FATHER AND DAUGHTER.
The house of Mr. Zachariah Blemish looked out upon the sea. It was a
magnificent mansion, worthy of the greatness of its inmate, and was
the resort of the most fashionable, as well as the most influential,
residents of Melbourne and its charming suburbs. It had a balcony
round three of its sides--a broad, spacious balcony, on which the
guests could promenade, and talk politics, or love, or philosophy, as
suited them. It was grand, on a quiet night, to sit thereon, and watch
the moon rising from the sea; it was grand to watch the sea itself,
cradled in the arms of night, while myriad cloud-shadows floated on
its breast, and flashed into lines of snow-fringed light with the
rising and the falling of the waves.
Lights were gleaming in the windows and round the balcony, and the
house was pleasant with the buzz of conversation, and soft laughter,
and sweet music. The party seemed altogether a very delightful one;
for a smile was on every lip, and distilled honey dropped from every
tongue, while the presiding genius of the establishment was benign and
affable, and moved among his guests like Jove dispensing agreeability.
The brothers Nuttall had met in the ball-room. The only words they
exchanged were "Matthew!" "Nicholas!" and then, after a long pressure
of the hand, they adjourned to the balcony, where their conversation
would be more private than in the house.
They felt somewhat awkward; the days they had passed together might
have belonged to another life, so long gone by did that time seem. The
bridge between their boyhood and their old age had crumbled down, and
the fragments had been almost quite washed by the stream of Time.
Still, some memory of the old affection was stirred into life by the
meeting, and they both felt softened and saddened as their hands lay
in each other's clasp.
They paced the balcony in silence at first. Then the elder, Matthew,
asked some stray questions as to the old places he used to frequent,
and smiled and pondered wonderingly as he heard of the changes that
had taken place.
"And the yew, where the parrot used to swing, gone!" he said. "And the
wood where we went nutting?"
"Almost a city, Mat. A tree here and there, that's all. I was thinking
only to-night of that wood, and of one happy day we spent there--you
know with whom?"
"I know--I know. Good God! I have not thought of it or them for twenty
years. And now they come to me again. Do they live?"
"Drowned!"
"Poor girls! There, Nick, let us talk of something else. It is no
wonder things have changed. We have changed more than they."
"Yes, we are old men now," responded his brother. "This is a strange
meeting, Mat, and in a new world, too."
"What did you come out to the colonies for?" asked the elder brother.
"For the same reason, I suppose, that thousands of other people come
out--to better myself. I don't know that I had any particular other
reason, and I don't know that I exactly knew how I was going to better
myself. But I thought it would come right somehow.
"Then there were the goldfields, eh, Nicholas?"
"Yes; then there were the goldfields. They did excite me certainly. I
heard of people picking up nuggets--of course you laugh--and I thought
it possible that such a thing might happen. I know now how foolish
even the stray thought of such a thing was for me, an old man. But
still the gold seemed to say to me, Come, and I came."
"You are not rich?"
"No," was the reply.
"Any fixed plans of what you are going to do?"
"No--a dozen things have occurred to me, but, to tell you the truth, I
am puzzled. Everything here appears to be so--so go-ahead," he said,
after hesitating for a term, "that I am bewildered somewhat. Then,
there is Mrs. Nuttall!"
"Mrs. Nuttall!"
"Yes," replied Nicholas, smiling; "my wife. I will introduce you
presently. She will be agreeably surprised at your appearance," and he
chuckled to himself as he thought of his wife's notions of squatting.
"Then there is the girl--"
"What girl?"
"My daughter."
"Daughter!" cried Matthew, almost convulsively. But he controlled
himself the moment after, and said, "A spasm, Nicholas, nothing more.
What is her age?"
"Sixteen," said Nicholas. "She is here to-night. I am very proud of
her, and hope you will like her."
"Marian! That was our mother's name."
Then there was silence, and, as they stood on the balcony looking out
upon the ocean, the snow-fringed waves might have been bringing back
to them the time that seemed to belong to another life.
"Stay here a moment, Mat," said Nicholas; "I will bring Marian to
you."
And going into the house, he returned with a beautiful girl, whose
face was rosy with youth and health, and whose eyes beamed with
pleasure. Her graceful person and her soft white dress made her a
pretty figure in the scene.
"Marian, my dear, your uncle."
He turned and took her hand, and made a movement as if about to kiss
her. But he restrained himself with a sudden impulse.
"This is her first ball, Mat," said Nicholas, with an affectionate
look at his daughter. "Are you enjoying yourself?"
