GRIF PROMISES TO BE HONEST.
Hunger has many phases; but in every phase except its physical one it
is comparative. Thus, a person may be eagerly desirous, hungry, for
something which his neighbour has, but which his neighbour,
possessing, does not value and thinks of no regard. What is wanted is
a moral, equable dispensation; yet if by any possibility such could be
arranged, false weights would be sure to be introduced, and things
would be unequal as before. And so the world goes on hungering, and
one hungry class groans for that with which the belly of another
hungry class is filled. Every step in the ladder of life is thronged
with climbers ready to reach the next, and although some be twenty
rounds above others, they are as restlessly unhappy in their high
position, and as restlessly desirous of getting a foot higher, as
those who are so far beneath them. It is the way of the world. The
heaven is always above us, and we climb, and climb, and climb, and
never reach our hopes.
And yet some of our desires are very small. Ambition is various;
large-souled aspirations and the meanest of cravings come within its
scope. Casually, we admire the aspirations of a noble mind which looks
above and beyond the grovelling littleness of humanity, and strives to
reach a goal where dwell the nobler virtues, studded with the jewels
of their worth and goodness. Casually, we pass by, as scarcely worthy
of contempt, certainly not worthy of notice, the paltry desires for
common things which fill some creatures' souls. Nevertheless, the
aspiration which stretches itself towards the nobler virtues may be no
finer than the paltry desire which pines for common things. 'Tis ten
to one that the latter is more human; and what is human must be good,
notwithstanding what some preachers say about the corruption of flesh,
and the vanity of desire.
Ask Grif. How paltry, how mean is his ambition! Ask him, in such
language as he can understand, what it is he most desires, what it is
he most craves for? He will answer, in his own way, Sufficient of the
commonest food to eat in the day, and a shelter and blanket to cover
him in the night. Is it his fault that he strives no higher? His
hungry body cries out to him, and he responds to its prompting. He
does not openly rebel against his fate. He knows that _it is_, and,
without any concerted action of the mind to assist him to that
conclusion, he feels that he cannot alter it. He does not repine; he
only wonders sometimes that things are so. Of course, when he is
hungry he suffers; that he cannot help. But he suffers in silence, and
thereby shows that he has within him the qualities that would make a
hero. But still the fact remains that he aspires no higher; still the
fact remains that he is dead to the conscious exercise of the nobler
virtues. Spread them before him, if such were possible, and he would
not even wonder. But his eyes would light up, and all his intellectual
forces would be gratified, at the sight of a bone with a little meat
upon it. Such is Grif, a human waif living in the midst of a grand and
mighty civilisation.
Is it possible that this same civilisation, of which we comfortable
ones prate and vaunt, depraves as well as ennobles? The thought is
pertinent to the subject. For here is Grif (unquestionably depraved
and debased in the eyes of that civilisation which does nothing for
him, which absolutely turns its back upon him), a piece of raw
material out of which much good might be wrought, suffering
much unmerited suffering, and surrounded by an atmosphere of
actively-conscious vice. The law looks unkindly upon him; policemen
push him aside as if he were an interloper in the world; and
well-dressed people shrink from contact with him as he slouches by.
Civilisation presses upon him unkindly. He does not deserve it. There
is a better nature within him than he is called upon to exercise in
his intercourse with his enemy, the world. The chord of that better
nature has been touched by Alice, so kindly, so commiseratingly, that
every nerve in his frame quivers with a passionate longing to serve
her. He can reckon on the fingers of one hand the objects for which he
has any human affection. Alice he loves far beyond the others, for he
feels that she is different to them. He has seen that she is unselfish
and self-sacrificing; and he knows (though he could not express it in
so many words) that she is good from principle, and that she is pure
because it is her nature to be pure. He has heard her renounce ease
and comfort, and choose poverty and suffering, so that she might play
the good angel to the man whom she loves. And at the goodness of that
renunciation, at the holiness of it, Grif fell down and worshipped her
with all his soul. Then there was Milly: his love for her had no
adoration in it, but was born of pity, tenderness, and gratitude. He
would do much to serve Milly, for she had been very kind to him. Then
came Little Peter. Grif loved that other little waif because he was so
helpless, and because it was so sweet to have some one to cherish and
take care of. His love for Little Peter had in it something of the
love of a mother. He asked for no reward in the shape of gratitude. It
was sufficient for him that Peter was dependent upon him--was his to
protect. It is truly more blessed to give than to receive!
