UC-NRLF

B.L.FARJEON

GKIF

B. L. FARJEON'S NOVELS.

In Crown 8vo, handsome cloth gilt.

GRIF. An Australian Story. 33. 6d.

GREAT PORTER SQUARE. 3s. 6d.

THE BETRAYAL OF JOHN FORDHAM. 33. 6d.

AARON THE JEW. 35. 6d.

THE LAST; TENANT, as. 6d.',

THE TRAGEDY OF FEATHERSTONE. [Reprinting

IN A SILVER SEA.

THE SACRED NUGGET. „

THE HOUSE OF WHITE SHADOWS.

MISER FAREBROTHER.

A1 SECRET INHERITANCE.

LONDON: HUTCHINSON & CO.

GKIF

Stcrg 0f Australian fife

B. L. FARJEON

AUTHOB OF AARON TM1 JRW." "OHIAT rOBTBB •QnAAB," " IX A ULTBB MA. * ITC.

SEVENTEENTH EDITION

CX)NDON :

IIUTCHINSON & CO,

34, PATERNOSTER ROW.

1898

LONDON :

PRINTED BY J. 8. VIRTUE AND CO., LIMITED, CITY ROAD.

.afri

hn

CONTENTS.

OB4P. FA ;«

I. Gn/ relate* »om« o/ /iw eaiperiencef 1

U. .ffua&ami and JTi/e 13

ILL Grif loses a friend 27

iv. The Conjugal Nuttalls 40

T. The Moral Merchant entertains hit friends at

dinner 51

vi. Father and Daughter 63

VIL Or\f promises to be honest 78

vm. Qrif is set up in life as a moral shoeblack 103

n. A Banquet is given to the Moral Merchant 118

T. On tiie road to El Dorado 132

xi. Welsh Tom „ 142

in. The new rush 153

xui. Old Flick 160

xiv. Little Peter is provided for 168

xv. A hot day in Melbourne 180

xn.Poorlfi% ... 201

xvii. Bad luck... 219

xvm. Honest Steve 230

472

Till CONTENTS

CHAP. PAOB

xix. The Welshman reads his last chapter in the old

Welsh Bible 288

xx. The tender-hearted Oysterman traps his game ... 265

xxi. The Moral Merchant calls a meeting of his creditors 268

xxii. Alice and Grif meet friends upon the road ... 275

xxin. The story of Silver-headed Jack ... ... 287

xxrv. Mrs. Nicholas Nutt all takes possession ... ... 307

xxv. Mrs. Nicholas Nuttall receives visitors ... ... 314

xxvi. A night of adventures 823

xxvn. Orif bears false witness ... 842

GRIF;

A STORY OF AUSTRALIAN LIFE.

CHAPTER L

OEIF RELATES SOME OF HIS EXPERIENCES.

Iir 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 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 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 wo do drunken men in the streets.

In one of the apartments of this house, on a dismally web 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

2 GRIP.

candlestick containing a middle-aged tallow candle, the yellow light from which flickered sullenly, as it' it were weary of its life and wanted to be done with it ; a, threo-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 ifc was : — comprised all the furniture of the room. The gloominess of the apartment and the meanness of tlio furniture were in keeping with one another, and both were in keeping with the night, which sighed and Tiioaned and wept without ; while down the rickety chimney the wind whistled as if in mockery, and the rain-drops fell upon the embers, hissing damp misery into the eyes of the two human beings who sat before the fire, bearing their burden quietly, if not patiently.

They were a strange couple. The one, a fair young girl, with a face so mild and sweet, that the beholder, looking upon it when in repose, felt gladdened by the sight. A sweet, fair young face ; a face to love. A look of sadness was in her dark brown eyes, and on the fringes, which half- veiled their beauty, were traces of tears. The other, a stunted, ragged boy, with 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 acrpss her face were of a melancholy nature ; the weavings of her fancy iq the fitful glare brought notjiing of pleasure to

GRIP RELATES BOME OF HIS EXPERIENCES. 3

Lor mind. Not far into the past could sho look, for she was barely nineteen years of age ; but brief as must have been her experience of life's troubles, it was bitU-r enough to sadden her eyes with tears, and to cause her to quiver as if she were in pain. Tho boy's 1 1 1. > lights were not of himself; they were of her, as wan proven by his peering up at her face anxiously i . few moments in silent*;?. Th.-it, lu> met with no respon- sive look evidently troubled him ; ho threw unquiet glances at her furtively, and then ho plucked her gently by tho sleeve. Finding Mint tlii.s did not attract her attention, ho shifted himself uneasily upon his seat, and in a hoarse voice, culled, —

"Ally!"

" Yes," she replied vacantly, as if she were answer- ing tho voice of her fancy.

A hat are you thinkm' of. Ally?"

" I am thinking of my lifo," sho answered, dreamily and softly, without raising her eyes. " I see the end of it."

The boy's eyes followed tho direction of her wistful gaze.

" Blest if I don't think she can see it in tho fire !" ho said, under his breath. " I can't see nothinV A ml then he exclaimed aloud, " What's tho use of botheriu' ? Thinkin' won't alter it."

" So it seems," she said, sadly ; " my head aches with the whirl."

" Yon oughtn't to be unhappy, Ally ; you're very good-looking aad very young."

" Yes, I am very young," she sighed. " IIow ohl arc you, Grif?"

"Blest if I know," Grif replied, with a grin. "I ain't agoin' to bother ! I'm old enough, I am I"

" Do you remember your father, Grif?"

" Don't I ! He wa.s a rum 'un, he was. Usen't ho to wallop us, neither !"

Lost ;n the recollection, Grif rubbed &is back, sym- pathetically.

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 I'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 ho 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 ho was pretty well screwed, he used to lay into us, Dick and me, and kick us out of the house. Dick was my brother. Then Dick and me used to fight, for Dick wanted to lay into me too, and I wasn't goin' to stand that. We got precious little to eat, Dick and me ; when we couldn't get nothin' to eat at home, we went out and took it. And one day I was trotted up afore the beak, for takin' a pie out of a 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 I'd ever been in quod, and I was sorry when they turned me out, for all that week I got enough to eat and drink. I arksed the cove to let me stop in another week, so that I might be reformed, as the beak sed, but he only larfed at me, and turned me out. When I got home, father he ses, ' Where have you been, Grif ?' And 1 tells him, I've been to quod. 'What for?' he arks. 'For takin' a pie/ I ses. Blest if I didn't get the worst wallopin' I ever had ! f You've been and dis- graced your family/ he sed ; ( git out of my sight, you wax-mint ; / 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/

QRIF RELATES SOME OF HIS UP1K1ENCE8. 5

thought I, ' when a cove want/8 grub ?' I was awfal hungry, as well as savage; so 1 made for the con-

loner's and took another pie. I bolted the pie quick, for I knew they would be down on me ; ana I was trotted np afore the beak agin, and he give mo a mot/h. 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 BOS, '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 ?' sea he. ' Cos I'm hungry, your washup/ ses I. But the beak didn't scorn to think nothin' of that ; the missus of the shop, she ses, ' Pore boy !' and wanted him to let me off; but ho 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 eo,' she ses, keepin' hold of my collar, and looking me 'ard in the face — ' I wouldn't go, but the ploesemen they make me. I ain't goin' agin, that I'm determined on. Here ! Here's a pie for yon !' and she 'olds out a big un. ' That's a rum start,' I thort, as I looked at the pie in her hand. ' It won't do, though. If I take her pie in a honest way, where's my blanket to come from ?' But the old woman looked so worried, that I thort Pd make her a offer. ' If I take your pie, missus/

s, '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 mo take one while

GEIF.

she looked another way. ' When I've eat it/ I ses, * I'll cough, very loud, and then you turn round as if you was surprised to see me, and give me in charge of a peeler.' < What'll be the good of that ?' she arks. ' Don't you see ?' I ses. 'Then I shall have the pie, and I shall get my blanket at the lock-up as well !' She wasn't a bad un, by no manner of means. ' My pore boy,' she ses, 'here's the pie, and here's a shillin'. Don't steal no more pies, or you'll break my 'art. You shall have a shillin' a week if you'll promise not to worry me, and whenever you want a pie I'll give you one if you arks for it.' Well, you see, Ally, I thort that was a fair offer, so I ses, ' Done !' and I took my pie and my shillin'. I don't worry her more than I can help," said Grif; " when I'm very hungiy I go to the shop. She's a good old sort, she is ; and 1 gets iny 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 ho was cut tin' some rum capers up the country. They did say he was a bush-ranging, but I ain't agoin' to bother. I was brought up very queer, I was ; not like other coves. Father he never give us no eddication ; per- haps he didn't have none to give. But ho 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," ho 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

QUIP RELATES SOME OK HIS nMtttMONk 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'poso all the grub is down here ?' ses I. ' I can't go up there and fetch it/ Then he groans, and tells mo a story about a infant who was found in the bulrushes, after it had been deserted, and I ups and tells him that I've been deserted, and why don't somebody come and take mo 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, aforo T let out, and ho preaches a preach about charity. ' Uon't steal no more/ he ses, ' or your sole '11 go to nmr- chal perdition. Men is charitable and good; ji.st you try 'em, and give up your evil courses.' 'How CUM I help my ovil courses ? ' I ses. ' I only wants my «rrub and a blanket, and I can't get 'em no other way.' * You can, young sinner, you can/ ho ses. ' Jist you try, and sec if you can't.' He spoke so earnest-like, and tho 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, I'll see now if the preacher cove is right. 1 waited till I was hungry, and couldn't get nothin' to eat, without stealin' it. I could have took a trotter, for the trotter-man was a- drink in' 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 ';its, and smilin' at the gals. They was a rare nico lot <>f gals, and looked as if butter wouldn't molt in : mouths ; but there wasn't one in all the lot as nice as you are, Ally ! I didn't have courage at first to speak to the swells, but when I did, send I may live ! they started back as if I was a mad dawg. * You be awf/ they ses, ( or you'll be guv in charge.' What could a pore beggar like mo do, after that? I dodged about, very sorry I didn't take tuo trotter, when who should

8 GRIP.

T see coining along but the preacher chap. f Here's a slant ! ' ses I to myself. s He's charitable and good, ho is, and '11 give me somethin' in a minute. He had a lady on his arm, and they both looked very grand. But when I went up to him he starts back too, and ses, ' Begawn, young reperrerbate ! ' When I heerd that, I sed, ' Charity be blowed ! ' and I goes and finds out the trotter-man, and takes two trotters, and no one knows nothin' about it."

Before he had finished his story, the girl's thoughts had wandered again. A heavy step in the adjoining apartment roused her.

" Who is that ? "

" That's Jim Pizey's foot," replied the boy ; ' ' they're up to some deep game, they are. They was at it last night."

"Did you hear them talking about it, Grif?" she asked, earnestly.

" A good part of the time I was arf asleep, and a

food part of the time I made game that I was asleep, heerd enough to know that they're up to somethin' precious deep and dangerous. But, I say, Ally, you won't peach, will you ? I should get my neck broke if they was to know that I blabbed."

" Don't fear me, Grif," said the girl ; " go on." " Jim Pizey, of course, he was at the 'ead of it, and he did pretty nearly all the talkin'. The 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 Tenderii«arted Oysterman ses he didn't care if there

* " Sticking-up " is an Australian term for burglary and highway Robbery.

QRIK RELATES SOME OF HIS EXPERIENCES. 9

was forty million ounces, he wouldn't have nothin* to il < ) with it, if Jim wanted to hurt the poor coves. Didn't they larf at him for sayin' that ! "

" Is he a kind man, Grif ? "

"The Tenderhearted Oysterraan, 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 kill in' a fly. After that I falls off in a doze, and pre- sently I hears 'em talkin' agin, between- whiles, like, ' If the escort's too strong for us/ ses Jim Pizey, ' we can tackle the squatters' stations. Some of the squat- ters keeps heaps of money in their houses/ And then they called over the names of a lot of stations where tho squatters was rich men."

" Did you hear them mention Highlay Station, Grif?" the girl asked, anxiously.

" Can't say I did, Ally."

The girl gave a sigh of relief.

" Who were there, Grif, while they were talking ? "

"There was Jim Pizey, and Ned Rutt, and Black Sam, and the Tenderhearted Oysterman, and — "but here Grif stopped, suddenly.

" Who else, Grif? " laying her hand upon his arm.

" I was considering Ally," the boy replied, casting a furtive look at her white face, " if there was anybody else. I was 'arf asleep, you know."

The girl gazed at him with such distress depicted in her face that Grif turned his eyes from her, and looked uneasily upon the ground. For a few moments she seemed as if she feared to speak, and then she inquired in a voice of pain, —

" Was tny 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 ClRlf.

:t Was my husband there, Grif," the girl repeated.

Still the boy did not reply. He appeared to bo possessed with some dogged determination not to answer her question.

" Grif/' the girl said, in a voice of such tender plead- ing that the tears came into the boy's eyes, " Grif, be iny 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 rne !"

" I have no one else to depend upon — no one elso to trust to — no one elso to tell me what I must, yet what I dread to hoar. Was my husband there, Grit' ?"

" Yes, ho was there/' the boy returned, reluctantly ; " more shame for him, and you a sittin' hero all by yourself. I say, Ally, why don't you cut away iroui him ? What do you stop here for r J

" Hush ! Was he speaking with them about tho plots you told ino of?"

" No, he was very quiet. They was a tryin* to per- suade him to join 'em ; but he wouldn't agree. They tried all sorts of games on him. They spoke soft, and they spoke hard. They give him lots of lush, too, and you know, Ally, he can — " but Grif pulled himself up short, dismayed and remorseful, for his companion had broken into a passionate fit of weeping.

" I didn't mean to do it, Ally," he said sorrowfully. " Don't take on so. I'll never say it agin. I'm a ignorant beast, that's what I am !" he exclaimed, dig- ging his knuckles into his eyes. " I'm always a puttin' my foot in it."

''Never mind, Grif/' said the girl, sobbing. "Go on. Tell me all you heard. I must know. Oh, my heart ! My heart !" and her tears fell thick and fast upon his hand.

He waited until she had somewhat recovered herself, and then proceeded very slowly.

"They was a-tryin' to persuade him to join ;oia.

GitlF RELATES BOMB OF IIIS EXPERIENCES. 11

They tried nil sorts of dodges, but they was all no go. The 'IVndi-.-iii -ar; m, he comes the tender

touch, and ses, ' I'm a sod-hear ted cove, you know, mato, and I wouldn't kill a worm, if 1 thort I should *uri him ; it* ilu-re 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 anythiu' to do with it?' arks your - you know who 1 mran, Ally? 'Because I think it'll be a jolly good spree,' ses the Oysterman, 'and because I know wo can make a 'cap of shiners without nobody bein' the worse for it.' But they couldn't get him to say Yes ; and at last Jim Pizey ho gets up in a awful scot, and ho ses, 'Look here, mat< been

and k-t you in this hen- 1 \v<- ain't a-

to have it blown upon. Vi-u make up your mind very soon to join us, or it will bo tho worse ior yuu.' " id my husband — "

" I didn't hear iiothin' more. I fell right oil* asl- and when I woke up they was gone."

" Grit"/' said tin* i^u-l, " lie must not join in this ; I vmxt keep him from crime. Ho has been unfortu- — led away by bad companions."

" Yes ; we're a precious bad lot, wo nro." ;b his heart is good, Grif," she continued.

" What does he mean by treatin* you like this, then ?" interrupted Grif, indignantly. "You've got no 1 ness here, you haven't. You ought to have a 'ouse of your own, you ought."

" I can't explain ; yon would not understand. Enough that ho is my husband ; it is sufficient that my lot is linked with his, and that through poverty disgrace I must be by his side. I can never de- sert him while I have life. God grant that I may save him vc-t !''