"Oh, so much, papa!"
As she spoke, her uncle dropped her hand, and faced the sea. She was
moving away towards her partner, who was waiting for her, when her
uncle wheeled round, and said, as if the words were forced out of
him--
"Kiss me, child."
She raised her face to his, and he bent down and kissed her, then
pushed her lightly towards her partner.
"She is a dear good girl, Mat," said Nicholas; "and the greatest
blessing I have; that is," he added, not at all enthusiastically,
"next to Mrs. Nuttall, of course. By the bye, Mat--how careless of me,
to be sure, perhaps you have a family of your own. Are _you_ married?"
"Nicholas," said his brother, not answering the question, "do you
remember my character as a boy?"
"Quite well, Mat. Eager, pushing, brave, and determined."
"Very determined, Nicholas."
"Very determined. I often wish I had your determination of character.
Old Mr. Gray, our schoolmaster--you remember him, Mat?--used to say
your determination was so determined, that it was nothing less than
obstinacy. I heard him say of you one day, 'When Mat Nuttall makes up
his mind to do a thing, he'll do it, whether it be good or bad, and
whatever may be the result.' He said it was not a good trait--but he
was mistaken, Mat. There is nothing so manly as determination of
character. I wish I possessed it."
"Don't wish it, Nicholas. It often proves a curse."
"It has not proved so to you, Mat, for it has brought you riches and
prosperity."
"I am rich and prosperous, as the world goes; but let that pass.
Whether it be good or bad, I am not a whit less determined now than I
was when a boy. I cannot help it. It is my nature. Old Mr. Gray was
right. I am not to be turned from a determined purpose, whether I
think I am right or wrong. Now, I have made up my mind to do what is
in my power, so far as prudence goes, to advance your fortunes. But
when I say to you, you must not do such and such a thing, I expect you
not to do it. You are attending to me?"
"Yes."
"I am glad to have seen you--I am glad to have seen your--your Marian.
But there is one subject which must never be mentioned between us, and
that is the question of my family. Say that I have none. Tell Mrs.
Nuttall this, and spare me any questions from her. Tell her and
your"--(and here the same indecision expressed itself when he spoke of
his brother's daughter)--"your Marian, that I am wifeless and
childless. I must not be questioned upon the point. I have made up my
mind not to be. I will not allow it to be referred to, or hinted at."
He spoke with distinctness, and yet with a strange hurriedness, as if
he wished to be done quickly with the subject.
"You see those two figures yonder," he said, pointing to where the
shadows of two persons could be seen upon the seashore.
"Yes, Mat, I can see them, although my eyes are not so good as they
were."
"Suppose those two should walk out upon the sea, and sink, and sink,
and be lost to the world--you can suppose it?"
"I can suppose it, Mat," said his brother, wonderingly.
"Suppose they are walking out upon the sea, and that they are taking
this subject with them, and that it sinks with them, and is heard no
more. See" (and he waved his hand as the two figures disappeared),
"they are gone, and the subject is gone, and they are lost to us for
ever. And there is an end to them and to it. You understand me,
Nicholas?"
"I understand you, Mat."
"Very well. We will go in now, and you shall introduce me to your
wife."
Meanwhile, the two persons, whose shadows the brothers had noticed,
were pacing the shore. The tide was running out, and each receding
wave rippled in sympathy with the soft touches of melody which floated
from the brilliantly-lighted mansion. The music brought no pleasure to
the couple walking slowly upon the sands; they were too much engrossed
in their melancholy condition. The boy had been crying at some tale he
had told, and the girl's voice expressed much sympathy as she said--
"So poor Rough is dead!"
"Yes, he's dead," replied the boy. "I shall never see him agin. I hate
the sight of dawgs now. I was very fond of 'em before. But didn't you
say you wanted me to do somethin', Ally?"
"Wait a minute, Grif; I will tell you presently." Alice appeared to be
struggling with some powerful agitation which threatened to master
her, for she stopped, and placed her hand to her heart, as if to check
its beatings. "You see that house," she then said.
"Yes," Grif said; "I peeped in there a little while ago. They're very
jolly, all of 'em, Ally. There's lots of swells with their white
chokers, and lots of gals lookin' very sweet and nice."
"They are happier than we are, Grif."