Counting, then, upon one hand the objects of his love, Grif could
mention Alice, Milly, and Little Peter, and still leave a finger
unprovided for. A short time since--only two days ago--the dog Rough
would have closed the list; but Rough was dead, and the finger might
be regarded as widowed. Yes, Rough was dead. Grif's faithful follower,
his dumb companion, his honest servant, was gone--poisoned, murdered,
meanly killed! Tears, born of rage and desolation, came into Grif's
eyes as he thought of the death and the manner of it. But the
murderer! Revengeful justice found strong expression when Grif swore
and swore again that he would be even with the villain who had
murdered his dog.
It was the second night after the burial, and Grif and Little Peter
were sitting upon the ground near the grave. Grif was mourning for his
lost friend; if Rough had been his brother he could not have mourned
with more genuine grief. The night was chilly, and the wind whistled
sharply about the rags in which the boys were clothed. But they were
too much engrossed in special cares and griefs to pay more attention
to the remorseless wind than was expressed by a cold shiver now and
then, and an involuntary huddling together of their limbs. "I wouldn't
care if Rough was alive," mused Grif. "If he'd only come when I
whistle!" And the next moment he absolutely whistled the old familiar
call, and looked down, almost expecting to feel Rough's cold nose
rubbing against his hand. Disappointed in this, he looked to Little
Peter for sympathy.
He got none. Little Peter's nature was not sympathetic, and Grif
obtained no response from Little Peter's eyes or tongue as he placed
his hand against the lad's cheek. How thin and pale was that poor
little face of poor Little Peter's! What weariness of the trouble of
living was expressed in the attitude of his body and in every line of
his features! As he sat, drooping, trembling, hollow-cheeked,
wistful-eyed, he looked like a shrunken old child-man with every drop
of healthful life-blood squeezed clean out of him.
Gazing at the drooping figure, Grif forgot his own grief, and saying
"Poor Little Peter!" in a tone of much pity, drew closer to the lad,
and sat motionless for many minutes. Then he rose.
"Come along, Peter," he said, "it's time we was off."
But Little Peter did not move.
"Asleep, Peter?" asked Grif.
A slight quivering of Little Peter's body was the only reply.
"Wake up, Peter!" persisted Grif, shaking him gently by the shoulder.
Still Little Peter made no response, but sat quiet, with head drooping
to his knees.
Grif knelt quickly upon the ground, and raised Peter's head. The large
eyes opened slowly and gazed vacantly at Grif, and a strong trembling
took possession of Peter. His limbs relaxed, and he would have fallen
upon his face to the earth had not Grif caught him in his arms. Where
he lay, trembling and shivering.
"He's took ill!" cried Grif, with a sudden apprehension. "They won't
take him in at the horspital! What shall I do?"
Grif, aware of the necessity of immediate action, lifted Little Peter
upon his shoulder. As he did so, and as Little Peter's head sank
forward upon Grif s breast, a small stone heart, hanging from a piece
of common string, fell from the little fellow's neck. Grif caught it
in his hand and held it. Ever since he had known Peter this little
stone heart had been round the boy's neck. He would have lost it long
ago, had it been of any value; but its worthlessness was its security.
So with the stone heart in his hand and Peter upon his shoulder, Grif
walked slowly back to the city. Now and then a wayfarer stopped and
looked after ragged Grif and his ragged burden. But Grif walked
steadily on, taking no notice of curiosity mongers. Once he was
stopped by a policeman, who questioned him.
"He's my brother," said Grif, telling the lie without the smallest
compunction, "and he's took ill. I'm carryin' of him home."