Tho boy was hushed into silence by her solemn earnestness.

" Ho is weak, Grif, and we are poor. It was other- oiicu. Thoso who should assist us will not do so,

12

unless I break the holiest tie — and so we must suffer together/'

"I don't see why you should suffer/' said Grif, doggedly; "you don't deserve to suffer, you don't."

" Did you ever have a friend, my poor Grif/' the girl said, "whom you loved, and for whose sake you would have sacrificed even the few sweets of life you have enjoyed ?"

Grif pondered, but being unable to come to any im- mediate conclusion upon the point, did not reply.

"It is so with me," Alice continued. "I would sacrifice everything for him and for his happiness : for I love him ! Ah ! how I love him ! When he is away from me he loses hope for my sake, not for his own, I know. If he is weak, I must be strong. It is my duty."

She loved him. Yes. No thought that he might be unwortny of the sacrifice she had already made for him tainted the purity of her love, or weakened her sense of duty.

" I've got a dawg, Ally," Grif said, musingly, after a pause. " He ain't much to look at, but he's very fond of me. Rough is his name. The games we have together, me and Rough ! He's like a brother to me, is Rough. I often wonder what he can see in me, to be so fond of me — but then they say dawgs ain't got no sense, and that's a proof of it. But if he ain't got sense, he got somethin' as good. Pore old Rough ! One day a cove was agoin* to make a rush at me — it was the Tenderhearted Oysterman (we always had a down on each other, him and me !) — when Rough, he pounces in, and gives him a nip in the calf of his leg. Didn't the Oysterman squeal ! He swore, that day, that ho would kill the dawg ; but he'd better not try / Kill Rough !" and, at the thought of it, the tears camft into the boy's eyes ; " and him never to rub his nose agin me any more, after all the games we've had 1 No, I shouldn't like to lose Rough, for he's a real friend to me, though he is only a dawg !"

HUSBAND AND WIFE. 13

The girl laid her hand upon GriPs head, and looked pityingly at him. As their eyes met, a tender expres- sion stole into his face, and rested there.

" I'm very sorry for you, Ally. I wish I could do somethin' to make you happy. It doesn't much matter for a pore beggar like me. We was always a bad lot, was father, and Dick, and me. But you ! — look here, Ally !" he exclaimed, energetically. " If ever you want me to do anythin' — never mind what it i 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 haml 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 believo im«, Ally, don't you?" he continued, eagerly. "I don't want you to say nothin' more than if ever I can d«> somethin' for you, you'll let me do it."

"I will, Grif, and I do believe you," she repliVd. " God help me, my poor boy, you are my only friend."

" That's it !" he exclaimed, triumphantly. " That's what I am, till I die !"

CHAPTER IL

HUSBAND AND WIPE.

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

14 GRIP.

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 lie said that he would bo true and faithful to her, he meant it with his whole heart and soul. The better instincts of the boy had been brought into play by contact with the pure nature of a good woman. He had never met any one like Alice. The exquisite 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 strength of his uncultivated nature. His vow might bo depended on. He was rough, and dirty, and ugly, and a thief; but he was faithful and true. Somo glimpse of a better comprehension appeared to pass into his face as he lay and watched. And so the hours lagged on until midnight, when a change took place.

A sudden change — a change that transformed the hitherto quiet house into a den of riotous vice and drunkenness. It seemed as though the house had been forced into by a band of ruffianly bacchanals. They came up the stairs, laughing, and singing, and screaming. A motley throng — about a dozen in all — but strangely contrasted in appearance. Men upon whose faces rascality had set its seal ; women in whose eyes there struggled the modesty of youth with the depravity of shame. Most of the men were middle- aged; the eldest of the women could scarcely have counted twenty winters from her birth : many of them, even in their childhood, had seen but little of life's summer. With the men, moleskin trousers, pea- jackets, billycock hats, and dirty pipes, predominated. But the women were expensively dressed, as if they sought to hide their shame by a costly harmony of colours. How strange are the groupings we gpp, yet do not marvel at, in the kaleidoscope of life !

HUSBAND AND WIFE. 15

The company were ID tho adjoining apartment, and, through the chinks in the wall, Alico could see UUMH flitting about. She had started to her feet when slio heard them enter the house, and her trembling IV bespoke her agitation. All her heart was in hrtr earn a.s she listened lur tho voice she expected yet dre.mled to hear.

" Get up, Grif," she whispered, touching the gently with her foot. On tho instant, he was stand- ing, watchful by her side. "Listen! Can you hear voice?*1

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 , and sink tremblingly into her seat. But after it short struggle with herself, she rose again, and lis- tened anxiously.

" Ho must be there," she snid, her hand twitching nervously at her dress. "Oh, what if I should not liim to-night ! I should be powerless to save him. \Vlmt if they have kept him away from me, fearing that I should turn him fn>:n them 1 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 'car you. If anybody comes in, you shut your eyes, and breathe 'j;rd. I'll go and see if he's there."

And he crept out of the room, closing the door softly behind him. Left alone, the girl sat down again by the fire, whispering to herself, " I must save him, I must save him;" as if the words were a charm. "Yes," she whispered, "I must save him from this disgrace, and then I will make one more appeal ;" and then she started up again, and listened, and paced the room in an agony of expectation. Thus she passed tho next half-hour. At the end of that time, Grif came in, almost noiselessly, and to her questioning look replied,

16 QRii.

" He's there, nil right."

"What is he doing?"

" He's a settin' in a corner, 'arf asleep, all by 'isself, and he hasn't sed a word to no one. Where are you goin' ?" he inquired quickly, as Alice walked towards the door.

" I am going in to him."

" What for ?" cried Grif hoarsely, gripping her arm. " Ally, are you mad ?"

" I must go and bring him away," she replied, firmly.

Look here, Ally," said Grif, in a voice of terror ; " don't you try it. Pizey's got the devil in him to- night. I know it by his eye. It's jist as cool and wicked as anythin' ! When he sets his mind upon a thing he'll do it, or be cut to pieces. If you go in, you can't do nothin', and somethin' bad '11 'appen. Pizey '11 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, I dersay. But s'pose you die and don't save him? They won't do nothin' to-night. You can't do no good in there, Ally. The Oysterman '11 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 voic;e, 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 ho spoke wero

HUSBAND AND Will. 17

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 Oystermun, 1m treads like a cat. I'll bo 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 :i 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

o

1.8 GRIF.

some wish, to avoid her, and not be conscious of her presence.

" Richard," she whispered.

But he doggedly turned his head from her.

"Richard," she whispered again, softly and sweetly.

" I hear you," he said, pettishly.

" Do not speak to me harshly to-niglit, dear," she said ; " this day six months we were married."

He winced as he heard this, as if the remembrance brought with it a sense of physical pain, and said: —

" It is right that you should reproach me, yet it is bitter enough for me without that/'

" I do not say it to reproach you, dear, — indeed, in- deed, 1 do not!'"

"That makes it all the more bitter. This day six months we were married, you say! Better for you, better for me, that we had never seen each other.'"

" Yes," the girl said, sadly ; " perhaps it would have been. But there is no misery to me in the 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 mo. You had the promise of a happy future before you saw me, and I have blighted it. What had you done that I should force this misery upon you ? What had you done that I should bring you into contact with this ? " he looked loathingly upon the bare walls. "And I am even too small-hearted to render you the only 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 courage — "

"But I have not the courage," he interrupted. "I am beaten down, crushed, nerveless. I was brought up with no teaching that existence was a thing to struggle for, and I am too old or too idle to learn the Lesson now. What do such men as I in the world ?'

HUSBAND AND WIPE. 19

Wlir, it has boon thrown in my teeth this very nignt I bat 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 yuurs. But it has been thrown in my teeth, nevertheless. And it is true. For I am it coward and a craven, if there ever lived one. it is you who h:ivc made mo feel that I am so; it is you who have shown mo to myself in my true colours, and who have torn from me the mask whicli I — fool tint I am ! — had almost learnt to believe was my real self, and not a sham ! Had you reproached me, had you reviled me, I might have continued to be deceived. But as it is, I tremble before you ; I tremble, when I look upon your pale face ; " and turning to her sud- denly, and meeting the look of patient uncomplaining love in her weary eyes, he cried, " Oh, Alice 1 Alice ! what misery I have brought upon you ! "

" Not more than I can bear, dear love/' she said, "if you will bo true to yourself and to me. Have patience — "

" Patience ! " ho 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 ho 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/' ho 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 bo tampered with."

He paused to recover himself; Alice bending for- ward, with clasped hands, waited in anxious expec- tancy.

20 GRIP.

"Do you know how I have spent to-night and many previous nights ? " he asked. " In what company, and for what purpose ? "

Lhe had been standing during all this time, and her strength was failing her. She would have fallen, had he not caught her in his arms, whence she sank upon the ground at his feet, and bowed her head in her lap.

" I have spent to-night, and many other nights," he continued, ' ' in the company of men whose touch, not long since, I should have deemed contamination. I have spent them in the company of villains, who, for some purpose of their own, are striving to inveigle me in their plots. But they will fail. Yes, they will fail, if you will give me strength to keep my resolution. Coward I am, I know, but I am not too great a cow- ard to say that you and I must part."

" Part ! " she echoed, drearily.

"Look around," he said; "this is a nice home I have provided for you; I have surrounded you with fit associates, have I not? How nobly I have 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, Eichard, not degradation for you!"

" Yes, degradation, and for me, in its coarsest as- pect, la 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; " I'm a pore boy — Grif."

"You're a poor boy — Grif!" tho man repeated. " How do you live ! "

"By eatin' and drinkinV

HDSDAND AXD \VIFE. 21

" How do yon get your living ? "

"I makes it as I can," answered Crif, gloomfly.

"And when you can't make it ? "

"Why, then I takes it."

" Tliat is, you are a thief? "

"Yes, Is'poseso."

" And a vagabond ? "

" Yes, I s'pose so."

" And yon have been in prison ? "

" Yes, I've been in quod, I have," said Grif, feeling, for the first time in his life, slightly ashamed of tho 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

replj.

was once a good arithmetician," he continued, us see what figures there are in the sum of our acquaintance, and what they amount to."

" Of what use is it to recall the past, Richard ? " " It may show us how to act in the future. Besides, I have a strange feeling on me to-night, having met with an adventure which I will presently relate. Listen. When I first saw you I was a careless ne'er-do-well, with no thought of the morrow. You did not know this then, but you know it now. It is the curse of my life that I was brought up with expectations. How many possibly useful, if not good, men have been wrecked on that same rock of expectations ! Upon the strength of ' expectations ' I was reared into an idle incapable. And this I was when you first knew me. I had an income then — small, it is true, but sufficient , or if it was not, I got into debt upon the strength of my 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 orash at homo, my income and my expectations had

22 GRIP.

gone to limbo. The news did not hurt me much, Alice, for I had determined on a scheme which, it" suc- cessful, would give me wealth and worldly prosperity. Ifc is the truth — shamed as I am to speak it — that, knowing you to be an only child and an heiress, 1 deliberately proposed to myself to win your affections. I said, f This girl will be rich, and her money will com- pensate for what I have lost. This girl has a wealthy father, not too well educated, not too well connected, who will bo proud when he finds that his daughter has married a gentleman/ In the execution of my settled purpose, I sought your society, and strove to make myself attractive to you. But your pure nature won upon me. The thought that your father was wealthy, iirid 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. 1 had to do something to live ; and so that I might bo near you, I accepted the post of tutor offered me by your father. I accepted this to be near you — it was happiness enough for the time, and I thought but little of the future. Happy, then, in the present, I had no thought of the passing time, until the day arrived when your father wished to force you into a marriage with a man, ignorant, brutal mean, and vulgar, — but rich. You came to me in your distress — Good God ! " he 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. The branches of the old gum- trees glistened vrith white smiles in the face of the moon — we were encompassed with a peaceful glory. You stood before me, sad and trembling, and the Joyp

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

that hn/1 ' Ktinshino to my lionrt rushed to

my lips" — he sinpp.-d suddenly, looked round, and srnii . •!! ho continued — u Tho uvx& tlav

wo lied, and afc the first town wo reached wo wero Add. Then, and then only, yon learned for time, that tho man you had married v» '^:"*.

and was unablo to provide for his wife the commnr comforts of a home. We appealed to your full. yon know how ho met our appeals. Tho last ti went, at your request, to his house, he sot his do:j.s upon me — "

"Richard! Richard!" she eric ty. "Do

not recall that time. Do silent lor awhile, and calm yourself."

" I will go on to tho end. We camo to Melbourne. Brought up to no trade or profession, and naturally idle, I could get nothing to do. Some would have employed me, hut they v, . : !. I was not r

enough — I was too much of a genii- -Mian. 'I'hev wanted coarser material than I am composed of, and so, day by day, I have sunk lower and lower. People 11 to look on mo with suspicion. I am fit for no- thing in this colony. I was born a gentleman, aud I live tho life of a dog ; and I have dragged you, who never before knew want, down with me. With no friends, no iniluence to back me, wo might starve and rot. What wonder that I took to drink ! Tho disgust with which I used to contemplate the victims of that vice recoils now upon myself, and I despise and abhor myself for what I am ! By what fatality I brought you here, I know not. I suppose it was because we were poor, and I could not afford to buy you better lodging. Now, attend to me — but stay, that boy is listening."

" Ho is a friend, Richard," said Alice.

"Yes," said Grif, " L am a friend— that's what I nrn. Never you mind me — I ain't a-goin' to pe.ach. I'd do any thin' to 'clp her, I would — sooner than 'urt

24 GRIP.

her, Pd be chopped up first. You talk better than the preacher cove ! "

" Very well. Now attend. These men want me to join them in their devilish plots. I will not do so, if I can help it. Bat 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 lack there — "

" Leaving me here ? "

" Leaving you here, but not in this house. You have two or three articles of jewellery left. I will sell them — the watch I gave you will fetch ten pounds — and you will be able to live in a more respectable house than this for a few weeks until you hear from me."

" How will you go ? "

" I shall walk — I cannot afford to ride. But I have not concluded yet. I have something to tell you, which may alter our plans, so far as you are con- cerned. I have a message for you, which I must deliver word for word."

" A message for me ! "

lie paced tho room for a few moments in silence. Then, standing before Alice, he looked her in the face, and said : —

" I saw your father this evening."

"In town ! " she exclaimed.

" In town. I do not know for what purpose he is here, nor do I care."

" Oh, Richard," cried the girl ; ' ' you did not quarrel with him ? "

" No ; I spoke to him respectfully. I told him you were in Melbourne, in want. I begged him to assist us. I said that I was willing to do anything — that I would take any situation, thankfully, in which I could earn bread for you. He turned away impatiently. I fol- lowed him, and continued to address him humbly, en- troatingly. For 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. Till then, you may starve. I am a 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 nmrried my daughter, I would fling it all in the sea. Tell my daughter this. She knows me well enougli to be sure I shall not alter when once I resolve.' Those were his words, word for word. That was the message he bade me give you. What is your answer ?"

" What do you think it is ?" she asked, sadly.

" I cannot tell," he said, doggedly, turning his face from her ; " I know what mine would be."

" What would it be ?"

" I should say this " (he did not look at her while he spoke) — "You, Richard Handfield, Scapegrace, For- tune-hunter, Vagabond (any of these surnames would be sufliciently 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 certaiu 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 QUIP.

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 lied, 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 ho spoke, and now as she addressed him, with an indescribable sad- ness in her voice, he did not reply. For full five minutes theru was silence in the room. Then the grief which filled her heart could no longer be sup- pressed, and short broken gasps escaped her.

