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In commencing to write this story, the Author was animated by the belief that its dedication to his Mother would afford her great pleasure; but he has, while writing, learned that Death has forbidden the fulfilment of his cherished project. Although the Author cannot commend his work to the partial love which would, he believes, have ensured for him praises of which a son might have been proud, he can, with reverence, dedicate it to
The Memory
of a
Beloved Mother.
The Author concluded his preface to his last year's Christmas Story—“Shadows on the Snow”—with the words, “May we meet again!” The generous encouragement which that book met with from the press and from the public, has stimulated him to fresh efforts, the result of which is contained in the following pages. The design of the story of “Grif” differs materially from that of “Shadows on the Snow.” It possesses none of the purely imaginative features which characterised the Author's previous Christmas Story; but he hopes that it will not, on that account, be less welcome to the general reader.
Without further preface, the Author leaves his book in the hands of his readers. In years to come, when the Colonies have a literature of their own—a literature worthy of their material advancement—he will be glad to think that he has taken a humble part in its development.
In one of the most thickly-populated parts of Melbourne city, where poverty and vice struggle for breathing-space, and where narrow lanes and filthy thoroughfares jostle each other, savagely, there stands, surrounded by a hundred miserable hovels, a gloomy house, which might be likened to a sullen tyrant, frowning down a crowd of abject, poverty-stricken slaves. From its appearance, it might have been built a century ago: decay and rottenness were apparent from roof to base: but in reality, it was barely a dozen years old. It had lived a wicked and depraved life had this house, which might account for its premature decay. It looked like a hoary old sinner, and in every wrinkle of its weatherboard 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, and 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. Down the rickety chimney
They were a strange couple. The one, a fair young girl, with a face so mild and sweet, that the beholder, looking upon it when in repose, felt gladdened by the sight. A sweet, fair young face; a face to love. A look of sadness was in her dark brown eyes, and on the fringes, which half veiled their beauty, were traces of tears. The other, a stunted, ragged boy; with pockmarked face; with bold and brazen eyes; with a vicious smile too often playing about his lips. His hand was supporting his cheek; hers was lying idly upon her knee. The fitful glare of the scanty fire threw light upon both: and to look upon the one, so small and white, with the blue veins so delicately traced; and upon the other, so rough and horny, with every sinew speaking of muscular strength; made one wonder by what mystery of life the two had come into companionship. That the present was no chance meeting, and that there existed a freemasonry between them, were proven by his sidling close to her, and peering up at her face for a few moments, in silence. That he met with no responsive look evidently troubled him, as was shewn by the unquiet glances he threw at her, furtively. He shifted himself uneasily upon his seat, and presently asked,
“Wot are yer thinkin' of, Ally?”
“I am thinking of my life,” she answered, dreamily, without raising her eyes; “I am trying to see the end of it.”
“Wot's the use of botherin'?” the boy exclaimed. “Thinkin' won't alter it.”
“So it seems,” she said, sadly; “my head aches with the whirl.”
“You oughtn't to be un'appy, Ally,” the boy said; “You're wery good-looking and wery young.”
“Yes, I am very young,” she sighed. “How old are you, Grif?”
“Blest if I know,” Grif replied, with a grin. “I aint agoin' to bother. I'm old enough, I am!”
“Do you remember your father, Grif?” she asked.
“Don't I?” responded Grif. “He wos a rum un, he wos. Usen't he to wollop us, neither!”
And, lost in the recollection, Grif rubbed his back, sympathetically.
“And your mother?” asked the girl.
“Never seed her,” he replied, shortly.
And 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,” he said; “father wos a old ‘and, and a horfle bad un he wos. He wos worse nor me—oh, ever so much; but then of course,” he added, apologetically, “he was a sight older, and he used to lush—my eye! he could lush, could father! Well, wen he wos pretty well screwed, he used to lay into us, Dick and me, and kick us out of the 'ouse. Then Dick and me used to fight, for Dick wanted to lay in to me too, and I wosn't goin' to stand that. We never got nothin' to eat unless we took it. And one day I wos trotted up afore the beak, for takin' a pie out of a confetchoner's. They didn't get the pie,
I wos never in quod for stealin' a pie!’ And with that he shies a bottle at my 'ed. I caught it, but there was nothin' in it! I wos wery savage for that wollopin'! Wot's disgrace to one's family, thinks I, wen a cove wants grub! I was awful 'ungry, as well as savage; so I makes for the confetchoner's, and takes 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 guv me a month. Wosn't I jolly glad! Wen I cum out of quod, father had cut off to the diggins; and as I wanted to git into quod agin, I went to the confetchoner's, and took another pie. The beak, wosn't he flabbergasted! ‘Wot!’ he ses, ‘'ave you bin and stole another pie!’ and then he looks so puzzled that I couldn't help larfin'. ‘Wot do you go and do it for?’ ses he. ‘Cos I'm 'ungry, your Washup,’ ses I. I was five times in quod for takin' pies out of that confetchoner's shop. Next time I was nabbed, though. The missus of the shop, she knew I wos jist cum out of quod, so she 'ides herself behind the door; and wen I bolts in to git
“And have you not heard of your father since he went away?” asked the girl.