Carrying of him home! The words caused Grif to reflect and ask himself
where he _should_ carry Little Peter. The barrel? Clearly, that was
not a fit place for the sick lad. He knew what he would do. He would
take Peter to Milly's house. Grif's instincts were nearly always
right.
Soon he was in the city, and choosing the quietest streets, he made
his way to the quarter where Milly lived. There was a light in her
room. He walked slowly up the stairs, and knocked at the door. No
answer came. He knocked again, and listened. A sound of soft singing
reached his ears, and opening the door, he entered the room and stood
still.
Milly was at the further end of the room, kneeling by the side of a
bed on which lay a baby asleep. Her hands were clasped, and she was
smiling, and singing softly to herself, and looking at the face of her
baby, the while she gently swayed her body to and fro. He stood
wondering. "I never knowed she had a baby," he muttered inly, under
his breath.
Love and devotion were expressed in every curve of the girl's body.
The outline of her face, her hair hanging loosely down, the graceful
undulations of her figure, were beautiful to look at. She was singing
some simple words which might have been sung to her when she was a
sinless child, and the good influence of sweet remembrance was upon
her, and robed her with tenderness.
"Milly!" whispered Grif.
She turned quickly at the sound, and seeing Grif, cautioned him by
signs not to make a noise; and then, after placing her cheek
caressingly against her baby's, came towards him.
"What do you want, Grif?" she asked. "Who have you got there?"
"It's Little Peter," said Grif, placing the boy on the ground; "he's
took ill, and I don't know what to do."
Milly raised Peter's head to her lap, and bent over him.
"Poor Little Peter!" she said. "How white he is, and how thin! Perhaps
he's hungry."
"No," said Grif. "I know what's the matter with him. He caught cold
t'other night, when I took him with me to bury my dawg. It was rainin'
hard, and we both got soppin' wet. It didn't matter for me, but he was
always a pore little chap. I ought to have knowed better."
"To bury your dog!" repeated Milly. "Why, I saw him with you the night
before last."
"Yes, Milly, that was when you gave me that shillin'. Rough was all
right then. But he was pizened that night."
"Poisoned!"
"Yes," very mournfully.
"Who poisoned him?"
"The Tenderhearted Oysterman."
"The mean hound!"
"He heerd me say somethin' agin him when I was speakin' to you, Milly,
so he took it out of me by pizenin' the dawg. But I'll be even with
him!"
By this time Milly had undressed Little Peter, and placed him in the
bed by the side of her baby.
"There!" she said. "He'll be all right to-morrow. I'll make him some
gruel presently. He's got a bad cold, and wants keeping warm."
"You're a good sort, Milly," said Grif, gratefully. "I'd have carried
him to the horspital, but I didn't think they'd take him in."
"No; they wouldn't take him there without a ticket, and where could
you have got _that_ from?"
"Blest if I know!" exclaimed Grif. "Nobody would give _me_ a ticket, I
shouldn't think!" This remark was made by Grif in a tone sufficiently
indicative of his sense of his abasement.
"But I say, Milly," he continued, "I didn't know you had a baby. May I
look at him?"
"It's a little girl," said Milly, smiling, leading Grif towards the
bed, and turning down the coverlid so that he might get a peep of
baby's face. "Isn't she a beauty?"
Grif bent over the bed, and timidly put his hand upon baby's. The
little creature involuntarily grasped one of Grit's dirty fingers in
her dimpled fist, and held it fast.
"It's like a bit of wax," said Grif, contemplating with much
admiration the difference between baby's pretty hand and his own
coarse fingers. "Will she always be as nice, Milly?"
"You were like that once, Grif," Milly remarked.
"Was I, though?" he replied, reflectively; "I shouldn't have thought
it. How did I come like this I wonder?"
Here the baby opened her eyes--which had a very wide-awake look in
them, as if she had been shamming sleep--and stared at Grif,
seriously, as at some object really worth studying. To divert her
attention from a study so unworthy, Grif smiled at the baby, who, thus
encouraged, reflected back his smile with interest, and crowed into
the bargain. Whereat Milly caught her in her arms, and pressing her to
her breast, covered her face with kisses.