" Richard I" 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 Avitlioufc 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 iio\v, 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-

GRIP LOSES A FRIEND. 27

rflf in fho time that has gone, my dear," sho con- tinned, "there is any circumstance, any remembrance, connected with me, that gives you pain, forget it for my sake. If you have believed that any thought that, you havo done me wrong exists, or ever existed, in my mind, believe it no longer. Think of me as I am- me as I am — your wife, who loves you now with :i more perfect love than when sho was a simple girl, in- experienced in the world's hard ways. All ! see hew I plead to you, and turn to me, my dear !"

She would have knelt to him, but ho turned and clasped her in his arms, and pressed her pure heart to his. Her fervent love had triumphed; and as ho 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 ; hut not to-morrow. Wait but one day longer ; and if I then say to you — ' Go/ you shall go. 1 havo a reason for this, but I must not tell you what it is. Do you consent V9

"Yes, love."

"lirightrr days will dawn upon us. lam happier now than I have been for a long, long timo ! Ami 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 dark- ness. But mean and disreputable as it was, a good woman's unselQsh lovo sanctified it and made it holy I

CHAPTER ITT.

GRIP LOSE3 A FRIEND.

"It's a ram go," Grif muttered to himself, as ho wiped the tears from his eyes, and groped his way down the dark eiairs; "a very ruin go. If I was

GRIP.

Ally, I should do as ho 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 I"

By this time Grif had reached the staircase which led to the cellar. Crouching upon the floor, ho lis- tened with his ear to the ground.

" I can hear him/' he said, in a pleasant voice, " he's a beatin' his tail upon the ground, but he won't move till I call him. I don't believe there's another dawg in Melbourne to come up to him. Jist listen to him ! He's a thinkin' to himself, How much longer will he be, I wonder, afore he calls me ! And he knows I'm a-talkin' of him ; he knows it as well as I do myself."

He listened again, and laughed quietly.

" If I was to mention that dawg's name," Grif said in a confidential tone, as if he were addressing a com- panion, " he'd be here in a minute. He would ! It's wonderful how he knows ! I've had him since he was a pup, and afore he could open his eyes. It would be nice sleepin' down in the cellar, but we can't do it, can we, old feller ? We've got somebody else to look after, haven't we ? You, and me, and him, ain't had a bit of supper, I'll bet. But we'll get somethin' to eat somehow, you see if we don't."

Here the lad whistled softly, and the next instant a singularly ugly dog was by his side, licking his face, and expressing satisfaction in a quiet but demonstra- tive manner.

" Ain't you jolly warm, Bough ! " 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

OB1F LOSES A FRIEKD. 29

was mining 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 rugged trousers. Slouching along the walla as if he derived some comfort from tho contact, Grif walked into a wider street of the • and stopped at the entrance of a narrow passage, lead- ing to a room used as a casino. The dog, which IKK! been anxiously sniffing the gutters in quest of such stray morsels of food as had escaped the eyes and noses of other ravenous dogs, stopped also, and looked up humbly at its master.

"I'll stay here," said Grif, resting against the wall. "Milly's in there, I dare say, and she'll give me 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 haunches in perfect contentment, and contemplated the rain-drops falling on the ground. Grif was hungry, but he had a stronger motive than that for waiting ; as he had said, he had some one be- sides himself to provide for, and the girl he oxp< to see had often given him money. Strains of n: floated down the passage, and the effect of the SOUTH is, ibined with his tired condition sent him into a half doze. He started now and then, as persons passed and repasscd 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 aro you sleeping in the rain for ?" a girl's voice asked.

" Is that you, Milly ?" asked Grif, starting to Ins feet, and shaking himself awake. " I was waitin' for you, and I was so tired that I fell off. Rough didn't bark at v-»u, did he, when you touched me :"

" Not ho ! He's too sensible," replied Milly, stoop- ing, and caressing the dog, who licked her hand.

SO GEIF.

" Ho knows friends from enemies. A good job if all of us did I"

There was a certain bitterness in the girl's voice which jarred upon the ear, but Grif, probably too ac- customed 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 1'aco 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.

" I have been looking for Jim/' she said, " and I cannot find him."

UI sor him to-night/' Grif said; " he was up at the house — him and Black Sam and Ned Rutt, and the Tenderhearted Oysterman."

" A nice gang I" observed the girl. " And Jim's the worst of the lot."

" No, he isn't," said Grif; and as he said it, Milly looked almost gratefully at him. " Rough knows who's the worst of that lot; don't you, Rough?"

The dog looked up into its master's face, as if it perfectly well understood the nature of the question.

" Is Black Sam the worst ?" asked Grif.

The dog wagged its stump of a tail, but uttered no sound.

" Is Ned Rutt the worst?" asked Grif.

The dog repeated the performance.

" Is Jim Pizey the worst ?" asked Grif.

Milly caught the lad's arm as he put the last 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 wagged its tail, and was silent.

" Thank God !" Milly whispered to herself.

" Is the Tenderhearted Oysterman the worst ? " asked Grif.

Whether Grif spoke that naino in a different tone,

GRir LOSES A FRIEND. 31

or xvhctnor FOTHO magnetic touch of hate passed from IT'S he-art to that of tho dog, no sooner did Hough 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 tho dog's.

(Irif looked at her, inquiringly.

"That was tho Oysterman who passed us," said Milly, with a pale face. " I hope he didn't hear you."

" I don't care if he did. It can't make any differ- ence between us. lie hates mo and Rough, and Hough and mo hates him ; don't we ?"

Rough gave a sympathetic growl.

"And so you were up at tho house, eh, Grif?" said Milly, as if anxious to change tho subject. "What were you doing all tho night ?"

" I was sittin' with — " '

But ignorant as Grif was, lie hesitated here. He knew full well tho difference between the two women \vlin wen* kind to him. Ho knew that one was what lie would have termed "respectable," and the other belonged to society's outcasts. And he hesitated to bring the two together, even in his speech.

" You were sitting with — ?" Milly said.

"No one particler," Grif wound up, shortly.

" But I should like to know, and you must tell me, Grif."

" Well, if I must tell you, it was with Ally I was sittin'. You never seed her."

" No, I've never seen her," said Milly, scornfully. " I've heard of her, though. She's a lady, isn't she?"

" Yes, she is."

Milly turned away her head and was silent for a few lAoinents ; then she said,

"Yes, she's a lady, and I'm not good enough to be to about her. But she isn't prettier than me

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 little hand — " nor smaller feet, 1 know, though I've never seen them. And yet she's a lady !"

"Yes, she is."

" And I am not. Of course not. Well, I shall go. Good-night."

" Good-night, Milly," Grif said, in a conflict of agi- tation. For he knew that he had hurt Milly's feelings, and he was remorseful. He knew that he was right in saying that Alice was a lady, and in inferring that Milly was not ; yet he could not have defined why he was right, and he was perplexed. Then he was hungry, and Milly had gone without giving him any money, and he knew that she was angry with him. And he was angry with himself for making her angry.

While he was enduring this conflict of miserable feeling, Milly came back to him. Grif was almost ashamed to look her in the face.

" She isn't prettier than me ?" the girl said, as if she desired to be certain upon the point.

" I didn't say she was," Grif responded, swinging one foot upon the pavement.

" And she hasn't got smaller hands than me ?"

" I didn't say she had, Milly."

"Nor smaller feet?"

" Nobody said so."

" Nor brighter eyes, nor a nicer figure ? And yet," Milly said, with a kind of struggle in her voice, " and yet she's a lady, and I'm not."

" Don't be angry with me, Milly," Grif pleaded, as if with him rested the responsibility of the difference between the two women.

" Why should I be angry with you ?" asked Milly, her voice hardening. " It's not your fault. I often wonder if it is mine ! It's hard to tell ; isn't it ?"

OBIF LOSES A PBILND. 33

Crif, not understanding the drift of the qnestion, could not conscientiously answer ; yet, feeling himself called upon to express some opinion, he nodded his head acquiescently.

" Never mind/' said Hilly ; " it will be all the same in a hundred years i Have you had anything to eat to- night, Grif?"

Grif felt even more remorseful, for, after what had passed, Milly's question, kindly put, was like a dagger's thrust to him.

" Well, here's a shilling for you — it's the only one I've got, and you're welcome to it. Perhaps the lady would give you her last shilling ! Any lady would, of course — that's the way of ladies ! Why don't you tako the shilling?"

" I don't want it," said Grif, gently, turning aside.

M illy 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 ; " I have only been joking with you. I don't mean half I said ; I never do. Though she's a lady, and I'm not, I'd do as much for you as she would, if I was able." And, forcing the shilling into his hand, the girl walked quickly away.

Grif looked after her until she was out of sight, and shaking his head, as if he had a problem iu it which he could not solve, made straight for a coffee- stall where pies were sold, and invested his shilling. Carrying his investment carefully in his cap, which he closed like a bag, so that the rain should not get to the pies, Grif, with Rough at his heels, dived into the poorer part of the city, and threaded his way among a very labyrinth of deformed streets. The rain poured steadily down upon him, and soaked him through and through, but his utter disregard of the discomfort of the situation showed how thoroughly he was used to it. Grif was wending his way to bud ; and lest any mis-

34 GlilF.

conception sliould arise upon tliis point, it may bo as well to mention at once that the bed was a barrel, which lay in the rear of a shabby house. Not long since the barrel had been tenanted by a dog, whose master had lived in the shabby house. But, happily, master and dog had shifted quarters, and the barrel becoming tenantless, Grif took possession without 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 tho 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, haggard-faced, little tenant ! Such a large- eyed, wistful-eyed, little tenant ! In truth, a small boy, a very baby-boy, who might have been an infant, or who might have been an old man whom hunger had pinched, whom misery had shaken hands and been most familiar with. He gazed at Grif with his large eyes and smiled sleepily, and then catching sight of Grif's cap with the pies in it, rubbed his little hands gladly, and was wide-awake in an instant.

" You haven't had nothin' to eat to-night, Fll 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 fall length by the side of the baby-bo}r. 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 mo to thank for it, Little Peter/'

OHIF LOSLS A ilUfcND. 35

said. " It's Milly you have get to thank. Say, thank you, Milly."

" Tliauk you, Milly/' said Little Peter obediently, devouring his pic.

There was another pie in the cap, but hungry as llrif was he did not touch it. Ho looked at Little Peter, munching, and then at his dog, who had crept 10 mouth of the barrel, and who was eyeing the pie wistfully. Had the dog known that its master wus hungry, it would not have looked at the pie as if it wanted it.

" Ytnt've had precious little to eat to-night, too," said Grif to Rough, who wagged its tail as its master spoke. " We'll have it between us." And he broke the pio in two pieces.

Ho was about to give one piece of it to Rough, when he heard a cat-like step within a few yards of him. " Who's there ?" he cried, creeping partly out of tho barrel. No answer came, but the dog gave a, savage growl, and darted forwards. Grif listened, but heard nothing but a faint laugh.

"I know that lau^li, that's tho Tenderhearted Oystcrman's laugh. What can ho want here ? Rough ! ;h !" 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 got that from ? You're in luck's way to-night, you are, Rough. All the better for Little Peter! Here, Little Peter, here's some more pie for you."

Little Peter took tho dog's share of the pie without compunction, and expeditiously disposed of it. Ho then stretched himself on his face, aod was soon fast asleep a^ain. Grif, having eaten his half of tho pic, coiled himself up, and prepared for sleep. No fear of rheu- matism assailed him; it was no new thiug fur him to bleep in wet clothes. He was thankful enough for the bat'lter, poor as it was, and did not repine because he

36 QRIF.

did nofc have a more comfortable bed. He was very lired, but the remembrance of the events of the day kept him dozing for a little 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 strong1 upon him, and he saw Alice and Richard standing in the soft moonlight on her father's station. " I wonder what sort of a cove her father is ! " Grif thought, as ho lay between sleeping and waking. " He must be a nice 'ard-'earted bloke, he must ? I wish I was her father; I'd soon make her all right \" Then ho heard Milly say, "She hasn't got smaller hands than me !" andMilly'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, lie -vas crouching in a corner of the room, while Richard fvas speaking to Alice; lie was groping down the stairs, and calling for Rough, and fondling him ; ho was standing at the entrance of the narrow pas waiting for Milly, and he was sleeping, with his ami embracing his dog ; he was talking to Milly, and ask- ing Rough who was the worst of all Jim Pizey's lot r he was listening to the Tenderhearted Oysterman's retreating footsteps ; and ho was standing at the pie- stall, spending Milly's last shilling. But here a new feature introduced itself into the running commentary of his dreams. He fancied that, after ho and Little Peter had eaten the pics, the Tenderhearted Oystermnn came suddenly behind Rough, and, seizing the dog by the throat, thrust it into a small box, the lid of which ho clapped down and fastened ; that then the Oyster- rnan 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

OBIF UHK8 A FBI1ND. 37

could not release it. Tho v. mon OriPs chest

prow heavier and heavier ; it was fort-hit? the breath nut of his body. In his sleep he gasped, and fonght lease himself. And after a violent struggle, he awoke.

There wot something lying upon his chest. It was Rough, who had crawled into the barrel, and was 1 ing its master's face. It had been whining, bat directly

1 1 Grifs hand, it grew quiet. The rain was fa 1 heavily, and the drops were forcing themselves through the roof of the barrel. Grif shifted the dog gently on one side.

" There's 'ardly room enough for two, let alone three of us," Grif muttered. " Little Peter, are you awake ?" The soft breathing of Peter was the only reply. " You've no right to come shovin' yourself in," con- tinued Grif, addressing the dog, who gave utterance to ling moan ; " but I ain't goin' to ti

a pleading moan; "but I ain't gom' to turn you out. What a night it is 1 And how wet the barrel is I It would be much nicer if it was dry. It's almost as bad aa a gutter ? " Here came a long-drawn sigh from Hough, and then a piteous moan, as if the dot:

. Hough 1 What's the use of both about the rain 1 " exclaimed the boy. " There'll be a flood in Melbourne, if this goes on I " 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 ' against the roof of the barrel. " Blest if I don't think Fomethin's the matter with the dawg 1 " ho exclaimed. •' \Vliat 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 i 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 paiu, but it had not strength.

88 GRIP.

" Rough. ! Rough ! " cried Grif, drawing the dog ont of the barrel. " Yfhat'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 ifc 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 dog by name, but it did not respond; he walked away a few steps and whistled, but it did not follow ; he came back, and stooping, patted it upon its head, but it did not move ; he 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. Quietly and softly at first;.

" What did Ally arks me to-night ?" he half thought and half spoke between his sobs. <e 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 ho laid his face upon 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 ! "

He knew that the dog was dead, and his anguish at the loss of his dumb, faithful friend was very keen. Had it been human, he could not have felt a deeper affliction.

"Everybody liked Rough! And he never had a growl for no one who spoke kind to him. Everybody

GRIP LOSES A PKIKND. 39

liked him — everybody except the Tenderhearted Oyster- man. Tho Tenderhearted Oysterman ! " he cried, jump- ing to his feet as if an inspiration had fallen upon him. " Why, it was him as swore he wonld murder Hough ! It was him as passed to-night when I was goin' to giro Rough the pie ! It was him as give Rough the piece of meat ! The piece of meat ! It was pizened ! Ho swore he'd kill him, and he's done it 1 That's what I heerd him langhin' 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 ?" ho 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.

" I'm going to bury him," said Grif. " Git up and come along with me."

Very obediently, but very sleepily, Little Peter came out of bed. Grif looked about him, picked up a piece of rusty iron, and taking Rough in his arms, walked away, and Little Peter, rubbing his eyes, trudged some- times behind and sometimes at GriPs side. Now and then the little fellow placed his hand half carelessly and half caressingly upon Rough's head, and now mid then Grif stopped and kissed his dead servant. In this way, slouching through the miserable streets, tho raiii pouring heavily down, tho funeral procession reached a large burial- ground. Tho gates were- closed,

40 GEIF.

but they got in over a low wall at the back. Every- thing about him was very solemn, very mournful, and very dreary. The night was so dark that they could scarcely see, and they stumbled over many a little mound of earth as they crept along.