“No; 'cept that I wos told permiskusly that he wos cuttin' some rum capers up the country. They do say he wos a bushranger, but I aint agoin' to bother. I wos brought up wery queer, I wos; not like other coves. Father he never giv us no eddication; p'raps he didn't 'ave none to give. But he might have giv us grub when we wanted it.”
“Yours is a hard life, Grif,” the girl said, pityingly.
“Yes, it is 'ard,” the boy assented; “precious 'ard, specially wen a cove can't get enough to eat. But I s'pose its all right. Wot's the use of botherin'? I
me out of the bullrushes! Wosn't he puzzled, neither.” Grif chuckled, and then encouraged by his companion's silence, he resumed—
“He cum 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 yer sole 'll go to morchal perdition. Men is charitable and good; jist you try 'em, and give up your evil corses.’ So wen I gets out of quod, ses I to myself, I'll jist try if the preacher cove is right. I waited till I was 'ungry, and couldn't get nothin' to eat, without stealin' it. I could 'ave took a trotter, for the trotter man was a drinkin' at a bar, and his barsket wos 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. I didn't 'ave courage at first to speak to 'em, but wen
Before he had finished his story, the girl's thoughts had wandered again. A heavy step in the adjoining apartment roused her.
“Who is that?” she asked.
“That's Jim Pizey's foot,” replied the boy; “they're up to some deep game, they are. They wos at it last night.”
“Did you hear them talking about it, Grif?” she asked, earnestly.
“I did and I didn't,” Grif replied. “I wos arf asleep, while they wos whisperin'. It's somethin' precious deep and dangerous, I know that; for Jim Pizey he ses, ‘We can all make our fortunes, mates, in three months, if we're game. It'll be a jolly life, and I know all the moves,’ ses he. Then I falls off in a doze, and presently I 'ears 'em talkin' agin, betweenwhiles, like. Jim Pizey he does most of the jaw. ‘We can stick up the escort in the Black Forest,’ he ses, ‘and we don't want to do nothin' more, all our lives.’ He's a rum un is Jim, and he never
“Don't fear me, Grif,” said the girl. “Who were there?”
“There wos Jim Pizey, and Ned Rutt, and Black Sam, and the Tenderhearted Oysterman, and”——but here Grif stopped, suddenly.
“Who else, Grif?” asked the girl, laying her hand upon his arm.
“I was considerin', Ally,” the boy replied, casting a furtive look at her white face, “if there wos anybody else. I wos arf asleep, you know.”
“Was my—my husband there, Grif?” she inquired, in a voice of pain.
“Yes, he wos there,” the boy returned, reluctantly. I say, Ally, wy don't yer cut away from 'im? What do you stop 'ere for?”
“Hush!” she said. “Was he speaking with them about this?”
“No, he wos wery quiet. They wos a tryin' to persuade him to join 'em; but he wouldn't agree. They giv him lots of lush, too, and you know, Ally, he can”——but Grif pulled himself up short, dismayed and remorseful, for his companion had broken into a passionate fit of weeping.
“I didn't mean to do it, Ally,” he said, sorrowfully. “Don't take on so. I'll never say it agin. I'm a hignorant beast, that's wot I am!” he exclaimed, digging his knuckles into his eyes. “I'm always a puttin' my foot in it.”
“Never mind, Grif,” said the girl, sobbing. “Go on. Tell me all you heard. I must know. Oh, my heart! my heart!” and her tears fell thick and fast upon his hand.
He waited until she had somewhat recovered herself, and then proceeded very slowly.
“They wos a tryin' to persuade 'im to join 'em. They tried all sorts of dodges, but they wos all no go. The Tenderhearted Oysterman, he ses, he's a soft-hearted cove, and wouldn't 'urt a fly, and if he thort there wos any wiolence agoin' to be done, he wouldn't be the man to 'ave a 'and in it. But they couldn't get him to say Yes; and at last Jim Pizey he gets up in a horfle scot, and he ses, 'Look 'ere, mate, we've bin and let you in this 'ere scheme, and we arn't agoin' to 'ave it blown upon. You make up yer mind wery soon to jine us, or it'll be worse for you’.”
“And my husband”——
“I didn't 'ear nothin' more. I fell right off asleep, and when I woke up they wos gone.”
“Grif,” said the girl, “he must not join in this plot. I must keep him from crime. He has been unfortunate—led away by bad companions.”
“Yes,” put in Grif, “we're a precious bad lot, we are.”
“But his heart is good, Grif,” she continued.
“Wot does he mean by treatin' you like this, then?” interrupted Grif, indignantly. “You've got no business 'ere, you 'avent. You ought to 'ave a 'ouse of yer own, you ought.”
“I can't explain; you would not understand,” she
The boy was hushed into silence by her solemn earnestness.
“He is weak, Grif, and we are poor. It was otherwise once. Those who should assist us will not do so, unless I break the holiest tie—and so we must suffer together.”