"I should think they was--they'd be precious fools if they wasn't! I
got a squint at the kitchen--there's ducks, and geese, and turkeys,
and jellies painted all sorts of colours, and sugar cakes--such a
spread! I wish we had some of it here. They ought to be happy with
such lots to eat. I tell you what, Ally; if I thought I was agoin' to
be hung, I wouldn't mind it a bit if they'd put me down in that there
kitchen jist as it is now, for about three hours. I'd like to have
Little Peter with me, though--wouldn't we go it!" Grif's eyes
glistened at the bare anticipation.
"I want you to take a letter for me to that house. You don't mind?"
"Not a bit of it. I'll jist do anythin' as you tells me, Ally."
"You can't read."
"I can spell large letters on the walls. I never bothered about
nothin' else."
"Pay attention to what I say, and do exactly as I tell you," said
Alice, placing her hand on the boy's shoulder. Grif' s face assumed an
expression of close attention. Alice took a letter from her pocket,
and continued, "Go to the house, and ask if the gentleman to whom this
letter is addressed is within. If they say he is, tell them that the
letter is to be given to him at once--it is very important. Do not
drop it, Grif, or lose it. It contains my hope, my happiness, perhaps
my life. Be sure you give it to some one who will promise to deliver
it without delay."
She spoke in short broken gasps, and stayed her speech to recover her
breath.
"Don't cry, Ally," said Grif; "am I to arks to see the gentleman?"
"No. You can give the letter to any of the servants; then go away and
keep out of sight. If you see a gentleman speaking with me, do not
disturb us, but when he is gone, and I am alone, come to me, and we
will go home."
Her voice was very desolate as she spoke the last word. Grif gave a
nod of comprehension, and walked to the house, while the girl strained
her eyes thitherward in eager watchfulness. The night was changing
now; a low wail of wind came across the sea, striking a colder chill
of desolation to her heart. She shivered, and wrapped her shawl more
closely about her. But for this movement she might have been an image
of Sadness, so drear and lonely did she appear as she stood upon the
glistening sands.
Grif mused as he walked along; Alice's words had deeply impressed him.
He weighed the letter in his hand, and thought, "It contains her
happiness, perhaps her life; then the cove who gets it has got
somethin' to do with Ally. I wonder who he is: I'll have a good look
at him; I'll know him agin, _I_ bet, after I've seen him once." Thus
soliloquising, he reached the house, and, standing in the shade,
watched the people flitting about. They were all so beautifully
dressed that he felt ashamed of his rags; it was clearly, to his mind,
an act of presumption to speak to such well-dressed people. With an
instinctive exercise of good judgment, he resolved to ask one of the
maids to deliver the letter. A man-servant might hustle him away; a
girl would be more susceptible to pity. So, plucking up courage, he
walked boldly to the back-door, and, seeing a girl with a pretty face,
with a tray of custards in her hand, he approached her.
"Oh, dear!" exclaimed the girl, almost dropping the tray, as ragged
Grif emerged from the shade into the light. "What do you want? Go
away; I mustn't give you any."
Grif eyed the custards hungrily and longingly. Then he wrenched his
attention from the tempting glasses, and said, falsely, "I don't want
nothin', miss; only if you'll please to tell me if the gentleman's
name writ on this letter is in this house."
The girl looked at it, and said he was, she thought.
"Will you please give him the letter? It's very partic'ler, it is."
The girl took the letter, and said she would deliver it. Grif ducked
his head, and turned slowly away. But he cast a wistful glance over
his shoulder at the food for which he was longing. The kind-hearted
maid saw hunger in his face, and, catching up a half-devoured fowl,
ran after him. She looked round hurriedly, to see that she was not
observed, and saying, "Here, dirty boy!" thrust the food into his
eager hands, and ran back to the house as fast as her legs would carry
her. Grif, walking carefully in the shade, commenced at a wing; he was
dreadfully hungry, but in the midst of his enjoyment he stopped, and
thought of Rough, and wished the dog was there to eat the bones. The
tears ran down the boy's face as he thought, and he strolled on,
munching and crying. When he got to the front of the house, he saw the
servant girl delivering the letter. The gentleman went in the light to
read it, and Grif had an opportunity of seeing his face. "I shall know
_you_ agin," Grif thought. "You ain't much to look at, _you_ ain't.
He's goin' to Ally, and I'm not to bother 'em. All right; I'll watch
for all that."
During the whole of this time Alice had not stirred. She stood where
Grif had left her--her eyes turned towards the house. So fixed and
rapt was her attention that her very breathing could scarcely be
heard. As the form of the man came nearer and nearer to her, she
shrank, and then stretched forth her arms, as if in supplication; but
her feet seemed rooted to the spot. He came close to her, and said in
a hard, stern voice--
"Is it you who wish to speak with me?"