" This '11 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 per- forming a sacred duty which demanded sacred ob- servances was "ipon him.

"Take off your cap/' he said to Little Peter.

Little Peter pulled off his cap ; Grif did so likewise ; nud the rain pattered down upon their bare heads. They stood so for a little while in silence.

"Ashes to ashes!" Grif said, placing the body in the hole, and piling the earth over it. He had followed many funerals to the churchyard, and had heard the ministers speak those words.

" Good-bye, Rough ! " murmured Grif, with a sob of grief. " Dear old Rough ! Poor old Rough ! "

And then the two outcasts crept back again, through the dreary streets, to their bed in the barrel.

CHAPTER IV.

THE CONJUGAL NUTTALLS,

fhe March of Progress is sounding loudly in the ears of the people who throng the streets of Melbourne. It is not a lazy hum, a droning whisper, with an invi- tation to sleep in its every note ; there is something martial in its tones, something that tells you to look aUve and move along, if you do not wish to be pushed

THE CONJUGAL NUTTALL8. 41

into a comer and lost sl^-lit of. It may be that the Mart quicker time in the busy

thoroughfares of Melbourne than in those of the cities of the older world. It makes itself more strongly felt ; it asserts itself more independently ; it sets the blood in more rapid circulation. It carries us along with it, past noble-looking stores filled with the triumphs of the workshops of the world which emigrants call Old ; past great hotels whence men issue in the noonday light, wiping their months unblushingly, and through the swinging doors of which you catch glimpses of ex- cited men, eating, drinking, talking, gesticulating, as rapidly and fiercely as if they thirsted to trip up the heels of Time, and take him prisoner by the forelock ; past fine houses and squalid houses ; through quarters where wealth smiles and poverty groans ; to the very verge of the growing city, from which line the houses dot the landscape pleasantly, and do not crowd it 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 ••ill sense of rest, grows fainter and sweeter; here in the suburbs, as you walk in them by the side of the whispering river, over whose bosom the weeping willow hangs, the March of Progress subsides into a hymn, which travels on through the landscape to the primeval forests, and softly sings, that soon — where now grim members of the eucalypti rear their lofty heads; where now a blight is heavy on the bush, which be- fore the burning sun had waged fierce war with it and sucked the juices from the earth, was bright and beautiful with tree and flower — the golden corn shall wave, and gladden the face of nature with rippling smiles.

The March of Progress sounds but faintly before a prettily-built weatherboard cottage in the suburbs, where dwell the family of the Nuttalls. It is a plea-

42 GRIF.

sant cottage, and so Mr. Nicholas Nuttall sceins to think as he looks round the parlour with a smile, and then looks down again, and reads, for at Inast the sixth time, a letter which is lying open on the table.

"And Matthew is alive/' he said, speaking to the letter as if it were sentient ; " alive and prosperous ! To think that it should be thirty years since I saw him ; that I should come out here, scarcely hoping to find him alive, and that, after being here only a month, I should hear of him in such a wonderful manner. So amazingly rich, too ! Upon my word," he continued, apostrophising a figure of Time, which, with a very long beard and a very long scythe, looked down upon him from the family mantel-shelf; "upon my word, old daddy, you're a wonder. You are/' he continued, shaking his head at the figure ; " there's no getting over you ! You grow us up, you mow us down ; you turn our hair black, you turn it white ; you make us strong, you make us feeble ; and we laugh at you and wheeze at you, until the day comes when we can laugh and wheeze no more. Dear ! dear ! dear ! What a handsome fellow he was to be sure ! I wonder if he is much altered. I wonder if he ever thinks of old times. I shall know him again, for certain, directly I clap eyes on him. He must have got grey by this time, though. Dear ! dear ! dear ! "

And Mr. Nicholas Nuttall fell to musing over thirty years ago, fishing up from that deep well a hundred trifles which brought pleasant ripples to his face. They had been buried so long that it might have been 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. They twinkled in his eyes, those memories, and made him voung again. In the glow- ing wood fire rose up the \ j.fcures of his past life; the intervening years melted away, and he saw once more his boyhood's home, and the friends nnd associates whom he loved. As at the touch of a m.^iciaii's hand,

THE 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 ho kncxv them, :is if youth wero 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-hnnd through a leafy forest ; they came upon two girls (who were afterwards drowned — but he did not think of that!) whom they greeted with hand-clasps, and then the four wandered on. He remembered nothing more of that woodland walk; but the tender pressure of the girl's hand lingered upon his even after so many years, and made the day into a sweet and loving remem- brance. And thus he mused and mused, and all hia y«>ung life passed before him, phantasmagorically. Tho flowers in the garden of youth were blooming once again in the life of Mr. Nicholas Nuttall.

But his reverie was soon disturbed. For the partner of his bosom, Mrs. Nicholas Nuttall, suddenly bouncing into the room, and seating herself, demonstratively, in her own particular arm-chair, on the other side of tli'j lire, puffed away his dreams in a trice.

Mrs. Nicholas Nuttall was a small woman. Mr. Nicholas Nuttall was a large man. Mrs. Nichols Nuttall, divested of her crinolines and flounces and other feminine vanities, in which she indulged inordi- nately, was a very baby by the side of her spouse. In fact, the contrast, to an impartial observer, would IM\ o been ridiculous. Her condition, when feathered, v..^ that of an extremely ruffled hen, strutting about in offended majesty, in defiance of the whole poultry i Unfeathcr 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

44 GRIP.

and entirely subjugated; if ever there was a man prone and vanquished beneath woman's merciless thumb ; that man was the husband of Mrs. Nicholas Nuttall. It is a singular fact, but one which may be easily ascertained by any individual who takes an 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 is 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 tho Nut- tails, as was proven by tho demeanour of the male portion of the bond. For no sooner had the feminine naif (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 consolation; her lips were thin, and her nose was sharp. This last feature would not have been an ugly one if it had not been so bony ; but constant nagging had worn all the flesh away, and brought into 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 f-ho 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 placo 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- ptible motion — shrugged them, as it were, be- neath his shirt and coat, and in such a manner that no movement was imparted to thoso garments. 1 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, Nuttall had heard her utter the complaint, ac- companied by an expression of regret that she had ever married. That reirret 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 ho would not be allowed to get any further.

" Don't my-dear me," interrupted Mrs. Nuttall, as ho expected ; he would have been puzzled what to say ii' 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 ami affectionate wife. Or if you were beut upon marrying — and bent you i::ust have been, for you would not take No, for an —you ought to

have married Mary Plummer. 1 wi.-!i you had her for a wife ! Then you would appreciate mo better."

No wonder, that at so thoroughly illogical and bigamy-suggesting an aspiration, Mr. Nuttall looked

40 GRIP.

puzzled. Bub Mrs. Nuttall paid no attention to Lis look, and proceeded, —

" I went to school with her, and I ought to know how she would turn out. The way she brings up her family is disgraceful ; the girls are as untidy as can be. You should see the bed-rooms in the middle of the day ! And yet her husband indulges her in every- thing. Ho is something like a husband should be. lie 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. Ho didn't do that ! Not he ! He knows his duty as a husband and a father of a family better/'

Mr. Nuttall sighed.

" The sufferings I endured on board that dreadful ship/' continued Mrs. Nuttall, " ought to have melted a heart of stone. What with walking with one leg- longer than the other for three months, I'm sure I shall never be able to walk straight again. I often wondered, when I woke up in a fright in the middle of the night, and found myself standing on my head in that horrible bunk, what I had done to meet with such treatment from you. From the moment you broached the subject of our coming to the colonies, my peace 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 niy own daughter than they did to me ; and the sailors, when they were pulling the ropes — what good they did by it I never could find out ! — used to sing a low song with a, chorus about Maria, knowing that to be iny uaine, simply tor the purpose of wounding my feelings.

TflE CONJUGAL NUTTALL8. 4?

And when I told you to interfere, you infused, and s=:ii<l 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 tho numeral. " And at home she was con- tented with twelve. Do you know how you are to meet these frightful expenses ? I'm sure I don't. But mind, Nicholas, if we come to ruin, don't blame me for it. I told you all along what would be the result of your dragging us to the colonies. I pray that I may be mistaken ; but I have never been mistaken yet, and you know it ;" and Mrs. Nuttall spread out her skirts (she was always spreading out her skirts, as if she could not make enough of herself) com- placently.

Still Mr. Nuttall made no remark, and sat as quiet as a mouse, gazing humbly upon the household prophet.

" Thirty pounds a year for a servant-of-all-work !" continued tho lady. " Preposterous ! The best thing we can do, if that's tho way they're paid, is all of us to go out as scrvants-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 is either the baker's or the butcher's man. The two noodles are hankering after her, and she encourages them. I saw tho pair <;f them at the back-gate last night, and she was flirting with them nicely. You must ^ivo information t\. police, Nicholas, and have them locked up."

48 GRIP.

" Looted up !" exclaimed Mr. NittalL

" Certainly. Do you think the police would allow such goings on at home ?"

" Perhaps not, my dear," said Mr. Nuttall, with a sly smile ; " the police at home, I believe, are said to hold almost a monopoly in servant-girls."

"I don't understand your coarse allusions, Mr. Nuttall," said Mrs. Nuttall, loftily. "What I say is, you must give information to the police, and have these goings-on stopped."

" It is perfectly impossible, Maria. Do be reason- able !"

" Sir I" 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, ' e is, that I don't believe it is a criminal offence for a servant-girl to talk to a baker, or even a butcher, over a gate ; and I doubt if giving informa- tion to the police would lead to any satisfactory re- sult."

" It will be a very satisfactory result — won't it ? — if Jane runs away and gets married. Servant-girls don't think of that sort of thing at home. I shall be in a nice situation. It would be like losing my right hand. I tell you what this country is, Mr. Nuttall — it's 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 feeling 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 you. At short

THE CONJUGAL NUTTALL8. 4ft

notice, too. For this evening. From Mr. and Mrs. Blemish. Great people, you know, Maria."

Mrs. Nuttall instantly became attentive.

" And whom do you think we shall meet T When I tell you, you will be as surprised as I was when I read it."

"Whom, Nicholas?" asked Mrs. Nuttall, impa- tiently. "Do not keep me in suspense/1

" My brother Matthew !"

" Alive !" exclaimed Mrs. Nuttall.

" Of course. You would iia, wish to meet -him in any other condition, would you ?"

" That you should make such a remark," observed Mrs. Nuttall, "of a brother whom we all thought dead, is, to say the least of it, heartless, Nicholas. Of course, if the Blemishes are, as you say, great people, and he visits them, it is a comfort, as showing that his position is not a bad one. But, if wo are to go, cnn y.m 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 bo decent, Maria/' remarked Mr. Nuttall, slily.

" That may be very witty, Mr. Nuttall," responded his lady, loftily ; " but it is hardly an observation a man should make to his own wife. Though for what you care about your wife's feelings I would not give that," and she snapped her fingers, disdainfully.

From long and sad experience, Mr. Nicholas Nuttall had learned the wisdom of saying as little as possible when his wife was in her present humour. Indeed, he would sometimes lose all consciousness of what was passing, or would find himself regarding it as an 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 t» dreamy state of inattention, she cried, sharply —

50 GP.TF.

!e Nicholas I"

"Yes, my dear/' ho responded, wifh a jump, ns if half-a-dozen needles had been smartly thrust into & 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-uighfc, and I am only anxious to do you credit. Not that 1 shan't be a perfect fright, for I haven't a dress lit to put on my back. If I wasn't such a good contriver, we should look more like paupers than respectable people. My black silk has been turned three times already; and my pearl grey — you ought to know wliat a state that is in, for you spilt the port wine over it yourself. Is your brother very rich, Nicholas ?"

"They say so, Maria; he owns cattle stations, and thousands of sheep and cattle. He is a squatter, you know."

" A what ?" she screamed.

" A squatter."

" What a dreadful thing !" she exclaimed. « What a shocking calamity! Is 'he always squatting, Ni- cholas ?"

"My dear;" said Nicholas, amazed.

" Not that it matters much," she continued, not heeding him; " he may squat as long as he likes, if Ito 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,

" I shall not waste my conversation upon you any longer. I suppose the cab will be here at half-past

THE MERCHANT EXTUJI'I'AINS II 13 FKi I^'DS. 51

nino o'clock; everybody else, of course, will go ia their own carriages." (Here she took out her watch, and consulted it.) " Bless my so:il ! it is nearly seven o'clock now. I have barely three hours to dross."

And she whisked out of the room, leaving Mr. Nuttall, nothing loth, to resume his musings.

CHAPTER V.

THE MORAL MERCHANT ENTERTAINS HIS FRIENDS AT DINNER.

On tho samo evening, and at about the same Lour, of the occurrence of the foregoing matrimonial dialogue, Mr. /'.-irlmriah Blemish entertained his friends at din- ner. Air. Zachariah Blemish was a merchant am! M philanthropist; he was also a gentleman of an impos- ing mien, and of a portly appearance. Some of lii* detractors (and what man lives who has them not?) said that tho manly bosom which throbbed to tho 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 tho world's face, and if either felt abashed in tho pre- sence of the other, it was tho world, and nob Blemish. There was a self-assertion in his manner when ho appeared in public, which, if it could have been set down in so many words, would have thus express ea itself: — "Here am I, sent among you for your good; make much of me. You are frail, I am strong ; you are mean, I am noble. But do not be abashed. Do not be afraid of your own unworthiness. I do not

52 GRIF.

wish to hold myself above you. I will eat with yon, and talk with you, and sleep with you, as if I were one of yourselves. It is not my fault that I ain 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- ferentially. They looked after him, and pointed him out to strangers as the great Mr. Blemish ; and it was told of one family that, when the children were put to bed at night, they were taught to say, " God bless papa and mamma, and Good Mr. Blemish." His snowy shirt-front, viewed from a distance, was a sight to look upon, and, upon a nearer acquaintance, dazzled one with its pure whiteness. At church he was the most devout of men, and the congregation wondered how so much greatness and so much meekness could be found in the breast of any one human being. There was not a crease in his lace ; it was fat, and smooth, and ruddy ; it looked like the blessed face of a large cherubim; and it said as plainly as face could say, "Here dwell content, and peace, and prosperity, and benevolence." He was Chairman of the United Band of Temperance Aboriginals; President of the Moral Boot-blacking Boys' Reformatory; Perpetual Grand Master of the Society for the Total Suppression of Vice; the highest dignitary in the Association of Universal Philanthropists ; and a leading member of the Fellowship of Murray Cods. He subscribed to all the charities; with a condescending humility he 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. In this direction his power was enormous. Such a thing as a refusal was not thought of. People wrote their names upon his list, in the firm belief that twenty shillings invested in benevolence with Zacha-

THE MEKCHANT MNTEUIAINS 1JJS FUIEN1>8. 58

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 funda 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 ma>j, 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 Baud of Temperance Aboriginals, and a fervent wish was expressed in tho 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 tho 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 of the Lower House of ditto. One of the leading mem- bers of tho Government was talking oracularly to one of tho leading merchants of the city. One of tho 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 ? Liko the common-

54 GK1F.

est of common mortals ! He might luivo been a brick- layer for any difference observable between them. For he gobbled 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, ho did not present an agreeable appearance. 15 ut was he not the possessor of half-a-dozen cattle and sheep-stations, each with scores of miles of water front- age, and was not his income thirty thousand p< 'Uiids 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, 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 oolony, and many other subjects, are discussed with animation. Just now, politics is the theme. The member of the Lower House and the member of the Upper House are the principal speakers here. But, occasionally, others say a word or two, which utterings are regarded by the two members as unwarrantable interruptions. The member of the Government says very little on politics, and generally maintains a cau- tious reticence.