“I don't see why you should suffer,” said Grif, doggedly; “you don't deserve to suffer, you don't.”
“Did you ever have a friend, my poor Grif,” the girl said, “whom you loved, and for whose sake you would have sacrificed even the little sweets of life you have enjoyed?”
Grif considered a moment, and then shook his head.
“Yet it is so with me,” she continued; “I love him, and would give up all my hopes to keep him good. Yes, I love him” if I were parted from him, my life would be a living funeral.”
“I had a dawg once,” Grif said, musingly; “he wosn't much to look at, but he was wery fond of me. Rough was 'is name. Lord! the games we used to 'ave together, me and Rough! He was a teazer, he wos. Poor old Rough! One day a cove was agoin' to make a rush at me, and Rough he pounces in, and nips a piece out of the carf of 'is leg. It was the Tenderhearted Oysterman who wanted to maul me. Wosn't he savage, and didn't he squeal! I was lyin' asleep in. a barrel,
The girl laid her hand upon Grif's head, and looked pityingly at him. As their eyes met, a tender expression stole into his face, and rested there.
“I'm wery sorry for you, Ally,” he said. “I wish I could do somethin' to make you 'appy. It doesn't much matter for a poor beggar like me. We wos always a bad lot, wos father, and Dick, and me. But you—look 'ere, Ally!” he exclaimed, energetically. “If ever you want me to do anythin'—never mind wot it is, so long as I know I'm a doin' of it for you; I'll do it, true and faithful, I will, so 'elp me”——Her hand upon his lips checked the oath he was about to utter. He seized the hand, and placed it over his eyes, and leant his cheek against it, as if it brought balm and comfort to him; as indeed it did. “You b'lieve me, Ally, don't you?” he continued. “I don't want you to say nothin' more than if ever I can do somethin' for you, you'll let me do it.”
“I will, Grif, and I do believe you,” she replied. “God help me, my poor boy, you are my only friend.”
“That's it!” he exclaimed, triumphantly. “That's wot I am, till I die!”
The rain pattered down, faster and faster, as the night wore on, and still those 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 shrick, or a ruffian's muttered curse, was borne upon the angry wind. A step upon the creaking stairs would cause the girl's face to assume an expression of watchfulness. For a moment only; the next, she would relapse into dreamy listlessness. Grif had thrown himself upon the floor, at her feet. He was not asleep, but dozing. For at every movement that Alice made, he would open his eyes, and watch. He was rough, and dirty, and ugly, and a thief; but he was faithful and true. And so the hours lagged on until midnight, when a change took place.
A sudden change—a change that transformed the hitherto quiet house into a den of riotous vice and drunkenness. It seemed as though the house had been forced into by a band of ruffianly bacchanals. They came up the stairs, laughing, and singing, and screaming. A motley throng; about a dozen in all; but strangely contrasted in appearance. Men upon whose faces rascality had set its seal; women in whose eyes there struggled the modesty of youth with the depravity of shame. The men were most of them in the middle age of life; the eldest of the women could scarcely have
The company were in the adjoining apartment, and, through the chinks in the wall, Alice could see them flitting about. She had started to her feet when she heard them enter the house, and her trembling frame bespoke her agitation.
“Get up, Grif,” she whispered, touching the boy gently with her foot. On the instant, he was standing, watchful, by her side. “Listen! Can you hear his voice?”
The boy listened attentively, and then 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 listened anxiously.
“He must be there,” she said, her hand twitching nervously at her dress. “Oh, what if I should not see him to-night! I should be powerless to save him. What if they have kept him away from me, fearing that I should turn him from them! Oh, Grif, Grif, what shall I do? what shall I do?”
“Hush!” Grif whispered. “You keep quiet. You pretend to be asleep, and don't let 'em 'ear yer. If any body cums in, you shut yer eyes, and breathe 'ard. I'll go in 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 so communing, she passed the next half-hour. Then Grif came in, almost noiselessly, and to her questioning look replied,
“Yes, he's there, all right.”
“Is he”——she asked, and then stopped, hesitating.
“No,” Grif said, “he's 'ad wery little to drink. His arf asleep by 'isseif, at one end of the room. Jim Pizey and the rest of 'em, they're there. Wot are you going to do?” he inquired, quickly, as Alice walked towards the door.
“I must go in, and bring him away,” she replied, firmly.
“Look 'ere, Ally,” said Grif, hoarsely, griping her arm; “don't you do it. Pizey's got the devil in 'im to-night. I know it by 'is hi. It's jist as cool and wicked as anythin'. Wen he sets 'is 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 '11 'appen. Pizey, ll think you know wot you oughtn't to know. Don't you go.”
“But I must save him, Grif,” she said, in deep distress. “I must save him, if I die.”
“Yes,” Grif said, in a thick undertone, and still keeping firm hold of her arm; “that's right and proper, I dersay. But s'pose you die and don't save 'im? They won't do nothin' to-night. You can't do no good in there, Ally. Jim Pizey 'll kill yer, or beat yer senseless,
“Of what use can my husband be to them, Grif?” she cried, yet suppressing her voice, so that they should not hear. “What plot of their hatching can he serve them in?”