"How old is she, Milly?" asked Grif, regarding this proceeding with
honest pleasure.
"Ten weeks the day after to-morrow," replied Milly, who, as is usual
with young mothers, reckoned forward. "And now, Grif, if you will hold
her, I will make some gruel for Little Peter. Be careful. No; you
mustn't take her like that! Sit down, and I will put her in your lap."
So Grif squatted upon the ground, and Milly placed the child in his
lap. He experienced a strange feeling of pleasure at his novel
position. It was a new revelation to him, this child of Milly's. Milly
herself was so different. He had never seen her in so good a light as
now. Hitherto he had in his thoughts drawn a wide line between her and
Alice; a gulf that seemed impassable had divided them. Now the gulf
was bridged with human love and human tenderness. Alice was all good;
but was Milly all bad?
He looked at her as she was making the gruel. Tender thoughts
beautify; a mother's love refines. She was kneeling before the fire,
pausing in her occupation now and then to bestow a smile upon her
child. Once she rested her face in baby's neck, caressingly. Her hair
hung upon Grif's hand, and he touched it and marvelled at the contrast
between Milly of yesterday and Milly of to-day. Then he fell to
wondering more about Milly than he had ever wondered before. Had she a
father, like Alice, who was unkind to her? What was it that she saw in
Jim Pizey that made her cling to him? Why was it that everything
seemed to be wrong with those persons whom he loved? Rough had been
poisoned, Little Peter was ill, Milly was attached to a bad man, and
Alice--well, it was a puzzle, the whole of it! While he thus thought,
Milly had been giving Little Peter the gruel.
"Milly," Grif said, when she returned from the bed, "have you got a
mother and father?"
The girl turned a startled look upon him, and was about to make some
passionate reply, but suddenly checked herself.
"Don't ask me, Grif," she said, in a hard voice. "How is your lady?"
Her old spirit was coming upon her. Grif knew that she meant Alice by
"your lady," and he was hurt by the scornful ring of her voice. Seeing
that he was grieved, Milly said:
"Don't mind me, Grif; now I'm soft, and now I'm hard. I've got the
devil in me sometimes, and I can't keep him down. But I mustn't
think--I mustn't think--I mustn't think. Of course, I've got a mother
and father, and my mother and father's got a daughter they might be
proud of. Everybody used to tell me so. I had a pretty face, pretty
hands, pretty feet, pretty hair. I'm a pretty daughter altogether! Why
wasn't I ugly? Then I might have been good!"
She took the baby from Grif s arms, and pressed it to her bosom.
"If I knew how to be good," she said, in a softened voice, "I think I
would be. But I don't know how. If I was to go out of this house
to-night, I shouldn't know which way to turn to be good. I'd be sure
to turn wrong. I don't care!" And then she sang, recklessly, "I'm
happy, I'm careless, I'm good-natured and free; and I don't care a
single pin what the world thinks of me!"
"Don't, Milly! don't!" pleaded Grif, placing his hand upon hers, and
looking earnestly at her.
She took his hand convulsively, and put it to her baby's lips.
"That won't do baby any harm," she said, after a pause. "I wonder if
baby will grow up pretty, like me. Oh, I hope not, I hope not!"
"She's got eyes like your'n," said Grif, wishing to change her humour.
"Prettier than mine," Milly replied. "But if it wasn't that I should
go mad if I was to lose her, I wish she would die! It would be better
for her, but I think it would be worse for me. What's that in your
hand?"
It was Little Peter's stone heart, which Grif had held all the while.
"It's Little Peter's heart," he said.
"Of course it is; I remember it now. It belonged to his mother."
"Where is she?" asked Grif, eagerly, for this was the first time he
had heard of Little Peter's mother.
"She died two years ago in the hospital."
"Did you know her, Milly?"
"I went with a friend to see her when she was dying. She was a Welsh
woman. She put the heart round Little Peter's neck when we took him to
wish her good-bye, for the doctor said she would die before night."
"What did she die of, Milly?" The subject was full of interest to
Grif.