T1IE Mi:i:<JilANT ENTKUlAlNb 1113

" I should like to have been in the House last night./* said one of the conversational interlopers; "that was a smart thing Ritchie said."

" What was it?" asked another.

" Speaking of Boazley, who is awfully rich you know, and an incorrigible miser, ho said, 'Ho con- gratulated himself upon not belonging to a party which had, tor its principal supporter, a man whoso oll'iiv his church, whoso desk was his pulpit, whoso ledger was liis Bible, and whose money was his god."

" Very clever, but very savage," remarked one of the quests. " I do not believe in such unbridled licence of debate."

" I met Boazley the other day, and he complained that the times were dreadfully dull. He did not know what things were coming to. Ho had seventy thou- Hand pounds lying idlo, ho said, and ho could not get more than five per cent, for it. He shook his head ami said, ' The golden days of the colony are gone ! '

" And so they are," said the member of the Lower House, whoso proclivities were republican, "and they will not return until wo have Separation and Confede- ration. That's what wo want to set us going — sepa- ration from the homo country, and a confederation of the South Sea colonies. Wo 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- pointed 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 wo did have help from tho home country, shouldn't wo have to pay the piper ? That's the point — shouldn't we have to pay the piper ?"

"N;iy, nayi" expostulated Mr. Zachariah Blemish. '•' Consider for M uiouicat, I beg — wo are all loyal uub- jects, I hope — "

56 GKIF.

" I maintain," said the member of tlio Lower Houst?, excited by his theme, "that, notwithstanding our loyalty to the reigning Sovereign, the day must como 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 diffi- 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.

" It is a curious story/' he said. " The man 1 speak of was always reported to be very wealthy. No one knows more of his early career than that, when the gold-diggings were first discovered, he was a Cheap- Jack, as they call them, trading at all the new gold- fields. He bought tents, picks, shovels, tubs, any- thing, from the diggers, who were madly running from one place to another. He bought them for a song, for the diggers could not carry those things about with them, and they were glad to get rid of them at any price. When he sold them he made enormous profits, and by these means he was supposed to have amassed a great fortune. Then he speculated largely in sheep and cattle, and grew to be looked upon as a sort of banker. Many men deposited their savings with him, and, as he did not pay any interest for the money, and traded with it, there is no doubt as to the profitable nature of his operations. The great peculiarity about him was that his face from beneath his eyes, was completely hidden in bushy, brown, curly hair, He had been

THK MERCHANT ENTERTAINS HIS FRIENDS. 5

to say that ha 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 watertight boots, and a blue serge shirt. In the course of conversation with the storekeeper, and while he was selecting the articles, he said that they were for a man whom he had engaged as a shepherd, and who was to start at daybreak the following morning. That was the last indisputable occurrence that was known in connection with him; the next day he disappeared and was not heard of again. For a day or two, no notice was taken of his absence ; but, after that, de- positors and others grew uneasy, and rumour invented a hundred different stories about him. A detect ivo who knew him intimately, said that he was standing at the pit entrance of the Theatre Royal in Bourke Street, when a man passed in, the glitter of whose eyes attracted the detective's attention strangely. He could not recall the man's face, which was clean shaven, and he thought no more about it at the time. The missing man was traced to Melbourne, but no further. Some three or four weeks after his disappearance, the body of a drowned person was found in a river in New South Wales, and, from certain marks about it, it was supposed to be that of our missing friend. The in- quest was adjourned, to allow time for the production of evidence from Victoria, and twelve medical men, all of whom knew the missing party were subpoenaed for the purpose of identifying him, or otherwise. The body was much decomposed, but some of the witnesses said that they would know if it was the missing man by the peculiar shape of one of his toes. The singu- larity of the affair lies in this. Six of the witnesses swore that it was the missing man, and six of them swore that it was not. Both sides were very positive. Some months after the inquest, a story was current that he had been seen at Texas, which story was shortly

58 GRIP.

afterwards followed up by another, that lie was shot in a tavern in South America. Then came other reports that he was living in great magnificence in all sorts of out-of-the-way places. Bat whether ho is alive or not, no one in the colony knows, and to this day the mystery is not cleared up, and probably never will be."

" And the depositors' money?" asked the lawyer.

" Was never heard of. Vanished. If he was drowned, ho did not like to part with it, and he took it into the other world with him."

Everybody at the table was much interested in the story, and commented upon it ; after which there was a luil in the conversation.

(l I have a great surprise in store for you to-night," said Mr. Blemish; addressing a gentleman of about sixty years of a.ge, whose face was covered with iron- grey whiskers, beard, and moustache.

From some unexplained cause, the gentleman ad- dressed looked suddenly and excitedly into the face of his host, and exclaimed, in a quick, nervous voice —

" A surprise !"

" Yes, and I hope a pleasant one."

" What surprise ?" he asked, in the same agitated .nanner.

"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 gen- tleman's face which the iron-grey whiskers, beard, and moustache allowed to bo seen, slowly died away, and was replaced by a whitish-grey tint, which almost made him look like the ghost of an antique warrior. He debated within himself for a few moments, and then, taking out his pocket-book, wrote upon a leaf, " I shall hike it as a particular favour if you will let mo know what is the surprise you have in store for me; I have urgent reasons lor asking ;" and passed it, folded, to his host. Mr. Blemish read it, smiled, and wrote be- neath, in reply, (f Do you remember your brother?" and ivpassod the paper to his guest.

T1IK KEKCHANT ENTE»iTAJN8 IJI8 PfiiKNDS. 59

" Brother!" exclaimed that gentleman, in a voice betokening Mint, although he was considerably as- tonished, lio was also considerably relieved.

" Yes," said Mr. Blemish, "your brother Nicholas."

"Good heavens !" exclaimed Mr. Matthew Nuttall; and the rest of the guests stared hard at him. Ex- cepting Mr. David Dibbs, who was not disposed to !>•• diverted from the serious occupation of eating ami drinking. For Mr. David Dibbs lived to eat; ho did not eat to live.

It is a shock to a man to be v,-iv:u-hcd, without fore- warning, from the groove in which his life has been gliding for twenty years. For fully that time Mr. Matthew Nuttall, engrossed in his own pursuits and his own cares, had never once thought of his brother; and now, at the very mention of his name, memories, long buried and forgotten, floated upon his mind liko the sudden rising of a ghostly tide.

" Have you seen him ?" he asked.

" No," said Mr. Zachariah Blemish, " I learned by accident that he has but lately arrived in the colony. Singularly enough, ho had a letter of introduction to me from some of my people at home, and Mrs. Blemish, out of respect to you, invited him this evening to meet you."

" Mrs. Blemish is always kind. I shall be very glad to see Nicholas," said Mr. Matthew Nuttall, slowly and thoughtfully; and then the conversation became more general.

" Sheep are rising in the market, are they not, Mr. Dibbs ?" asked the member of the Upper House.

" It's time they was," replied the great squatter, his mouth full of pine-apple.

" The people are complaining loudly of the price of beef," observed the democratic member of the Lower House.

"They're always a-growliV," said Mr. David Dibbs, who, having swallowed his pine-apple, waa enabled to

60 GR1F.

speak with greater clearness. "They don't know what they want, doii'fc the people. Beef ought to bo double the price. My motto all' as has been, 'Live and let live/ They lay the blame on us squatters, but it's the butchers as sticks it on."

" It lies between the two of you, I suppose. Did you read in the papers that Mr. Froth said at the Eastern Market last night that the squatters were tho ruin of the country ?" asked the member of the Lower House, who, in virtue of his position, did all he could to make himself disagreeable.

"Mr. Froth wants his head punched," said Mr. Dibbs, elegantly, " and I wouldn't miud a-doin' of it for him. Why doesn't he stick to his business ? He's a ignorant, lazy — a — a — " Here Mr. Dibbs wanted a word, and could not get it.

" Demagogue/' suggested one of the guests.

"That's it. He's a ignorant, lazy demagogue, and is always trying to stir up the mob."

" The fact of it is, sir," said the member of the Upper House, seizing the opportunity to give a blow to democracy, "the people, as you call them, are a discontented set. Manhood suffrage has done it all. No man ought to have a vote who has not a property qualification."

* " Quite right, sir," said Mr. Dibbs. " A glass of wine ?"

" With pleasure. ' For, sir, what is the result ?" (This oracularly, as if he were addressing the House.) " These men, sir, who have no property, but have a vote, exercise a pressure upon property detrimental to the interests of gentlemen who have property. What has property to do with them, or what have they to do with property ? When they have property, let them speak ; until then, let them be silent, and not interfere with what docs not concern them."

" Them's my sentiments," nodded Mr. Dibbs, ap- provingly, helping himself to more wine and pine- apple.

THE MF.nCH.-. RTAINS HIS FRIENDS. 6)

"To what, sir, is tliis state of things to be attri- buted ?" continued the orator. " The answer is plain. It is to be attributed to the unfortunate state of inde- pendence in which the working-man finds himself in these colonies. The working-classes all over the world, air, are democratic, often dangerously democratic. But in such a country as England they are kept in their proper position by a sense of dependence. They can- not afford to quarrel with their bread-and-butter t 1. But, sir, when the working-man lands upon ti shores, this spirit of dependence vanishes. Speaking vulgarly, sir, he says within himself, ' Jack's as good as his master ;' and acting up to the spirit of that old adage (the author of it sir, ought to have been put into the pillory) — actir.^v I say again, sir, up to the spirit of that adage, he t-jas a blow at the interests of all of us who have property in the colony. Ho does not pay property the respect: to which it is entitled. He becomes democratic to a dangerous degree, and has no regard for conservative interests. This must be put a stop to, sir. Jt is incumbent upon us, who are loyal subjects, to put a stop to it — as loyal sub- jects, I say, sir, for we all know what is the meaning of democracy. It behoves all of us who have settled interests in the colony to look sharply about us. We must, if necessary, band together for the protection of cur own interests; and, above all, .-.r, wo must stick to the Constitution."

" Quite right again, sir," assented Mr. Dibbs, whose only idea of the Constitution was thirty thousand pounds a year for himself.

All the guests, with the exception of the member of the Lower House, agreed to the proposition that thvy must stick to the Constitution. The way that poor word was tossed about, and flung across the table and back again, was deplorable. It was settled that the Constitution was in danger, and, at all hazards, must be protected. No one could define precisely the na-

62 ORTF.

ture of the danger. It appeared, as far as could bo gathered, to resolve itself into this — that times were very dull,, and that, therefore, the Constitution was im- perilled. They all, with one exception, appeared to think that something was very wrong somewhere, and that the country was in a most distressing condition. Mr. Zachariah Blemish was the only person at the table who ventured to remark that " We are young, gentlemen, we are young, and have plenty of time before us for improvement. In all new colonies evils are sure to creep in. We have a fine estate in our hands, gentlemen; one of the finest estates in the world ; and all it wants is proper management. Cer- tainly the state of commercial morality is very bad — "

Ah, here was a theme ! Commercial morality ! The guests grew eloquent upon it. The member of the Upper House said it was deplorable ; the member of the Lower House said it was disgraceful ; the leading physician said it was frightful; the leading lawyer said it was unparalleled ; Mr. Dibbs said it was beastly; and they raised their hands and their eyes, and shook their heads as much as to say, "Is it not dreadful that we, who are immaculate, who are undefiled, should live in the midst of such a state of things, without being able to remedy the evil?" But the most im- pressive of all was Mr. Zachariah Blemish ; and, as a merchant of the highest standing, his words were lis- tened to with deep attention.

Commercial morality (he said) was at its lowest ebb. The spirit of over-speculation among traders was some- thing frightful to contemplate, and disastrous results were sure to follow. Indeed, indications of the ap- proaching crisis were already observable in the records of the Insolvency Court. It was all occasioned by the easiness with which men got credit — men who com- menced with nothing, who had nothing, with the ex- ception of self-assurance, and who speculated reck- , with tjie know ledge tliat when the crash came— »

FATIir.R AND PAUQTTTES. 63

an<l come it must, sooner or later, with such-liko spe- culators — their creditors would only bo too glad to t:iko five shillings in the pound; would feel delighted at seven shillings and sixpence; would congratulate themselves at ten shillings; and then, after giving a full release, would actually do business again, upon terms, with the very man who had robbed them. Where was honesty? Where was morality? What fc'ould become of vested interests if that sort of th:n<* were to continue ? Steps must bo taken — it behoved all of them to take steps. A check must be put to the spirit of reckless speculation, and he himself had some idea of initiating a movement in furtherance of the de- sired result. All that was required was that mer- chants should be true to themselves and to their own interests, and the country would soon recover from its present depressed condition.

And after the utterance of these platitudes, Mr. 7n- CQOriah Blemish stuck his thumbs in his waist mut pockets, and looked round upon his guests, who, one sind all, bowed down to the spirit of honour and inte- grity shining in the face of their merchant host !

CHAPTER VI.

>

FATTIER AND DAUGHTER.

The house of Mr. Zachariah Blemish looked out upon the sea. It was a magnificent mansion, worthy of tho greatness of its inmate, and was the resort of the most fashionable, as well as the most influential, residents of Melbourne and its charming suburbs. It had a balcony round three of its sides — a broad, spa- cious balcony, on which the quests could promenade, and talk politics, or love, or philosophy, \s suited

64 GBIF.

them. It was grand, on a quiet night, to sit thereon, and watch the moon rising from the sea; it was grand to watch the sea itself, cradled in the arms of night, while myriad cloud-shadows floated on its breast, and flashed into lines of snow-fringed light with the rising and the falling of the waves.

Lights were gleaming in tho windows and round the balcony, and the house was pleasant with the buzz of conversation, and soft laughter, and sweet music. The party seemed altogether a very delightful one ; for a smile was on every lip, and distilled honey dropped from every tongue, while the presiding genius of the establishment was benign and affable, and moved among his guests like Jove dispensing agree- ability.

The brothers Nuttall had met in the ball-room. The only words they exchanged were " Matthew \" " Ni- cholas \)} and then, after a long pressure of the hand, they adjourned to the balcony, where their conversation would be more private than in the house.

They felt somewhat awkward; the days they had passed together might have belonged to another life, so long gone by did that time seem. The bridge between their boyhood and their old age had crumbled down, and the fragments had been almost quite washed by the stream of Time. Still, some memory of the old affection was stirred into life by the meeting, and they both felt softened and saddened as their hands lay in each other's clasp.

They paced the balcony in silence at first. Then the elder, Matthew, asked some stray questions as to the old places he used to frequent, and smiled and pondered wonderingly as he heard of the changes that had taken place.

"And the yew, where the parrot used to swing, gone!" he said. "And the wood where we went nutting V9

"Almost a city, Mat. A tree here and there, that'll

FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 65

all. I was thinking only to-night of that wood, and of one happy day we spent there — you know with whom ?"

" I know — I know. Good God ! I have not thought of it or them for twenty years. And now they come to me again. Do they live V9

"Drowned!"

" Poor girls ! There, Nick, let us talk of something else. It is no wonder things have changed. We have changed more than they/'

" Yes, we are old men now/' responded his brother. fr This is a strange meeting, Mat, and in a new world, too/'

"What did you come out to the colonies for?" asked the elder brother.

" For the same reason, I suppose, that thousands of other people come out—to better myself. I don't know that I had any particular other reason, and I don't know that I exactly knew how I was going to better myself. But I thought it would come right somehow.

" Then there were the goldfields, eh, Nicholas ?"