“I don't know,” Grif replied; “he can talk and look like a swell, and that's wot none of 'em can do. But I'll find out if I can, if you keep quiet. 'Ark! they're a clearin' out the gals;” and as he spoke were heard female voices and laughter, and the noise of the speakers trooping down the stairs into the miserable night. “They won't be wery long together. They won't be together at all,” he cried, as the door of the adjoining apartment opened, and heavy steps went down the stairs.
“But suppose my husband goes with them?” Alice cried, and tried to reach the door; but Grif restrained her.
“There's Jim Pizeys foot,” he said, listening; “jist as if he wos tramplin' some one down with every step. And there's Black Sam—I could tell 'im from a mob of people, for he walks as if he wos goin' to tumble down every minit. And there's Ned Rutt—he's got the largest feet I ever sor. And there's the Tenderhearted Oysterman, he treads like a cat. I'll be even with 'im one day for pizinin' Rough! And there's—there's no more.”
The street door was heavily slammed, and the next moment Alice's husband entered the apartment. He
“Richard,” she whispered.
But he doggedly turned his head from her, and did not reply.
“Richard,” she whispered again, softly and sweetly.
“I hear you,” he said, pettishly.
“Do not speak to me harshly to-night, dear,” she said; “this day six months we were married.”
He shivered as he heard this, and said—
“Better for you, better for me, that we had never seen each other.”
“Yes,” the girl said, sadly; “perhaps it would have been. But there is no misery to me in the remembrance. I can still bless the day when we first met. Oh, Richard, do not give me cause to curse it!”
“You have cause enough for that every day, every hour,” he replied, “to curse the day, and to curse me. What had you done, that I should force this misery upon you? And I am even too small-hearted to
“Hush, Richard!” she said. “Hush! my dear! All may yet be well, if you have but the courage”——
“But I have not the courage,” he interrupted. “I am beaten down, crushed, nerveless. I was brought up with no teaching that existence was a thing to struggle for, and I am too old and too idle to learn the lesson now. What do such men as I in the world? Why, it has been thrown in my teeth this very night that I haven't even soul enough for revenge.”
“Revenge, Richard!” she cried. “Not”——
“No, not that,” he said; “nor anything that concerns you or yours. But it has been thrown in my teeth, nevertheless. And it is true. For I am a coward and a craven, if there ever lived one. I shiver when I look upon your pale face;” and turning to her suddenly, and meeting the look of patient uncomplaining love in her weary eyes, he cried, “Oh, Alice! Alice! what misery I have brought upon you!”
“Not more than I can bear, dear love,” she said, “if you will be true to yourself and me. Have patience”——
“Patience!” he exclaimed. “When I think of the past, I lash myself into a torment. Will patience feed us? Will it give us a roof or a bed? Look here!” and he turned out his pockets. “Not a shilling. Fill my pockets first. Give me the means to fight with my fellow-cormorants, and I will have patience; till then, I muat
“No,” she said, with a bitter sigh.
“Perhaps it is better so,” he said; “I should make myself unfit to say what I have to say. I have, with difficulty I confess, kept myself sober to-night for the purpose. For this must come to an end. Coward as I am, I am not too great a coward to say, Alice, you and I must part.”
“Part!” she echoed.
“Look around,” he said; “this is a nice home I have provided for you; I have surrounded you with fit associates, have I not? How nobly I have performed my part of husband! How you should bless my name, revere, and love me, for the true manliness I have displayed towards you! You, by your patience and your love, have shown me the depth of my degradation.”
“Not degradation, Richard!”
“Yes, degradation in its coarsest aspect. Is not this degradation?” and he pointed to Grif, who was crouching, observant, in a corner. “Come here,” he said to the lad, who slouched towards him reluctantly.
“What are you?” asked Richard.
“Wot am I?” replied Grif, with a puzzled look; “I'm a pore boy-Grif.”
“You're a poor boy-Grif?” the man repeated. “How do you live?”
“By eatin' and drinkin'.”
“But how do you get your living?”
“I makes it as I can,” answered Grif, gloomily.
“And when you can't make it?”
“Wy, then I takes it.”
“That is, you are a thief?”
“Yes, I s'pose so.”
“And a vagabond?”
“Yes, I s'pose so.”
“And you have been in prison?”
“Yes, I've been in quod, I 'ave,” said Grif, feeling, for the first time in his life, slightly ashamed of the fact.
“And you say,” Richard said, bitterly, as the boy slunk back to his corner, “that this is not degradation!”
She hid her face in her hands, but did not reply.
“I was once a good arithmetician,” he continued. “Let us see what figures there are in the sum of our acquaintance, and what they amount to.”