"Broken heart. Somebody played her false, as usual. I shan't die of a
broken heart--not I! Drink will be my death--the sooner the better!
Hush! There's Jim. Who else? The Tenderhearted Oysterman."
Grif jumped to his feet, trembling with passion.
"He mustn't see you. He'll do you a mischief. Perhaps he won't stop
long. Get under the bed-clothes, and pretend to be asleep. Quick! For
God's sake!"
She thrust him hurriedly into the bed, and had barely time to conceal
him and resume her position, before Jim and his companion entered.
Milly smiled at Jim, but neither he nor his companion took heed of
her. They seated themselves near the fire, and Milly sat upon the bed,
which was in the shadow of the room.
"We must have him," said the Tenderhearted Oysterman, apparently in
continuance of a conversation. "The old bloke always keeps a heap of
money in his safe at Highlay Station; and Dick Handfield knows every
nook and cranny of the place. I've heard him say so. He knows all the
secret drawers, too, I'll be bound, and where the keys are to be
found, and where the hiding places are. We must have him, Jim."
At the mention of Highlay Station, Grif pricked up his ears. That was
the Station which Alice had spoken of in their conversation a couple
of nights ago. But when, the next instant, the Tenderhearted Oysterman
uttered Richard Handfield's name, he started, and caught Milly's hand
excitedly. Milly pressed him down with quiet, warning action, and,
recalled to the necessity of being cautious, Grif lay still and
listened. Milly paid but little attention to the conversation. She did
not know anything of Highlay Station, nor that Alice was Richard
Handfield's wife, and it was no novelty to her to hear schemes of
robbery discussed by Jim and his associates.
"You talk," said Jim Pizey. "But I like to do."
"What do you mean by that?" asked the other.
"Not that you're not cool enough," continued Jim, "you're as good a
pal as I ever want to have, if you'd only stop that damned cant of not
hurting people." (The Tenderhearted Oysterman gave a quiet chuckle.)
"I know well enough that you don't mean it."
"Now Jim," expostulated the Oysterman, and yet evidently regarding his
comrade's words as a compliment. "It's a good job there's no one by to
hear you take away my character."
"But others don't know you as well as I do, and there's plenty of them
would think you were chicken-hearted."
"Do I look like it?" asked the Tenderhearted Oysterman in a tone of
villanous humility.
"No, you don't. But you'd make believe that you was. If I didn't know
you for one who would stick at nothing--nothing, not even short of--"
"Never mind what," interrupted the Oysterman, looking at Milly, who
was employed nursing her baby, and did not appear to be taking heed of
what was said.
"If I didn't know you for that, then, I'd have nothing to do with you,
for your infernal cant sickens me."
There was a pause in the conversation. Grif still held Milly's hand
hard. He felt there was something coming which would affect Alice, and
every word that was being uttered stamped itself upon his mind.
"Dick Handfield we must have, and Dick Handfield we will have,"
resumed Jim. "If we can't have him one way, we will another. I've got
a hook in him already, and if he hangs on and off as he's been doing,
the white-livered skunk! the last two weeks, he'll get a dose that'll
pretty well settle him."
"What sort of a dose, Jim?"
"I bought a watch of him this morning--here it is. I gave him five
pounds for it. It's a pretty little thing. Just the thing for Milly!
Milly."
"Yes, Jim," answered Milly, disengaging her hand from Grif's grasp,
and walking towards Jim, for fear he should come to the bed, and
discover Grif.
"Here's a watch I've bought for you. It belonged to a lady."
"Oh, what a beauty!" cried Milly, her eyes sparkling with eager
delight as she looked at the pretty bauble.
"Well, it's yours now, my girl. I promised you should have one when
the young 'un came."
"Thank you, Jim," said Milly, returning to the bed, with the present
in her hand.
"He's just like me, Milly," said the Tenderhearted Oysterman; "he's as
soft as a piece of putty. But I can't see how that watch is a dose,
Jim."
"I gave Dick Handfield five pounds for that watch," said Jim, "and I
paid him for it with a forged note."