"Yes; then there were the goldfields. They did excite me certainly. I heard of people picking up nuggets — of course you laugh — and I thought it pos- sible that such a thing might happen. I know now how foolish even the stray thought of such a thing was fa; toe, an old man. Bat still the gold seemed to say '<jo me, Come, and I came."

" You are not rich ?"

"No," was the reply.

" Any fixed plans of what you are going to do T

« No — a dozen things have occurred to me, but, t< tell you the truth, I am puzzled. Everything here appears to be so— so go-ahead/' he said, after hesital ing for a term, "that I am bewildered somewhat, Then, there is Mrs. Nuttall !"

"Mrs. Nuttall!" T

"Yes," replied Nicholas, smiling; "my '

66 6BIF.

will introduce you presently. She will be agreeably surprised at your appearance," and he chuckled to himself as he thought of his wife's notions of squatting. •'Then there is the girl — "

"What girl?"

"My daughter/'

S€ Daughter!" cried Matthew, almost convulsively. But he controlled himself the moment after, and said, "A spasm, Nicholas, nothing more. What is her

" Sixteen," said Nicholas. " She is here to-night. I am very proud of her, and hope you will like her."

" Marian ! That was our mother's name."

Then there was silence, and, as they stood on the balcony looking out upon the ocean, the snow-fringed waves might have been bringing back to them the time that seemed to belong to another life.

" Stay here a moment, Mat," said Nicholas ; ' ' I will bring Marian to you."

And going into the house, he returned with a beau- tiful girl, whose face was rosy with youth and health, and whose eyes beamed with pleasure. Her graceful person and her soft white dress made her a pretty figure in the scene.

" Marian, my dear, your uncle."

He turned and took her hand, and made a movement as if about to kiss her. But he restrained himself with a sudden impulse.

" This is her first ball, Mat," said Nicholas, with an affectionate look at his daughter. " Are you enjoying yourself?"

" Oh, so much, papa !"

As she spoke, her uncle dropped her hand, and faced the sea. She was moving away towards her partner, who was waiting for her, when her uncle wheeled round, ar\d said, as if the words were forced out of him —

" Kiss me, child,"

FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 67

She raised her face to his, and he bent down and kissed her, then pushed her lightly towards her partner.

"She is a dear good girl, Mat," said Nicholas; " and the greatest blessing I have ; that is/' he added, not at all enthusiastically, " next to Mrs. Nuttall, of course. By the bye, Mat — how careless of me, to be sure, perhaps you have a family of your own. Are you married ?"

"Nicholas," said his brother, not answering the question, " do you remember my character as a boy ?"

" Quite well, Mat. Eager, pushing, brave, and de- termined."

" Very determined, Nicholas."

" Very determined. I often wish I had your deter- mination of character. Old Mr. Gray, our schoolmaster — you remember him, Mat ? — used to say your detef mination was so determined, that it was nothing less than obstinacy. I heard him say of you one day, ' When Mat Nuttall makes up his mind to do a thing, he'll do it, whether it be good or bad, and whatever may be the result/ He said it was not a good trait — but he was mistaken, Mat. There is nothing so manly as determination of character. I wish I possessed it."

" Don't wish it, Nicholas. It often proves a curse."

" It has not proved so to you, Mat, for it has brought you riches and prosperity."

" I am rich and prosperous, as the world goes ; but let that pass. Whether it be good or bad, I am not a whit less determined now than I was when a boy. I cannot help it. It is my nature. Old Mr. Gray was right. I am not to be turned from a determined pur- pose, whether I think I am right or wrong. Now, I have made up my mind to do what is in my power, so far as prudence goes, to advance your fortunes. But when I say to you, you must nob do such and such a thing, I expect you not to do it. You are attending to me ?"

68 OBir.

"Yes."

" I am glad to have seen you— I am glad to have seen your — your Marian. But there is one subject which must never be mentioned between us, and that is the question of my family. Say that I have none. Tell Mrs. Nuttall this, and spare me any questions from her. Tell her and your " — (and here the same indeci- sion expressed itself when he spoke of his brother's daug'hter) — " your Marian, that I am wifeless and childless. I must not be questioned upon the point. I have made up my mind not to be. I will not allow it to be referred to, or hinted at."

He spoke with distinctness, and yet with a strange hurriedness, as if he wished to be done quickly with the subject.

" You see those two figures yonder," he said, point- ing to where the shadows of two persons could be seen upon the seashore."

" Yes, Mat, I can see them, although my eyes are not so good as they were."

" Suppose those two should walk out upon the sea, and sink, and sink, and be lost to the world — you can suppose it ? "

" I can suppose it, Mat," said his brother, wonder- ingly.

*' Suppose they are walking out upon the sea, and that they are taking this subject with them, and that it sinks with them, and is heard no more. See" (and he waved his hand as the two figures disappeared), " they are gone, and the subject is gone, and they are lost to us for ever. And there is an end to them and '*& it. You understand me, Nicholas ? "

<rl understand you, Mat."

a Very well. We will go in now, and you shall in- troduce me to your wife."

Meanwhile, the two persons, whose shadows the brothers had noticed, were pacing the shore. The tide

FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 69

was running out, and each receding wave rippled in sympathy with the soft touches of melody which floated from the brilliantly-lighted mansion. The music brought no pleasure to the couple walking slowly upon the sands ; they were too much engrossed in their melancholy condition. The boy had been crying at some tale he had told, and the girl's voice expressed much sympathy as she said—

" So poor Rough is dead ! "

" Yes, he's dead," replied the boy? "I shall never see him agin. I hate the sight of dawgs now. I was very fond of 'em before. But didn't you say you wanted me to do something Ally ? "

"Wait a minute, Grif; I will tell you presently." Alice appeared to be struggling with some powerful agitation which threatened to master her, for she stopped, and placed her hand to her heart, as if to check its beatings. " You see that house," she then said.

" Yes," Grif said ; " I peeped in there a little while ago. They're very jolly, all of 'em, Ally. There's lots of swells with their white chokers, and lots of gals lookin* very sweet and nice."

" They are happier than we are, Grif."

" I should think they was — they'd be precious fools if they wasn't ! I got a squint at the kitchen — there's ducks, and geese, and turkeys, and jellies painted all sorts of colours, and sugar cakes — such a spread ! I wish we had some of it here. They ought to be happy vith such lots to eat. I tell you what, Ally; if I thought I was agoin' to be hung, I wouldn't mind it a bit if they'd put me down in that there kitchen jist as it is now, for about three hours. I'd like to have Little Peter with me, though — wouldn't we go it 1 " Grit's eyes glistened at the bare anticipation.

" I want you to take a letter for me to that house. You don't mind ? "

" Not a bit of it. I'll jist do anythin* as you tells ino, Ally,

W GBIf.

"You can't read."

" I can spell large letters on the walls. I never bothered about nothin' else."

" Pay attention to what I say, and do exactly as I tell you," said Alice, placing her hand on the boy's shoulder. Grif' s face assumed an expression of close attention. Alice took a letter from her pocket, and continued, " Go to the house, and ask if the gentleman to whom this letter is addressed is within. If they say he is, tell them that the letter is to be given to him at once — it is very important. Do not drop it, Grif, or lose it. It contains my hope, my happiness, perhaps my life. Be sure you give it to some one who will promise to deliver it without delay."

She spoke in short broken gasps, and stayed her {)eech to recover her breath.

" Don't cry, Ally," said Grif; " am I to arks to see the gentleman ? "

" No. You can give the letter to any of the ser- vants ; then go away and keep out of sight. If you see a gentleman speaking with me, do not disturb us, but when he is gone, and I am alone, come to me, and we will go home."

Her voice was very desolate as she spoke the last word. Grif gave a nod of comprehension, and walked to the house, while the girl strained her eyes thither- ward in eager watchfulness. The night was changing now j a low wail of wind came across the sea, striking a colder chill of desolation to her heart. She shivered, and wrapped her shawl more closely about her. But for this movement she might have been an image of Sadness, so drear and lonely did she appear as she Btood upon the glistening sands.

Grif mused as he walked along ; Alice's words had deeply impressed him. He weighed the letter in his hand, and thought, " It contains her happiness, per- haps her life ; then the cove who gets it has got some- thiu' to do with Ally. I wonder who he is : Fll have

FATHER AND DAUQHTEE. 71

a good look at him ; I'll know him agin, I bet, after I've seen him once." Thus soliloquising, he reached the house, and, standing in the shade, watched the people flitting about. They were all so beautifully dressed that he felt ashamed of his rags; it was clearly, to his mind, an act of presumption to speak to such well-dressed people. With an instinctive exercise of good judgment, he resolved to ask one of the maids to deliver the letter. A man-servant might hustle him away ; a girl would be more susceptible to pity. So, plucking up courage, he walked boldly to the back-door, and, seeing a girl with a pretty face, with a tray of custards in her hand, he approached her.

" Oh, dear ! " exclaimed the girl, almost dropping the tray, as ragged Grif emerged from the shade into the light. " What do you want ? Go away ; I mustn't give you any."

Grif eyed the custards hungrily and longingly. Then he wrenched his attention from the tempting glasses, and said, falsely, " I don't want nothin', miss ; only if you'll please to tell me if the gentleman's name writ on this letter is in this house."

The girl looked at it, and said he was, she thought.

" Will you please give him the letter ? It's very partic'ler, it is."

The girl took the letter, and said she would de- liver it. Grif ducked his head, and turned slowly away. But he cast a wistful glance over his shoulder at the food for which he was longing. The kind- hearted maid saw hunger in his face, and, catching up a half-devoured fowl, ran after him. She looked round hurriedly, to see that she was not observed, and say- ing, " Here, dirty boy ! " thrust the food into his eager hands, and ran back to the house as fast as her legs would carry her. Grif, walking carefully in the shade, commenced at a wing ; he was dreadfully hungry, but in the midst of his enjoyment he stopped, and thought of Rough, and wished the dog was there to eat the bones. The tears ran down the boy's face as he thought, and

72 GBIP.

he strolled on, munching and crying. When he got to the front of the house, he saw the servant girl de- livering the letter. The gentleman went in the light to read it, and Grif had an opportunity of seeing his face. " I shall know you agin/' Grif thought. " You ain't much to look at, you ain't. He's goin' to Ally, and I'm not to bother 'em. All right ; I'll watch for all that."

During the whole of this time Alice had not stirred. She stood where Grif had left her — her eyes turned towards the house. So fixed and rapt was her atteii- tention that her very breathing could scarcely be heard. As the form of the man came nearer and nearer to her, she shrank, and then stretched forth her arms, as if in supplication ; but her feet seemed rooted to the spot. He came close to her, and said in a hard, stern voice —

" Is it you who wish to speak with me ?"

"Father!" she cried.

"Alien!"

The sadden surprise robbed his voice of its stern- ness. He recoiled a step from her as she addressed him, and his face grew pale ; but if the next moment the moon had shone upon it, no trace of emotion would have been there observable.

"So!" he said, coldly. " A trick! Another les- son you did not learn in my house."

She looked down and twisted her fingers nervously, but did not reply.

"Why did you address a note to me in a strange hand?"

" I thought you would not have come if you recog- nised my writing," she answered, sadly.

"What do you out at this time of night, and alone?"

"I am not alone, father," she said, glancing to where Grif was crouching.

"What! Is your husband here?" he exclaimed with suppressed passion, following her look.

FATHEb AND DAUGHTER. 73

" No, sir ; it is but a poor lad. I was afraid to come out by myself."

" And your husband ?"

" lie does not know, sir, tliat I have come. If he had— "

" He would have kept you away ; it would have* been wise in him."

" Father, have you no pity ?"

" What do you want of mo ?"

" Help and forgiveness/'

" I will give you both. You can come to my home, and I will receive you as my daughter."

" And Richard — my husband — "

" I will have nought to do with him. I give yon once again your choice. You are my daughter, or his wife. You cannot and shall not be both. As this is the first, so it shall be the last time I will see you upon the subject. You shall juggle me no more with false writing. The day you ran away from your home, from ine who was hoarding and saving for you, I resolved to shut you from my heart as long as you were tied to that scheming scapegrace. You know how constant I can be when I resolve."

"Alas! I know."

" So I have resolved on this, and no power on earth can change me. Richard Handfield came to my house a guest, and he played the knave. He stopped in my house a servant, and he played the cheat. He took my money, he ate my bread, he displayed his fine gentleman's airs and accomplishments at my expense. And all this time he was stealing you from me, and laughing in his sleeve at the trick he was playing the- wealthy squatter. He robbed mo of the one object of my life. What ! shall a father toil and scheme for & lifetime, and set his heart upon a thing, and be foiled in a day by a supercilious cheat ! What does a child owe a father? Obedioiice. You owed ine that — bub a small return for all I had lavished upon you, but a

74 GRIF.

small return for the fortune I was amassing for you. Did I ask you for anything else ? What was this for a father to ask a daughter, that she should play the traitress to him ?"

"Father, have pity!"

"You have thwarted the scheme of my life. But what was my strongest wish when it clashed with your girlish fancy? Listen. Do you know what I have suffered in this colony ? I have suffered priva- tion, hunger, misery, raging thirst, over and over again. I have walked, with blistered feet, hundreds and hundreds of miles ; I have laboured with my axe till I was faint with fatigue ; I have hidden from Blacks in fear of my life ; I have been left for dead upon the burning plains ; I have been lost in the bush until my whole being was one great despair ! Was this a plea- sant life to lead, and did I deserve no recompense? Was life so sweet to me, with those burdens, that I should enjoy it in the then present? I had a child — a daughter. But for her I might have grown into a wild man of the bush, and growled at the world and at humanity. I had provocation enough, for I was poor. Men who knew me when I first came to the colony, and when I had money, knew me not when I lost it. I lost my wife, too; and I had but my daughter and my poverty left. Then, when men turned their backs to me, and I felt the bitterness of it — (I know now that they were right; poverty should be shunned) — I bent all my mind and soul to the one desire — to make money. A slice of good fortune fell to my share. I resolved to grow rich, and to make my daughter rich. I toiled, I slaved, I schemed for her. I had an object, and life was less bitter than before. I said, My daughter shall be the envy of those who knew me when I was poor; she shall marry riches, and grow into fashion and into power from the force of her father's and her husband's money. She shall be called the rich squatter's daughter, and her children

FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 75

ehall be educated to rule the State. I knew well then, and know well now, the power of gold ; it could do all this for me, and more. There is no aristocracy in this colony but the aristocracy of wealth ; money is the god all worship here ! It ennobles the mean, it dignities the vulgar. It is all powerful. See what it does for me. What fascinations, what graces, what virtues, do I possess, that people should cringe to me and adulato me? And as they idolize me, a man of money, for my wealth, so I idolize my wealth for what it brings me."

As he spoke from the vile selfishness of his heart, did the wailing wind, sighing mournfully around him, suggest to his mind no more precious thing in the world than gold ? Did the pale stars and the restless waves teach no lesson that such an egotist might learn, and be the better for the learning ? Did they tell no story from which he might have learned a noble creed, had he but listened to their teaching ? No ! he felt not their influence. Ho lived only in himself. What was Nature to him ? She gave him nothing that he should be grateful for; what he received, all others received. And so he beheld the swelling waves, and heard the wailing wind, and looked up to the glimmering stars with indifference. What was the glory of the heavens to him or to his life ? A handful of gold and a sight- ful of stars ! Was not the gold which bought him human worship, more precious to him than all ?

"Oh, father!" murmured Alice: "money is not everything."

" Money is everything/' he replied ; " everything to me. Can you undo, with a word, the study of my life ? It was but little I asked in return for the future I was working out for you. The man I selected for you had wealth, position. Even if you had failed (as you have failed, but in a different manner) in the duty you owed to me, I could not have forced the man upon you; even although you knew it was the only

GBIP.

reward I coveted for my life's labour, and refused at the last moment to give it to me, you might still have been the daughter of my heart, as you are of my blood. But to fly from me to him — a penniless adventurer, a shallow, brainless coxcomb !" The thought seemed to cool his passion, and exclaiming, "Why do I waste my time here?" he made a movement towards the house.