“Of what use is it to recal 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, you know what I was—a careless ne'er-do-well, with no thought of the morrow. You did not know this then, but you know it now. It is the curse of my life that I was brought up with expectations. How many possibly useful, if not good, men have been wrecked on that same rock of expectations! Upon the strength of “expectations,” I was reared into an idle incapable. And this I was when you first knew me. I had an income then—small, it is true, but sufficient; or if it was not, I got into debt, upon the strength of my expectations, which were soon to yield to me a life's resting-place. You know what happened. One day
“Richard! Richard!” she cried, entreatingly, “Do not recal that time. Be silent for awhile, and calm yourself.”
“I will go on to the end. We came to Melbourne. Brought up to no trade or profession, and naturally idle, I could get nothing to do. Day by day we have sank lower and lower. People look on me with suspicion. I am fit for nothing in this colony. I was born a gentleman, and I live the life of a dog; and I have dragged you, who never before knew want, down with me. With no friends, no influence to back me, we might starve and rot. What wonder that I took to drink! The disgust with which I used to contemplate the victims of that curse recoils now upon myself, and I despise and abhor myself for what I am! How I came into acquaintanceship with those who are my present associates I cannot recal. By what fatality 1 brought you here, I know not. I suppose it was because we were poor, and I could not afford to buy you better lodging. Now attend to me—but stay, that boy is listening.”
“He is a friend, Richard,” said Alice.
“Yes,” said Grif, “l am a friend—that's wot I am. Never you mind me—I aint agoin' to peach. I'd do anythin' to 'elp 'er, I would—sooner than 'urt 'er, I'd be chopped up first. Lord! You talk better than the preacher cove!”
“Very well. Now attend. These men want me to
“Leaving me here?”
“Leaving you here, but not in this house. You Have two or three articles of jewellery left. I will sell them —the watch I gave you will fetch ten pounds—and you will be able to live in a more respectable house than this for a few weeks until you hear from me.”
“How will you go?”
“I shall walk—I cannot afford to ride. But I have not concluded yet. I have something to tell you, which may alter our plans, so far as you are concerned. I have a message for you, which I must deliver word for word.”
“A message! for me!”
“I saw your father this evening”——
“In town!” she exclaimed.
“In town. I do not know for what purpose he is here, nor do I care.”
“Oh, Richard,” cried the girl; “you did not quarrel with him?”
“No,” he replied; “I spoke to him respectfully. I told him we were here, in want. I begged him to assist us. I told him I was willing to do anything—that I would take any situation. This was his answer. ‘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 yon come to me to consent to this, I will give yon money. Till then, you may starve. I am a hard man, as you know, obstinate and self-willed. 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.’ These are his words, word for word. What is your answer?”
“What do you think it is?” she asked, sadly.
“I don't know,” he said, doggedly, turning his face from her; “I know what mine would be.”
“What would it be?”
“I should say this” (he did not look at her while he spoke)—“You, Richard Handfield, scapegrace, fortune-hunter, vagabond (any of these surnames would be sufficiently truthful), came to me, a young simple girl, and played the lover to me, without the knowledge of my father, for the sake of my father's money. You knew that I, a young simple girl, bred upon the plains, and amidst rough men, would be certain to be well affected towards you—would almost be certain to fall in love with you, for the false gloss you parade to the world, and for the refinement of manner which those employed about my father's station did not possess. You played for my heart, and you won it. But you won me without my money, 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
“Do you think that should be my answer, Richard?”
He had not once looked at her while he spoke, and now as she addressed him, with an indescribable sadness in her voice, he did not reply. For full five minutes, there was silence in the room. Then the grief which, filled her heart could no longer be suppressed, and short broken gasps escaped her.
“Richard!” she exclaimed.
“Yes, Alice.”
“Have you not more faith in me than this? As I would die to keep you good, so I should die without your love! What matters poverty? We are not the only ones in the world whose lot is hard to bear! Be true to me, Richard, so that I may be true to myself and to you. You do not believe that this would be my answer!”
He turned and clasped her in his arms, and pressed her pure heart to his. Her fervent love had triumphed; and as he kissed away her tears, he felt, indeed, that wifely purity is man's best shield from evil.
“You shall do what you have said, Richard. But not to-morrow. Wait but one day longer; and if I then say to you—‘Go,’ you shall go. I have a reason for this, but I must not tell you what it is. Do you consent?”
” Yes, love.”
“Brighter days will dawn upon us. I am happier now than I have been for a long, long time. And oh, my dear—bend your head closer, Richard—there may come a little child to need our care”——
The light had gone out, and the room was in darkness. But mean and disreputable as it was, a good woman's unselfish love sanctified it, and made it holy!
“It's a wery rum go,” muttered Grif to himself, as he groped his way down the dark stairs; “a wery rum go. If I wos 'er, I should do as he told 'er. But lord! she don't care for 'erself, she don't. She's too good for 'im by ever so many chalks, that's wot she is.”
Grif was making his way to the cellar. It was his chronic condition never to know, when he rose in the morning, where he was going to sleep at night. It all depended upon, where he found himself when he made up his mind to retire to rest. Arrived at the cellar, he groped about for awhile.