"Father!" she cried.
"Alice!"
The sadden surprise robbed his voice of its sternness. He recoiled a
step from her as she addressed him, and his face grew pale; but if the
next moment the moon had shone upon it, no trace of emotion would have
been there observable.
"So!" he said, coldly. "A trick! Another lesson you did not learn in
my house."
She looked down and twisted her fingers nervously, but did not reply.
"Why did you address a note to me in a strange hand?"
"I thought you would not have come if you recognised my writing," she
answered, sadly.
"What do you out at this time of night, and alone?"
"I am not alone, father," she said, glancing to where Grif was
crouching.
"What! Is your husband here?" he exclaimed with suppressed passion,
following her look.
"No, sir; it is but a poor lad. I was afraid to come out by myself."
"And your husband?"
"He does not know, sir, that I have come. If he had--"
"He would have kept you away; it would have been wise in him."
"Father, have you no pity?"
"What do you want of me?"
"Help and forgiveness."
"I will give you both. You can come to my home, and I will receive you
as my daughter."
"And Richard--my husband--"
"I will have nought to do with him. I give you once again your choice.
You are my daughter, or his wife. You cannot and shall not be both. As
this is the first, so it shall be the last time I will see you upon
the subject. You shall juggle me no more with false writing. The day
you ran away from your home, from me who was hoarding and saving for
you, I resolved to shut you from my heart as long as you were tied to
that scheming scapegrace. You know how constant I can be when I
resolve."
"Alas! I know."
"So I have resolved on this, and no power on earth can change me.
Richard Handfield came to my house a guest, and he played the knave.
He stopped in my house a servant, and he played the cheat. He took my
money, he ate my bread, he displayed his fine gentleman's airs and
accomplishments at my expense. And all this time he was stealing you
from me, and laughing in his sleeve at the trick he was playing
the wealthy squatter. He robbed me of the one object of my life. What!
shall a father toil and scheme for a lifetime, and set his heart upon
a thing, and be foiled in a day by a supercilious cheat! What does a
child owe a father? Obedience. You owed me that--but a small return
for all I had lavished upon you, but a small return for the fortune I
was amassing for you. Did I ask you for anything else? What was this
for a father to ask a daughter, that she should play the traitress to
him?"
"Father, have pity!"
"You have thwarted the scheme of my life. But what was my strongest
wish when it clashed with your girlish fancy? Listen. Do you know what
I have suffered in this colony? I have suffered privation, hunger,
misery, raging thirst, over and over again. I have walked, with
blistered feet, hundreds and hundreds of miles; I have laboured with
my axe till I was faint with fatigue; I have hidden from Blacks in
fear of my life; I have been left for dead upon the burning plains; I
have been lost in the bush until my whole being was one great despair!
Was this a pleasant life to lead, and did I deserve no recompense? Was
life so sweet to me, with those burdens, that I should enjoy it in the
then present? I had a child--a daughter. But for her I might have
grown into a wild man of the bush, and growled at the world and at
humanity. I had provocation enough, for I was poor. Men who knew me
when I first came to the colony, and when I had money, knew me not
when I lost it. I lost my wife, too; and I had but my daughter and my
poverty left. Then, when men turned their backs to me, and I felt the
bitterness of it--(I know now that they were right; poverty should be
shunned)--I bent all my mind and soul to the one desire--to make
money. A slice of good fortune fell to my share. I resolved to grow
rich, and to make my daughter rich. I toiled, I slaved, I schemed for
her. I had an object, and life was less bitter than before. I said, My
daughter shall be the envy of those who knew me when I was poor; she
shall marry riches, and grow into fashion and into power from the
force of her father's and her husband's money. She shall be called the
rich squatter's daughter, and her children shall be educated to rule
the State. I knew well then, and know well now, the power of gold; it
could do all this for me, and more. There is no aristocracy in this
colony but the aristocracy of wealth; money is the god all worship
here! It ennobles the mean, it dignifies the vulgar. It is all
powerful. See what it does for me. What fascinations, what graces,
what virtues, do I possess, that people should cringe to me and
adulate me? And as they idolize me, a man of money, for my wealth, so
I idolize my wealth for what it brings me."
As he spoke from the vile selfishness of his heart, did the wailing
wind, sighing mournfully around him, suggest to his mind no more
precious thing in the world than gold? Did the pale stars and the
restless waves teach no lesson that such an egotist might learn, and
be the better for the learning? Did they tell no story from which he
might have learned a noble creed, had he but listened to their
teaching? No! he felt not their influence. He lived only in himself.