At these words, Milly, who had been looking at the watch, and
examining it with the pleasure of a child when it receives a new toy,
dropped it upon the bed, with a heavy sigh.
"Then I took him to Old Flick's, and Old Flick gave him five
sovereigns for the note. There was a man in the store when Dick
Handfield changed the note, and Old Flick, who knew all about the lay,
asked Dick Handfield all sorts of questions and regularly confused
him. That's a pretty good dose for him, I think. I shall ask him
to-morrow for the last time to join us. If he refuses, Old Flick shall
give him in charge for passing a forged note, and the man who was in
the store at the time will be the witness. Handfield will be glad
enough to join us when he finds he's in the web. He'd sooner go up the
country with us than go to quod--if it was only for the sake of that
woman of his, that white-faced piece of virtue he calls his wife."
"Alice her name is," said the Tenderhearted Oysterman, sneeringly.
"She's as much his wife as I am."
"It's a lie, Milly, a lie!" whispered Grif, in an agony of rage and
despair at what he had heard. "She _is_ his wife!" Oh, if he could get
away from the room to tell Alice of the danger which surrounded her
husband! He dug his nails in his hand, and his faithful heart beat
furiously.
Milly placed her hand upon his lips.
"You're a liar, Oysterman!" she said, quietly. "The girl _is_ his
wife."
Grif took Milly's hand, and kissed it again and again for the
vindication.
The Tenderhearted Oysterman turned sharply upon Milly, and was about
to answer her when Jim Pizey said,--
"Milly's right. The girl is his wife. You don't know everything,
Oysterman. But now I'll tell you that that girl is the daughter of Old
Nuttall, the rich squatter of Highlay Station. Dick Handfield was
living on the Station for a goodish time--that's how he came to know
all about it. The girl fell in love with him, and they ran away and
got married."
"And a pretty nice thing she made of it!" sneered the Oysterman. "I
hate these milk-sop women!"
"I wonder what sort of a woman you'd ever be fond of, Oysterman!" said
Milly, with bitter sarcasm. "I wonder if _you'd_ ever get a woman to
love you, and think you a model of anything but what's mean!"
"Serve you right, Oysterman," said Jim, laughing. "Never you speak
against women when a woman is by."
The Tenderhearted Oysterman had turned white in the face when Milly
spoke.
"You're a nice sort of woman, _you_ are," he exclaimed, with a snarl.
"I'd never want _you_ to love me and think me a model."
"A good job for you," she exclaimed. "I pity the woman you'd take a
fancy to, or the man either, for that matter. If I was Jim, I'd pitch
you downstairs."
"Come, come, Milly," said Jim, "we've had enough of that."
"No, we haven't," cried Milly, who was thoroughly roused. "You're a
man, you are. You're bad enough, God knows! but there _is_ something
of a man in you. But that cur!" She placed her baby on the bed, and
advanced a step towards the men, and pointed to the Oysterman. "That
cur!" she repeated in a tone of such contempt that the Oysterman's
blood boiled with fury. "That kicker of women and poisoner of dogs!
What do you think he did, the night before last, Jim? He crawled to
where poor little Grif was sleeping, and gave a piece of poisoned meat
to Grif's dog. He did, the mean hound! That was a nice manly thing to
do, wasn't it!"
"Come along, Oysterman," said Jim Pizey, half angry and half amused,
taking his comrade by the arm. "It's no use answering her. She talks
to me sometimes like that. Come along, and have a drink."
And by sheer strength he forced the Oysterman out of the room.
"That's done me good," said Milly, when the men were gone, taking her
baby to the fire.
Grif started to his feet.
"Thank you, Milly," he said. "I'll tell Ally how you stood up for
her."
"Don't you do anything of the sort," said Milly, who, now her passion
was over, was crying. "It isn't fit that my name should be mentioned
to her. She's a good woman."
"And so are you, Milly," said Grif, inwardly struggling with his
doubts.
"I'm not, nor ever shall be. That watch" (pointing to it) "was hers, I
suppose."
"I s'pose so. I never sor it."
Milly took it in her hand and opened the case.