" Stop, for pity's sake," Alice cried, stretching forth her arms ; " stop and hear me."

" Speak on," he said, between his clenched teeth There was no hope in his voice; it was hard and bitter.

" I came to-night, sir/' Alice said, humbly bowing her head, and forcing back her tears, " to appeal to you for the last time. You may send me away, un- happy and broken-hearted — indeed, I am that already — but oh, sir ! reflect before you do so, and let your better feelings guide you. Ah, sir ! are all your thoughts about yourself and your money, and have you no thought of me? I do not know a parent's feelings, but soon" — and here her voice faltered — " soon I may become a mother — forgive me, sir, these tears — I try to conquer them, but they are too strong for me." She paused a few moments, and then con- tinued : " What sympathy, sir, could you expect me, a simple girl, to have with your aspirations ? I knew them not, and if you had confided them to me, I should not have understood them — "

" Have you come to tutor me, girl ?" he asked, coldly.

" No, sir. If my distress and my misery have no weight with you, what can my poor words do ? My husband — forgive me — I must speak of him."

"Goon."

" My husband, to whose fate and lot I am linked foi ever — for ever," she repeated firmly, "is willing to work for ine, 13 contented to keep me, poor and friend-

FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 77

less as I am. But he needs help. Give it him ; give it me, and I will trouble you no more. I will be con- tent, so that you assist us to live/'

" Your husband is a man ; he can work like other men. Let him do so. He shall not live upon my bounty. No man need starve in this land of plenty. Let him work, if he be not too proud."

" He is not too proud, sir. He has tried to get work, but failed. Help him in his endeavour — you can do so. You have power, influence. And think, sir, that even if I would, I cannot undo the past."

" Would you, if you could ?"

" For pity's sake, sir, do not ask me."

" Would you, if you could ?" he repeated, relent- lessly.

" Then, sir, as you insist," she returned, " I reply, as is my duty, No. He is my husband, and my future life is linked with his/'

" Have you done ?"

"I have but little more to say, sir. I feel from your voice that there is scant hope for me ! But oh, sir, before you turn from me, think of what my future may be if you remain inexorable. You, who have un- dergone privations in your early life, know what a stern master is necessity. As yet, my husband is saved from crime — "

" Is this your last argument ?" he interrupted. " It has no weight with me. You cannot more disgrace me than you have already done. Here let this end. I am inexorable."

His voice, stern and unforgiving, carried conviction with it.

"Heaven help roe!" she exclaimed sadly. "Then we must trust to chance." And she turned from him, weeping.

There was a pause, and then he said, "I will not leave you entirely unsatisfied. It is money, I suppose, you want. Here are lifty pounds. It is tbe last you

78

will ever receive from me while lie and you are to- gether. Good night."

She raised her arms imploringly, but he was making towards the house. He saw not the entreating action, nor did he hear the low wailing sobs which broke from her as he walked away. A sad contrast was her drooping figure upon the lonely sands to the glad life that moved in the merchant's house ! A sad accom- paniment were her sobs to the strains of music and the sounds of light laughter with which they mingled! The guests within were joyous, while she, who should have been his one joy, stood desolate on the shore. But despite her misery there was hope deep within her heart — hope of a happy future yet with the man with whose lot hers was linked. Her father had cast her off; but love remained — love strong and abiding. How great the contrast ! A good woman's love and a hard man's greed of gold !

CHAPTER VII.

GRIP PROMISES TO BE HONEST.

Hunger has many phases ; but in every phase ex- cept its physical one it is comparative. Thus, a person may be eagerly desirous, hungry, for something which his neighbour has, but which his neighbour, possessing, does not value and thinks of no regard. What is wanted is a moral, equable dispensation ; yet if by any possibility such could be arranged, false weights would be sure to be introduced, and things would be unequal aa before. And so the world goes on hungering, and one hungry class groans for that with which the belly of another hungry class is filled. Every step in the ladder of life is thronged with climbers ready to reach the next, and

OBIP PEOMI8BS TO BE HONEST. 70

although some be twenty rounds above others, they are as restlessly unhappy in their high position, and as restlessly desirous of getting a foot higher, as those who are so far beneath them. It is the way of the world. The heaven is always above us, and we climb, and climb, and climb, and never reach our hopes.

And yet some of our desires are very small. Ambi- tion is various; large-souled aspirations and the meanest of cravings como within its scope. Casually, we admire the aspirations of a noble mind which looks above and beyond the grovelling littleness of humanity, and strives to reach a goal where dwell the nobler virtues, studded with the jewels of their worth and goodness. Casually, we pass by, as scarcely worthy of contempt, certainly not worthy of notice, the paltry desires for common things which fill some creatures' souls. Never- theless, the aspiration which stretches itself towards the nobler virtues may bo no finer than the paltry de- sire which pines for common things. "Pis ten to one that the latter is more human; and what is human must be good, notwithstanding what some preachers say about the corruption of flesh, and the vanity of desire.

Ask Grif. How paltry, how mean is his ambition ! Ask him, in such language as he can understand, what it is he most desires, what it is he most craves for ? He will answer, in his own way, Sufficient of the com- monest food to eat in the day, and a shelter and blanket to cover him in the night. Is it his fault that he strives no higher ? His hungry body cries out to him, and he responds to its prompting. He does not openly rebel against his fate. He knows that it is, and, without any concerted action of the mind to assist him to. that conclusion, he feels that he cannot alter it. He does not repine ; he only wonders some- times that things are so. Of course, when he is hungry he suffers ; that he cannot help. But he Buffers in silence, and thereby shows that he has with-

80 GRI?.

in him the qualities that would make a hero. But still the fact remains that he aspires no higher ; still the fact remains that he is dead to the conscious exer- cise of the nobler virtues. Spread them before him, if such were possible, and he would not even wonder. But his eyes would light up, and all his intellectual forces would be gratified, at the sight of a bone with a little meat upon it. Such is Grif, a human waif living in the midst of a grand and mighty civilisation.

Is it possible that this same civilisation, of which we comfortable ones prate and vaunt, depraves as well as ennobles ? The thought is pertinent to the subject. For here is Grif (unquestionably depraved and debased in the eyes of that civilisation which does nothing for him, which absolutely turns its back upon him), a piece of raw material out of which much good might be wrought, suffering much unmerited suffering, and sur- rounded by an atmosphere of actively-conscious vice. The law looks unkindly upon him:; policemen push him aside as if he were an interloper in the world ; and well-dressed people shrink from contact with him as he slouches by. Civilisation presses upon him un- • kindly. He does not deserve it. There is a better nature within him than he is called upon to exercise in his intercourse with his enemy, the world. The chord of that better nature has been touched by Alice, so kindly, so commiseratingly, that every nerve in his frame quivers with a passionate longing to serve her. He can reckon on the fingers of one hand the objects for which he has any human affection. Alice he loves far beyond the others, for he feels that she is different to them. He has seen that she is unselfish and self- sacrificing; and he knows (though he could not ex- press it in so many words) that she is good from prin- ciple, and that she is pure because it is her nature to be pure. He has heard her renounce ease and comfort, and choose poverty and suffering, so that she might play the good angel to the man whom she loves. And

GEIf PROMISES TO BE HONEST. 81

at fclio goodness of that renunciation, at the holiness of it, Grif fell down and worshipped her with all his soul. Then there was Milly : his love for her had no adora- tion in it. but was borp of pity, tenderness, and grati- tude. Ho would do ni~ch to serve Milly, for she had been very kind to him. Then came Little Peter. Grif loved that other little waif because he was so helpless, and because it was so sweet to have some one to cherish and take care of. His love for Little Peter had in it something of the love of a mother. He asked for no reward in the shape of gratitude. It was suffi- cient for him that Peter was dependent upon him — was his to protect. It is truly more blessed to give than to receive !

Counting, then, upon one hand the objects of his love, Grif could mention Alice, Milly, and Little Peter, and still leave a linger unprovided for. A short time since — only two days ago — the dog Rough would havo closed the list; but Rough was dead, and the finger might be regarded as widowed. Yes, Rough was dead. GriPs faithful follower, his dumb companion, his honest servant, was gone — poisoned, murdered, meanly killed ! Tears, born of rage and desolation, came into Grif 's eyes as he thought of the death and the manner of it. But the murderer ! Revengeful justice found strong expression when Grif swore and swore again that he would be even with the villain who had murdered his dog.

It was the second night after the burial, and Grif and Little Peter wero 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 hucU

82 QE1F.

dling together of their limbs. "I wouldn't care if Rough was alive," mused Grif. " If he'd only come when I whistle !" And the next moment ho 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 Little 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 of living was expressed in the attitude of his body and in every line of his features ! As he sat, drooping, trembling, hollow-cheeked, wistful-eyed, he looked like a shrunken old child-man with every drop of healthful life-blood squeezed clean out of him.

Gazing at the drooping figure, Grif forgot his own grief, and saying " Poor Little Peter !" in a tone of much pity, drew closer to the lad, and sat motionless for many minutes. Then he rose.

" Come along, Peter," he said, " it's time we wiis off."

But Little Peter did not move.

"Asleep, Peter?" asked Grif.

A slight quivering of Little Peter's body was tha 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.

GRIP PROMISES TO BE HONEST. 83

€t He's took ill ! " cried Grif, with a sudden appre- hension. " They won't take him in at the horspital I What shaU 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.

" He's my brother," said Grif, telling the lie without the smallest compunction, "and he's took ill. I'm carryin' of him home."

Carrying of him home ! The words caused Grif to reflect and ask himself where he should carry Little Peter. The barrel ? Clearly, that was not a lit place for the sick lad. He knew what he would do. He would take Peter to Milly's house. Grif's instincts were nearly always right.

Soon he was in the city, and choosing the quietest streets, he made his way to the quarter where Milly lived. There was a light in her room. He walked slowly up the stairs, and knocked at the door. No answer came. He knocked again, and listened. A sound of soft singing reached his ears, and opening the door, he entered the room and stood still.

Milly was at the further end of the room, kneeling by the side of a bed on which lay a baby asleep. Her hands were clasped, and she was smiling, and singing

84 GEIF.

softly to he-seif, and looking at the face of her baby, the while she gently swayed her body to and fro. He stood wondering. " I never knowed she had a baby/' he muttered inly, under his breath.

Love and devotion were expressed in every curve of the girl's body. The outline of her face, her hair hang- dog 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 do."

Milly raised Peter's head to her lap, and bent over him.

" Poor Little Peter ! " she said. « How white he is, and how thin ! Perhaps he's hungry."

" No/' said Grif. " I know what's the matter with him. He caught cold t'other night, when I took him with me to bury my dawg. It was rainin' hard, and we both got soppin' wet. It didn't matter for me, but he was always a pore little chap. I ought to have knowed better."

"To bury your dog!" repeated Milly. "Why, I saw him with you the night before last." ^ •' Yes, Milly, that was when you gave me that bhillin'. Eough was all nght then. But he was pizened that night."

"Poisoned!"

GRIP PROMISES TO BE HONEST. 85

" Yes," very mournfully.

"Who poisoned him?"

"The Tenderhearted Oysterman.**

" The mean hound!"

" He heerd me say somethin' agin him when I was speakin' to you, Milly, so he took it out of mo by pizenin' the dawg. But I'll be even with him !"

By this time Milly had undressed Little Peter, and placed him in the bed by the side of her baby.

" There ! " she said. " He'll be all right to-morrow. I'll make him some gruel presently. He's got a bad cold, and wants keeping warm."

" You're a good sort, Milly," said Grif, gratefully. "I'd have carried him to the horspital, but I didn't think they'd take him in."

f ' No ; they wouldn't take him there without a ticket, and where could you have got that from ?"

"Blest if I know!" exclaimed Grif. "Nobody would give me a ticket, I shouldn't think!" This remark was made by Grif in a tone sufficiently indica- tive of his sense of his abasement.

"But I say, Milly," he continued, "I didn't know you had a baby. May I look at him ?"

" It's a little girl," said Milly, smiling, leading Grif towards the bed, and turning down the coverlid so that he might get a peep of baby's face. ' ' Isn't she a beauty?"

Grif bent over the bed, and timidly put his hand upon baby's. The little creature involuntarily grasped one of Grit's dirty fingers in her dimpled fist, and held it fast.

" It's like a bit of wax," said Grif, contemplating with much admiration the difference between baby'f 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 GBJF.

Here the baby opened her eyes — which had a very wide-awake look in them, as if she had been shamming sleep — and stared at Grif, seriously, as at some object really worth studying. To divert her attention from a study so unworthy, Grif smiled at the baby, who, thus encouraged, reflected back his smile with interest, and crowed into the bargain. Whereat Milly caught her in her arms, and pressing her to her breast, covered her face with kisses.

"How old is she, Milly ?w asked Grif, regarding this proceeding with honest pleasure.

" Ten weeks the day after to-morrow," replied Milly, who, as is usual with young mothers, reckoned forward. " And now, Graf, 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 upqn 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 light as now. Hitherto he had in his thoughts drawn a wide line between her and Alice ; a gulf that seemed impassable had divided them. Now the gulf was bridged with human love and human tenderness. Alice was all good ; but was Milly all bad ?

He looked at her as she was making the gruel. Tender thoughts beautify; a mother's love refines. She was kneeling before the fire, pausing in her 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 GriPs 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

GRIP PROMISES TO BE HONEST. 87

cling to Mm? Why was it that everything seemed to bo wrong with those persons whom he loved? llough had been poisoned, Little Peter was ill, Milly was attached to a bad man, and Alice — well, it was a puzzle, the whole of it ! While he thus thought, Milly had been giving Little Peter the gruel.

" Milly," Grif said, when she returned from the bed, u have you got a mother and father ? "

The girl turned a startled look upon him, and was about to it .ake some passionate reply, but suddenly checked herself.

"Don't ask me, Grif/' she said, in a hard voice. " How is your lady ? "

Her old spirit was coming upon her. Grif knew that she meant Alice by "your lady," and he was hurt by the scornful ring of her voice. Seeing that he was grieved, Milly said :

"Don't mind me, Grif; now I'm soft, and now I'm hard. I've got the devil in me sometimes, and I can't keep him down. But I mustn't think — I mustn't think — I mustn't think. Of course, I've got a mother and father, and my mother and father's got a daughter they might be proud of. Everybody used to tell me so. I had a pretty face, pretty hands, pretty feet, pretty hair. I'm a pretty daughter altogether ! Why wasn't I ugly ? Then I might have been good ! '

She took the baby from Grif s arms, and pressed it to her bosom.

" If I knew how to be good," she said, in a softened voice, I think I would be. But I don't know how. If I was to go out of this house to-night, I shouldn't know which way to turn to be good. I'd be sure to turn wrong. I don't care !" And then she sang, recklessly, " I'm happy, I'm careless, I'm good-natured and free; and I don't care a single pin what the world thinks of me ! "

"Don't, Milly! don't!" pleaded Grif, placing hia hand upon hers, and looking earnestly at her.

88 GBIP.

She took his Land convulsively, and put it to her baby's lips.

" That won't do baby any harm/' she said, after a pause. " I wonder if baby will grow up pretty, like me. Oh, I hope not, I hope not \"

" She's got eyes like your'n," said Grif, wishing to change her humour.

" Prettier than mine," Milly replied. " But if it wasn't that I should go mad if I was to lose her, I wish she would die ! It would be better for her, but I think it would be worse for me. What's that in your hand?"

It was Little Peter's stone heart, which Grif had held all the while.