“1 wish I 'ad a match,” he muttered; “there wos a empty packing-case somewhere about 'ere. O, 'ere it is; its 'ardly long enough, but I can double myself up;” thus soliloquizing, he crept into it. “Now then,” he said, as he lifted the cover of the packing-case on to the top, popping his head down quickly to avoid a bump, “that's warm and comfortable, that is. It'd be warmer, though, if I'd Rough 'ere. If ever I can cry quits with the Tenderhearted Oysterman for pizinin' 'im, I'll do it, I will, so 'elp me ”——
This time there was no one by to check the oath, so he uttered it emphatically, and fell asleep.
“Upon my word,” said Mr. Nicholas Nuttall, apostro-phising a figure of Time, which, with a very long beard and a very long scythe, looked down upon him from the 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! To think that it should be thirty years since I saw him; that I should come out here, never thinking of him—we decided twenty years ago that he was dead—and that after being here only a month, I should hear of him in such a wonderful manner. So amazingly rich, too. What a handsome fellow he was, to be sure! I wonder if he is much altered. I wonder if he ever thinks of old times. I shall know him again, for certain, directly I clap eyes on him. He must have got grey by this time, though. Dear! dear! dear!”
And Mr. Nicholas Nuttall fell to musing over thirty years ago, fishing up from that deep well a hundred trifles, which brought pleasant ripples to his face. They had been buried so long that it might have been excused them had they been rusted; but they were not so. They came up quite bright, at his bidding, and smiled in his
But his reverie was soon disturbed. For the partner of his bosom, Mrs. Nicholas Nuttall, suddenly bouncing into the room, and seating herself, demonstratively, in her own particular arm-chair, on the opposite 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 inordinately, was a very baby by the side of her spouse. In fact the contrast, to an impartial observer, would have been ridiculous. Her condition, when feathered, was that of an extremely ruffled hen, strutting about in offended majesty, in defiance of the whole poultry race. Un-feather her, and, figuratively, speaking, Mr. Nicholas Nuttall could have put Mrs. Nicholas Nuttall into his pocket—like a doll.
Yet if there ever was a man hopelessly under petticoat
This was the case with the conjugality of the Nuttals. As was proven by the demeanor of the male portion of the bond. For no sooner had the feminine half (plus) seated herself opposite the masculine half (minus) than the face of Mr. Nicholas Nuttall assumed an expression of the most complete and perfect submission.
“I'm sure I don't know what to do, Mr. Nuttall,” preambled that gentleman's certainly better half; “this place will be the death of me, I'm certain. What crime I have committed that you should drag me out here, away from all my friends and relations, and all that sort of thing, I don't know. I suppose its a punishment for something dreadful, though I'm as unconscious as the babe unborn what it can be. But what I say is, I won't stand it, and I wish I had never been married!”
Considering that Mrs. Nicholas Nuttall had been married for twenty-five years, it was certainly rather late in the day for her to give utterance to such a wish. But
“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. What I say, once for all, is, that I won't stand it.”
Mr. Nuttall did not reply.
“There's Mary Plummer,” continued his lady; “yes, you may smile, sir, and insult me to my face; I went to school with her, and I knew how she would turn out; I wish you had her for your wife. The way she brings up her family is disgraceful; the girls are as untidy as can be. You should see the bedrooms in the middle of the day! And yet her husband indulges her in everything. She had three new bonnets last summer, and you begrudged me one, and said that my old one would do, with fresh trimming. He is something like a husband should be. He didn't drag his wife away from her home, after she had slaved for him all her life, and bring her out to a place where everything is topsy turvey, 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 this. Not he. He knows his duty as a husband and the father of a family, better.”
Nicholas shrugged his shoulders. He did not know what else to do.
“Of course,” exclaimed Mrs. Nuttall. “Shrug your shoulders. A pretty thing for a man to do at such a time!”
My dear Maria,” he commenced again, despairingly.
“Will you let me speak, sir? You want to wear me into an early grave, I know you do. The way we poor women are put upon is shameful. But I'll not stand it, Nicholas. You had a design in bringing me out to this dreadful country, and I will not stand it. What did you bring me here for, Mr. Nuttall? Can you answer me that? Of course you can't. I'm sure the sufferings I endured on board that dreadful ship would have melted a heart of stone—but you've got no heart, Mr. Nuttall. I haven't been tied to you all these years without finding that out. Mamma always told me”——
“Don't drag mamma in again, Maria,” said Mr. Nuttall, in a disgusted voice. “She's been dead these fifteen years; it's time you let her rest.”
Mrs. Nuttall immediately dissolved into tears, and Mr. Nuttall shifted himself upon his chair, as if he was sitting upon pins and needles.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, sir,” she sobbed, “to speak to me in that way of my mamma. If she has been dead fifteen years I have not forgotten that I was her favorite daughter. Mamma always told me you did not care for me, and warned me against you. You want to make me forget what I was going to say, but you shan't. No, sir, I say again that the sufferings I endured on board that dreadful ship ought to have
In desperation, and utter absence of mind, Mr. Nuttall took out his cigar case.
