feature in his face would twitch,
when he saw (as he saw daily) Silver-headed Jack
take her letters from his pocket, and read them; and
often, when Jack read aloud little scraps from them,
he would go out of the tent abruptly, and make him-
self mad with drink at some grog-shanty. Silver-
headed Jack could not help secing this and taking
THE STORY OF SILVER-HEADED JACK. 295
notice of it, but he did not put the same construction
upon it as [ did.
“© Poor fellow !’ he would say upon such occasions.
‘You see, Jamie, he was in love with her too, but she
' wouldn’t have anything to say to him. I don’t wonder
it preys upon him; I know it would drive me mad, if
I was to lose her. It is her love for me, and the
thought of our being together by-and-by, that keeps
me good. God bless her !’
“T couldn’t help admiring the young fellow, and
wishing him success. At the time that this took
place I was between forty and fifty years of age.
‘Twenty years before that, I was in love, too, and with
a woman that I thought then, and think now, the
best, the purest in the world. I came out to the
colony to make a home for her—that was before the
cold was discovered. J was unfortunate; 1b 1s now a
generation since I have heard of her. I was not fit
for her—I know that now; she was too good for
me. But if heart-photographs could be taken, she
would be seen on mine; and the memory of her
dwells within me like a star that will light my soul
to heaven !
“T never liked Serious Muggins. I always believed
that if he could do Silver-headed Jack an ill turn, he
would not scruple to do it; and I had observed that
the effects of our ill-luck were different upon the two.
Serious Muggins actually seemed pleased that we
were not successful. You see, he might have argued
within himself, that a rich claim would bring Silver-
headed Jack nearer to the woman he himself loved.
He was like the dog in the manger. I had reason to
suspect him; for just before the time came for us to
part company, this occurred that I am going to tell
you.
“We were working a claim that was just turning
out ‘tucker.’ There were three ‘ drives’ in it, and the
last day I worked in them I noticed that the pillars of
nr
4
296 GRIF.
earth which were left to support the roof were firm and
kocure. ‘The following morning Serious Muggins had
a spell below, and when he came up, Silver-headed
Jack took his turn at the bottom. He had not been
down a quarter of an hour, when I heard a great thud
beneath me, and then a scream. Iwas working at the
windlass, and Serious Muggins was chopping down a
tree, a little distance off, for firewood. I cooééd* to
him, and he came running to me with a face so scared,
that I couldn’t help noticing it.
“ Whe
: ; * ys Pa es a. ,
[er eee a” : * ro Pay hy - re Ot aie ay OT 2 - bir ‘a.
fe AT SEMEN Dh ROR TORIES OPE ES ATS. sale AS easton tyra
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been desigued by most eminent authorities, while the heating and :
vertilation of the Lot chambre is brought to a state-of perfection: sy,
tae use ies the system first introduced by the Ae pega bi
AND: At if
“THE ALDGATE BATHS,
44, B'GH STREET, E.; and 7, COMMERCIAL ROAD,
AND AT
| THE LONDON BRIDGE RATH
7 & 8, RAILWAY PPROAOH, 8.8