" It's Little Peter's heart," he said.

" Of course it is ; I remember it now. It belonged to his mother."

"Where is she?" asked Grif, eagerly, for this was the first time he had heard of Little Peter's mother.

" She died two years ago in the hospital."

" Did you know her, Milly ? "

"I went with a friend to see her when she was dying. She was a Welsh woman. She put the heart round Little Peter's neck when we took him to wish her good-bye, for the doctor said she would die before night."

" What did she die of, Milly ? " The subject was full of interest to Grif.

<c Broken heart. Somebody played her false, as usual. I shan't die of a broken heart — not I ! Drink will be my death — the sooner the better ! Hush ! There's Jim. Who else ? The Tender-hearted Oyster- 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 be asleep. Quick ! For God's sake 1"

OBIF PROMISES TO BE HONEST. 89

She thrust hiin 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, I'll be bound, and where the keys are to be found, and where the hiding places are. We must have him, Jim."

At the mention of Highlay Station, Grif pricked up his ears. That was the Station which Alice had spoken of in their conversation a couple of nights ago. But when, the next instant, the Tenderhearted Oyster- man uttered Richard Handfield's name, he started, and caught Milly's hand excitedly. Milly pressed him down with quiet, warning action, and, recalled to the necessity of being cautious, Grif lay still and listened. Milly paid but little attention to the conversation. She did not know anything of Highlay Station, nor that Alice was Ei chard 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. " you're as good a pal as I ever want to have, if you'd only stop that damned cant of not hurting people." (The Tenderhearted Oysterman gave a quiet chuckle.) " I know well enough that you don't mean it."

" Now Jim," expostulated the Oysterman, and yet

90 GRIF.

evidently regarding his comrade's words as a compli- 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 you'd make believe that you was. If I didn't know you for one who would stick at nothing — nothing, not even short of — "

"Never mind what/' interrupted the Oysterman, looking at Milly, who was employed nursing her baby, mid did not appear to be taking heed of what was said.

"If I didn't know you for that, then, I'd have nothing to do with you, for your infernal cant sickens me."

There was a pause in the conversation. Grif still held Milly's hand hard. He felt there was 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. "If we can't have him one way, we will another. I've got a hook in him already, and if he hangs on and off as he's been doing, the white-livered skunk ! the last two weeks, he'll get a dose that'll pretty well settle him."

" What sort of a dose, Jim ? "

" I bought a watch of him this morning — here it is. I gave him five pounds for it. It's a pretty little thing. Just the thing for Milly ! Milly."

" Yes, Jim," answered Milly, disengaging her hand from GriPs grasp, and walking towards Jim, for fear he should come to the bed, and discover Grif.

" Here's a watch I've bought for you. It belonged to a lady."

QBIF PBOMI8I8 TO BB HONIBT. 91

"Oh, what a beauty !" criod Milly, her eyes spark- ling with eager delight as she looked at the pretty bauble.

"Well, if s yours now, my girl. I promised yon 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 is a dose, Jim."

" I £ave Dick Handheld five pounds for that watch," said Jim, " and I paid him for it with a forged n«

At these words, Milly, who had been looking at the watch, and examining it with the pleasure of a child when it receives a new toy, dropped it upon the bed, with a heavy sigh.

" Then I took him to Old Flick's, and Old Flick gave him five sovereigns for the note. There was a man in the store when Dick Handfield changed the note, and Old Flick, who knew all about the lay, asked Dick Handfield all sorts of questions and regularly confused him. That's a pretty good dose for him, I think. I shall ask him to-morrow for the last time to join us. If he refuses, Old Flick shall give him in charge for passing a forged note, and the man who was in the store at the time will be the witness. Hand, field will be glad enough to join us when he finds he's in the web. He'd sooner go up the country with us than go to quod — if it was only for the sake of that woman of his, that white-faced piece of virtue he calls his wife."

"Alice her name is," said the Tenderhearted Oysterman, sneeringly. " She's as much his wife as lam."

" It's a lie, Milly, a lie !" whispered Grif, in an agony of rage and despair at what he had heard. " She is his wife !" Oh, if he could get away from the room to tell Alice of the danger which surrounded her

92 GRIP.

husband ! He dug his nails in his hand, and his faith- ful heart beat furiously.

Milly placed her hand upon his lips.

"You're a liar, Oysterman I" she said, quietly. " The girl is his wife."

Grif took Milly' s hand, and kissed it again and again for the vindication.

The Tenderhearted Oysterman turned sharply upon Milly, and was about to answer her when Jim Pizey said, —

"Milly's right. The girl is his wife. You don't know everything, Oysterman. But now I'll tell you that that girl is the daughter of Old Nuttall, the rich squatter of Highlay Station. Dick Handfield was living on the Station for a goodish time — that's how he came to know all about it. The girl fell in love with him, and they ran away and got married."

" And a pretty nice thing she made of it !" sneered the Oysterman. " I hate these milk-sop women \"

" I wonder what sort of a woman you'd ever be fond of, Oysterman !" said Milly, with bitter sarcasm. " I wonder if you'd ever get a woman to love you, and think you a model of anything but what's mean !"

" Serve you right, Oysterman," said Jim, laughing. " Never you speak against women when a woman is by."

The Tenderhearted Oysterman had turned white in the face when Milly spoke.

" You're a nice sort of woman, you are," he ex- claimed, with a snarl. " I'd never want you to love me and think me a model."

" A good job for you," she exclaimed. "I pity the woman you'd take a fancy to, or the man either, for that matter. If I was Jim, I'd pitch you down- Btairs."

" 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 aro. You're bad enough, God knows ! but there is something of a man in you. But that cur I" She placed her baby on tho bed, and advanced a step towards tho men, and pointed to tho 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 littlo 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 I"

" Como along, Oysterman," said Jim Pizey, half angry and half amused, taking his comrade by tho arm. " It's no use answericg her. She talks to me sometimes like that. Come along, and have a drink."

And by sheer strength lie forced the Oysterman out of the room.

"That's done me good," said Milly, when the men were gone, taking her baby to the fire.

Grif started to his feet.

"Thank you, Milly," he said. "I'll tell Ally how yon 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.

"I'm not, nor ever shall be. That watch" (point- ing to it) " was hers, I suppose."

" I s'pose so. I never sor it."

Milly took it in her hand and opened the case.

"Here's her name," she said. "Alice Handfield. And here's a motto : Hope, Faith, and Love. And she gave it back to hor husband, because they were hard np, perhaps, and Jim bought it of him with a

94 OBI*.

forged note. Oh, my God ! What a web of wicked-

ness and goodness !"

" I must go" cried Grif, " I must go and tell them — I must go and put Ally up to it."

" Up to what V 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 '11 have Jim took up, and you'll be witness against him !" She glided swiftly to the door, and turning the key, put it in her pocket.

"What do you do that for?" asked Grif. "I must go, Milly. I'll break open the door."

"No, you won't," said Milly, taking fast hold of him. "You shan't get Jim into trouble. He's been kind to me, though he is a bad man, and you shan't peach upon him."

" Let me go, Milly," cried Grif, gently struggling.

"You don't go till Jim comes in," she said, still retaining her hold of him, " and then — good God !" she cried, in a voice of despair and horror. "Then, he'll kill you!"

The conflict of thought was too much for her. She relaxed her hold, and Grif flew to the door, and broke the frail lock. Then he looked back. Milly had fallen to the floor, and was sobbing convulsively. Her baby was lying by her side.

Grif went to her and raised her.

" Milly," he said, " don't take on so. I won't hurt ou or Jim. But I must be true to Ally. If I couldn't I'd go and drown myself. I couldn't live, and not be true to her. She said I was her only friend, and I swore that I'd be so till I die ! And I will be, till I die — and I'd like to die for her, for she's a good woman, Milly !"

" She is — she is," groaned Milly ; " and I'm a bad and wicked one."

" You're not, Milly, you're not," said Grif, em-

you be,

QUIP PROMISES TO BE HONEST. 96

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 f;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 ! I'll tell Ally that her husband must go away to-night. Ho was agoin' away — I heerd him say so — and perhaps he's gone already. I won't tell her about the forged note. I'll say that I heerd a plot, and I won't tell her what it is. She'll believe me, I know she will. And so I shall do her good, and I shan't do you any harm ! "

Grif spoke earnestly, for as his words brought to his mind the remembrance of Milly' s unselfish kindness, the conviction that it would be wicked to harm her or wound her feelings, grew stronger and stronger.

" God bless you !" said Milly.

Truly, Grif was not entirely unhappy or forsaken. The blessing, even from Milly, fell upon his heart like dew upon a parched field.

"Ah, if you sor Ally \» Grif continued. "If you knew her ! You wouldn't wonder at me then for sayin' I'd like to die for her ! Why, do you know what I've heerd her do ? I've heerd her refuse to go where she'd have everything she could set her heart upon. I've heerd her refuse it because it wouldn't be right, al- though lots of women would think it was, and because she means to keep good if she dies for it ! She'd inako 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 ?"

"No, Milly. Take care of poor Little Peter. If

96 GRIP.

ever I can do you a good turn, Pll do it— you mind if I don't \»

He went to the bed where little Peter was sleeping. The lad was lying on his side, hot and flushed, with his lips partly open, as if thought were struggling to find expression there. Grif placed his hand tenderly upon Peter's cheek, and then went out of the house.

When he arrived at Alice's lodging he crept up the stairs, and with a settled purpose, which gave intensity to his face, opened the door. Husband and wife were standing, looking into each other's eyes. Tender words had evidently been exchanged, for they stood hand in hand, he with the dawn of a good and strong purpose upon his face, she encouraging him with hopeful, loving speech. A blanket, rolled up, gold-digger fashion, was upon the ground. Grif walked swiftly towards them and asked abruptly —

" Are you goin' away to-night ?"

There was so much earnestness in his manner, that, with startled looks, they asked for his meaning.

" I can't tell you," he said, in a rapid, sharp tone ; " Pm under a promise not to tell. But you must go away to-night."

"We were thinking just now, Grif," said Alice, ft 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. Pve overheerd somethin', Ally, and I'm bound down not to tell. If you stop till to-morrow, somethin' dreadful '11 happen."

fe 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 ?"

GEIF PROMISES TO BE HONEST. 9?

"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 bo able to get out of, if you refuse to join 'em. Don't ask me again to tell you what I've overheerd, for I can't — I mustn't — I darn't ! I've run all the way here to tell you that there's more and more danger every minute you stop. It'll be all the better for you to go away in the dark."

Weak natures like Richard Handfield's are easily 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 faithful friend." Grif nodded his head, and his eyes brightened. " After all, it is but a few hours more. They would soon be past. Bless you, darling I bless you, Richard !" She kissed him again and again, and clung to him, and broke away from him, choosing rather to endure the pain springing from repressed tenderness, than do aught, in word or deed, to weaken him in hu purpose.

"Yes, I will go," he said, in a decided tone, and having made up his mind, he took Alice in his arms and held her to him. While thus they clung together, she whispered, —

" Be strong and firm, Richard dear !"

" I will, dearest and best," he said, as with a pas- sionate love- clinging he held the good and faithful woman to his breast.

( ' If the thought that I am true to you, darling — that I am yours in life, and afterwards — that I would share a crust with you and be happy if you were so — if that thought will strengthen and comfort you, Richard, take

98 OBIF.

it with you, keep it in your mind, for, oh ! it ia true, my darling, it is true !"

" I know it, Alice, I know it."

"I shall bless you and pray for you every day. Until we are together again, my eyes can never close without thinking of you. See, Richard, I am not crying." She put his hand to her eyes, which were hot but tearless. " I can send you away with gladness, for it is the beginning of a better time. Though I feel that it is hard to part with you, I can say cheerfully, Go, my dear, for I know that your going is for the good of both of us. Write to me often, and tell me how and where to write to you. Good bye, good bye — Heaven bless and preserve you \"

And she broke from him, and then, meeting his eyes, a look of electric love brought them together again, and once more their arms were twined about each other's neck. Then she glided from his embrace, and sank upon the stool. Eichard walked slowly out of the room, his heart filled with love and tenderness, his eyes seeking the ground. It was bitter to part. Even in the agony of separation he found time to murmur at the hardness of his lot which tore him away from the woman who was to him as a saint. As he walked down the stairs, his foot kicked against something. He stooped and picked it up. A stone heart ! Indeed, Little Peter's stone heart which Grif had dropped without knowing it. Richard's nature was super- stitious. The shape of the stone was comforting to him. A heart ! It was a 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

OBIF PROMISES TO BE HONEST. 90

his head in her lap, 03 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- iss of a mother to her child and a wife to her husband. lie raised his lips to hers ; they kissed once more, solemnly, and ho went out of the house with her tears upon his face. As ho 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, ho would have taken GriPs 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 feel- 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 npon tho floor, patiently.

Presently Alice dried her eyes and beckoned him to come closer to her.

" Grif," sho said, in a sweet voice. " Why are you not honest ?"

Now, Grif knew perfectly well tho meaning of honesty — that is to say, he knew the meaning of the word literally. To bo 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 ho had stolen from necessity. And he t-J never stolen any- thing but food, and then only when hunger sharply pressed him. The thought flew swiftly to his mind that

100 GEIF.

if ho 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 ho had not taken what belonged to other people ! Clearly, then, it was not wrong to steal. Grifs mind was essentially logical, as may be seen from tho process of thought which occupied it directly after Alice asked him the question. And yet if ho were rijjht, 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 tho 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 mo to see you as you are. I would like to see you better, for your sake and for mine, Grif."

" I never know'd how to be honest, Ally/' he said. Then he thought of Milly's words to him" that night. " If I knew how to be good/' she had said, " I think I would be. But I don't know how." That was just the case with him. He did not know how to be honest. And yet he had told Hilly that Alice could make her good. Perhaps Alice could make him honest. Not that he cared particularly about being honest, but he would like to please Alice. " I don't want not to bo honest," ho said ; <f all I wants is my grub and a blanket."

" And those, Grif," she said, gently, yet firmly, " yon can earn if you like."

GRIP PROMISES TO BE IION'MT. 101

m I f I'd like to know how, Ally r u most work for the

" 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. Hot I couldn't get no work — a pore beggar liko me I I don't know nothin', that's ono thing. And then, if 1 get a 'orse to mind, the peelers take it from mo 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, nnd when I went for more papers the next mornm' ho wouldn't givo 'em to mo. I've got a precious bad character, All v, there's no mistake about that; and I've been to quod a good many times. I can't look a peeler in tho 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, nnd ho stated it seriously. t Alice was not convinc

" Vou'ro willing to work," she said. <*, I'm wiliin' enooK

" Every ono can get work if ho likes, nnd if ho tries."

Grif looked clubioi knowledge of the *

was superior :••!,•:••. H-- had battled with it and fought with it since ho was a baby. " She don't know what a bad lot we are," ho thought. But ho was sincerely desirous to please h

" What do you want me to do, Ally

want vou to give mo a promise to be honesty " she wild, earnestly.

" I'll do it," ho replied, without a moment's hesiUv- -id then ho added seriously, f..r ho felt he waa undertaking a great responsibility, " Til be honesty Ally, whatever comes of it."

" And if over you want anything to cat and can't earn it, Grif, you will como to'u

" Yes, I'll come to you, Ally," he said, almost crying, for he knew how poor she was.

102 GRIT.

"Suppose now, to-morrow morning you go inlo 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. Bat you'll see, Ally ; it'll bo no p>."

" You'll try, Grif, will you not ?"

"Til try, Ally."

" This is the last night I shall bo here. I am going to other lodgings to-morrow, and shall remain there until my husband writes for mo. Perhaps ho will write for mo to join him on the diggings ; if ho does, and you fail in getting work, you shall come with mo,