“No, sir!” exclaimed Mrs. Nuttall. “No, sir! not in the parlor! If you want to smoke, go into the street. But you shall not smoke in the parlor. Thank heaven, I have not come to that! You have picked up enough filthy habits in this country, but I tell you again you shall not insult me to my face. And very nice your breath will smell to-night in the midst of your gay company. Not that they would care much, I dare say. Nice ideas they must have of the decencies of polite society!”
Mr. Nuttall sighed.
“There's Jane,” observed Mrs. Nuttall, approaching one of her grievances; “the best servant I ever had. At home she was quite satisfied with ten pounds a-year; and now, after our paying her passage out, she says she can't stop unless her wages are raised to—how much do you think, Nicholas?”
“I am sure I don't know, Maria,” he replied, meekly, but brightening up a little at this appeal.
“To thirty pounds. Thir-ty pounds,” said Mrs. Nuttall, elongating the numeral. “Do you know how you are going to meet these frightful expenses? I'm sure I
Mr. Nuttall knew perfectly well that it was only the incessant nagging of his better half that had brought them out to the colony; but he made no remark upon the point, and sat as still as a mouse, gazing humbly upon the household prophet.
“Thirty pounds a-year for a servant-of-all-work!” continued the lady. “Preposterous! The best thing we can do, if that's the way they're paid, is all of us to go out as servants-of-all-work, and lay by a provision for children.”
A. vision of himself, in feminine attire, floor-scrubbing on his knees, flitted across the disturbed mind of Mr. Nuttall.
“She must have the money, I suppose. I know who has put her up to it; it is either the baker's or the butcher's man. The two noodles are hankering after her, and she encourages them. I saw the pair of them at the back-gate last night, and she was flirting with them nicely. You must give information to the police, Nicholas, and have them locked up.”
“Locked up!” exclaimed Mr. Nuttall.
“Certainly. Do you think the police would allow such goings-on at home? If she goes away, and gets married, I shall be in a nice situation. It would be like
“There's as good fish in the sea, Maria,” observed Mr. Nuttall——
“No, there isn't,” said Mrs. Nuttall, snapping him up so sharply that he gave a sudden jump. “I don't believe in your proverbs. I suppose you will say that of me when I am dead and gone. You are a nice affectionate lot, you men!” and she elevated her nose at an alarming angle. “Then can you tell me what to wear this evening, Mr. Nuttall? I don't know, in this outlandish colony, whether we are expected to dress ourselves like Christians or aboriginals.”
“The last would certainly be inexpensive, but it would scarcely be decent, Maria,” remarked Mr. Nuttall, slily.
“That may be very witty, Mr. Nuttall,” responded his lady, loftily; “but it is hardly an observation a man should make to his own wife. Though for what you care about your wife's feelings I would not give that,” and she snapped her fingers, disdainfully.
From long and sad experience, Mr. Nicholas Nuttall had learned the wisdom of saying as little as possible upon such occasions as the present. Indeed, he would sometimes lose all consciousness of what was parssing, or would find himself regarding it as an unquiet dream from which he would presently awake. But Mrs. Nuttall was always equal to the occasion; and now, as she observed him relapsing into a dreamy state of inattention, she cried, sharply,
“Nicholas!”
“Yes, my dear,” he responded, with a jump, as if half a dozen needles had been smartly thrust into a tender part.
“Are you attending to me?”
“Certainly, my dear,” he replied, briskly.
“Then why do you not answer me?”
“What do you wish to know?” he inquired, submissively.
“What do I wish to know? I wish you to direct me as you ought to do, as the father of your family, and the head of your household. You know I am only too willing to obey you.”
“You're very good,” he murmured.
“What am I to wear this evening?” she asked.
“Your usual good taste, Maria,” he commenced——
“Oh, bother my good taste,” she interrupted. “You know that we are to meet your brother to-night, and I am only anxious to do you credit. Not that I shan't be a perfect fright, for I haven't a dress fit to put on my back. If I wasn't such a good contriver, we should look more like paupers than respectable people.”
“What's the use of talking in that way? You always have what you want.”
“Of course. These are the thanks a slaving wife gets for stinting herself of the commonest necessaries. My black silk has been turned three times already; and my pearl grey—you ought to know what a state that is in, for you spilt the port wine over it yourself. Is your brother very rich, Nicholas?”
“They say so, Maria; he has got stations, and thousands of sheep and cattle. He is a squatter, you know.”
“A what?” she screamed.
“A squatter.”
“What a dreadful thing!” she exclaimed. “What a shocking calamity! Is he always squatting, Nicholas?”
“My dear!” said Nicholas, amazed.
“Not that it matters much,” she continued, not heeding him; “he may squat as long as he likes, if he has plenty of money, and assists you as a brother should. Thank heaven! none of my relations ever squatted. Has he been squatting long, Nicholas?”
“For ever so many years,” he replied.