What was Nature to him? She gave him nothing that he should be
grateful for; what he received, all others received. And so he beheld
the swelling waves, and heard the wailing wind, and looked up to the
glimmering stars with indifference. What was the glory of the heavens
to him or to his life? A handful of gold and a sightful of stars! Was
not the gold which bought him human worship, more precious to him than
all?
"Oh, father!" murmured Alice: "money is not everything."
"Money is everything," he replied; "everything to me. Can you undo,
with a word, the study of my life? It was but little I asked in return
for the future I was working out for you. The man I selected for you
had wealth, position. Even if you had failed (as you _have_ failed,
but in a different manner) in the duty you owed to me, I could not
have forced the man upon you; even although you knew it was the only
reward I coveted for my life's labour, and refused at the last moment
to give it to me, you might still have been the daughter of my heart,
as you are of my blood. But to fly from me to _him_--a penniless
adventurer, a shallow, brainless coxcomb!" The thought seemed to cool
his passion, and exclaiming, "Why do I waste my time here?" he made a
movement towards the house.
"Stop, for pity's sake," Alice cried, stretching forth her arms; "stop
and hear me."
"Speak on," he said, between his clenched teeth. There was no hope in
his voice; it was hard and bitter.
"I came to-night, sir," Alice said, humbly bowing her head, and
forcing back her tears, "to appeal to you for the last time. You
may send me away, unhappy and broken-hearted--indeed, I am that
already--but oh, sir! reflect before you do so, and let your better
feelings guide you. Ah, sir! are all your thoughts about yourself and
your money, and have you no thought of me? I do not know a parent's
feelings, but soon"--and here her voice faltered--"soon I may become a
mother--forgive me, sir, these tears--I try to conquer them, but they
are too strong for me." She paused a few moments, and then continued:
"What sympathy, sir, could you expect me, a simple girl, to have with
your aspirations? I knew them not, and if you had confided them to me,
I should not have understood them--"
"Have you come to tutor me, girl?" he asked, coldly.
"No, sir. If my distress and my misery have no weight with you, what
can my poor words do? My husband--forgive me--I must speak of him."
"Go on."
"My husband, to whose fate and lot I am linked for ever--for ever,"
she repeated firmly, "is willing to work for me, is contented to keep
me, poor and friendless as I am. But he needs help. Give it him; give
it me, and I will trouble you no more. I will be content, so that you
assist us to live."
"Your husband is a man; he can work like other men. Let him do so. He
shall not live upon my bounty. No man need starve in this land of
plenty. Let him work, if he be not too proud."
"He is not too proud, sir. He has tried to get work, but failed. Help
him in his endeavor--you can do so. You have power, influence. And
think, sir, that even if I would, I cannot undo the past."
"Would you, if you could?"
"For pity's sake, sir, do not ask me."
"Would you, if you could?" he repeated, relentlessly.
"Then, sir, as you insist," she returned, "I reply, as is my duty, No.
He is my husband, and my future life is linked with his."
"Have you done?"
"I have but little more to say, sir. I feel from your voice that there
is scant hope for me! But oh, sir, before you turn from me, think of
what my future may be if you remain inexorable. You, who have
undergone privations in your early life, know what a stern master is
necessity. As yet, my husband is saved from crime--"
"Is this your last argument?" he interrupted. "It has no weight with
me. You cannot more disgrace me than you have already done. Here let
this end. I _am_ inexorable."
His voice, stern and unforgiving, carried conviction with it.
"Heaven help me!" she exclaimed sadly. "Then we must trust to chance."
And she turned from him, weeping.
There was a pause, and then he said, "I will not leave you entirely
unsatisfied. It is money, I suppose, you want. Here are fifty pounds.
It is the last you will ever receive from me while he and you are
together. Good night."
She raised her arms imploringly, but he was making towards the house.
He saw not the entreating action, nor did he hear the low wailing sobs
which broke from her as he walked away. A sad contrast was her
drooping figure upon the lonely sands to the glad life that moved in
the merchant's house! A sad accompaniment were her sobs to the strains
of music and the sounds of light laughter with which they mingled! The
guests within were joyous, while she, who should have been his one
joy, stood desolate on the shore. But despite her misery there was
hope deep within her heart--hope of a happy future yet with the man
with whose lot hers was linked. Her father had cast her off; but love
remained--love strong and abiding. How great the contrast! A good
woman's love and a hard man's greed of gold!