“What a disagreeable position! Why, his legs must be quite round. You ought to thank your stars that you have a wife who doesn't squat”——
But observing a furtive smile playing round her husband's lips, she rose, majestically, and said,
“I shall not waste my conversation upon you any longer. I suppose the cab will be here at half-past nine o'clock; everybody else, of course, will go in their own carriages.” (Here she took out her watch, and consulted it.) “Bless my soul! it is nearly seven o'clock now. I have barely three hours to dress!”
And she whisked out of the room, leaving Mr Nuttall, nothing loth, to resume his musings.
On the same evening, and at about the same hour, of the occurrence of the foregoing matrimonial dialogue, Mr. Zachariah Blemish entertained his friends at dinner. Mr. Zachariah Blemish was a merchant and a philanthropist; he was also a gentleman of an imposing mien, and of a portly appearance. Some of his detractors (and what man lives who has them not?) said that he padded, and that the manly bosom which throbbed to the beats of his patriotic heart was composed chiefly of cotton. If this was the worst that could be said against him, Zachariah Blemish could look the world in the face without blushing. True or untrue, he did look, unmoved, in the world's face, and if either felt abashed in the presence of the other, it was the world, and not Blemish. For was he not an ornament to the world, and did not the world feel and acknowledge it? As he walked along the streets, people fell aside and made way for him, deferentially. They looked after him, and pointed him out to strangers as the Great Mr. Blemish; and it was told of one family that, when the children were put to bed at night, they were taught to say, “God bless papa and mamma, and Good Mr. Blemish.” His snowy shirt front, viewed from a distance, was a sight to look upon, and, upon a nearer acquaintance, dazzled one with its pure whiteness. At church he was the most
On this evening he was seated at the head of his table, pound which were ranged some dozen guests of undoubted respectability. He was supported on his right by a member of the Lower House; he was supported on his left by a member of the Lower House. One of the leading members of the Government was talking oracularly to one of the leading merchants of the city; and one of the leading lawyers was laying down the law to one of the leading physicians. And only three chair's off was Mr. David Dibbs, eating his dinner like a common mortal. Like a common mortal? Like the commonest of common mortals! He might have been a bricklayer for any difference observable between them. For he gobbled his food did Mr. David Dibbs, and he slobbered his soup did Mr. David Dibbs, and his chops were greasy, and his hands were not nice looking, and, altogether, he did not present an agreeable appearance. But was he not the possessor of half a dozen stations, each with scores of miles of water frontage, and was not his income thirty thousand pounds a-year? Oh, golden calf! nestle in my bosom, and throw your glittering veil over my ignorance. and meanness, and stupidity—give me thirty thousand pounds a-year, that people may fall down and worship me!
The other guests were not a whit less respectable. Each of them, in his own particular person, represented Wealth or Position. Could it for one moment be imagined that the guests of Mr Zachariah Blemish were selected for the purpose of throwing a halo of respectability round the person of their host, and that they were one and all administering to, and serving, his interest? If so, the guests were unconscious of it; but it might not have been less a fact that he made them all return, in one shape or another, good interest for the hospitality he so freely lavished upon them. This evening he was giving a dinner party to his male friends; and later in the night Mrs Zachariah Blemish would receive her guests and entertain them.
The gentlemen are over their wine, and are conversing freely. Politics, scandal, the state of the colony, and many other subjects, are discussed with animation. Sometimes the conversation is general, then it breaks up into sections, and occasionally it grows personal.
“It is a curious story,” said the leading physician, addressing the leading limb of the law. “He was always reported to be very wealthy. No one knows more of his early career than that, when the diggings first broke out, he was a Cheap Jack, as they call them, trading at all the new rushes. He would buy tents, picks, shovels, tubs, anything, from the diggers, who were madly running from one place to another. He would buy them for a song, for the diggers could not carry these 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
“And She depositor's money?” asked the lawyer.
“Was never heard of. Vanished. If he was drowned he did not like to part with it, perhaps, and he took it into the other world with him.”
Everybody at the table was much interested in the story, and, at its conclusion, there was a lull in the conversation.
“I have got,” said Mr. Blemish, addressing a gentleman of about sixty years of age, whose face was covered with iron-grey whiskers, beard, and moustache, “a great surprise for you to-night.”
From some unexplained cause, the gentleman addressed
“A surprise!”
“Yes, and I hope a pleasant one.”
“What surprise?” he asked, in the same agitated manner.
“Nay,” returned Mr. Blemish, gently, “it will not be a surprise if I tell you beforehand.”
The flush that had risen to that portion of the gentleman's face which the iron-grey whiskers, beard, and moustache, allowed to be seen, slowly died away, and was replaced by a whitish-grey tint, which almost made him look like the ghost of some antique warrior. Taking out his pocket-book, he wrote upon a leaf, “I shall take it as a particular favour if you will let me know what is the surprise you have in store for me; I have urgent reasons for asking; “then passed it, folded, to his host. Mr. Blemish read it, smiled, and wrote beneath, in reply, “Do you remember your brother?” and repassed the paper to his guest.
“Brother!” exclaimed that gentleman, in a voice betokening that, although he was considerably astonished, he was also considerably relieved.
All the guests turned their faces simultaneously towards the s