"Here's her name," she said. "Alice Handfield. And here's a motto:
Hope, Faith, and Love. And she gave it back to her husband, because
they were hard up, perhaps, and Jim bought it of him with a forged
note. Oh, my God! What a web of wickedness and goodness!"
"I must go" cried Grif, "I must go and tell them--I must go and put
Ally up to it."
"Up to what?" exclaimed Milly, a light breaking upon her. "Up to the
forged note! You'll go and tell her that you heard Jim say he paid for
the watch with a forged note? And her husband 'll have Jim took up,
and you'll be witness against him!" She glided swiftly to the door,
and turning the key, put it in her pocket.
"What do you do that for?" asked Grif. "I _must_ go, Milly. I'll break
open the door."
"No, you won't," said Milly, taking fast hold of him. "You shan't get
Jim into trouble. He's been kind to me, though he is a bad man, and
you shan't peach upon him."
"Let me go, Milly," cried Grif, gently struggling.
"You don't go till Jim comes in," she said, still retaining her hold
of him, "and then--good God!" she cried, in a voice of despair and
horror. "Then, he'll kill you!"
The conflict of thought was too much for her. She relaxed her hold,
and Grif flew to the door, and broke the frail lock. Then he looked
back. Milly had fallen to the floor, and was sobbing convulsively. Her
baby was lying by her side.
Grif went to her and raised her.
"Milly," he said, "don't take on so. I won't hurt you or Jim. But I
must be true to Ally. If I couldn't I'd go and drown myself. I
couldn't live, and not be true to her. She said I was her only friend,
and I swore that I'd be so till I die! And I will be, till I die--and
I'd like to die for her, for she's a good woman, Milly!"
"She is--she is," groaned Milly; "and I'm a bad and wicked one."
"You're not, Milly, you're not," said Grif, emphatically. "You're
good, but another sort of good! See what you've done for Little Peter
to-night," and he kissed her hand; "see what you've done for me many
and many a time; and see how you stood up for Ally jist now, although
every word you said was agin yourself!" he kissed her hand again. "You
can't be bad and wicked! And I won't hurt you, and I won't hurt Jim,
because of you. I won't, you may believe me! I'll tell Ally that her
husband must go away to-night. He was agoin' away--I heerd him say
so--and perhaps he's gone already. I won't tell her about the forged
note. I'll say that I heerd a plot, and I won't tell her what it is.
She'll believe me, I know she will. And so I shall do her good, and I
shan't do you any harm!"
Grif spoke earnestly, for as his words brought to his mind the
remembrance of Milly' s unselfish kindness, the conviction that it
would be wicked to harm her or wound her feelings, grew stronger and
stronger.
"God bless you!" said Milly.
Truly, Grif was not entirely unhappy or forsaken. The blessing, even
from Milly, fell upon his heart like dew upon a parched field.
"Ah, if you sor Ally!" Grif continued. "If you knew her! You wouldn't
wonder at me then for sayin' I'd like to die for her! Why, do you know
what I've heerd her do? I've heerd her refuse to go where she'd have
everything she could set her heart upon. I've heerd her refuse it
because it wouldn't be right, although lots of women would think it
was, and because she means to keep good if she dies for it! She'd make
you good, Milly!"
Milly looked at him and laughed hysterically.
"Make me good!" she exclaimed, half-defiantly. "She couldn't, she
couldn't! It's too late for that?" Then, as Grif rose to go, she said,
"You won't say anything about the forged note?"
"No, Milly. Take care of poor Little Peter. If ever I can do you a
good turn, I'll do it--you mind if I don't!"
He went to the bed where little Peter was sleeping. The lad was lying
on his side, hot and flushed, with his lips partly open, as if thought
were struggling to find expression there. Grif placed his hand
tenderly upon Peter's cheek, and then went out of the house.
When he arrived at Alice's lodging he crept up the stairs, and with a
settled purpose, which gave intensity to his face, opened the door.
Husband and wife were standing, looking into each other's eyes. Tender
words had evidently been exchanged, for they stood hand in hand, he
with the dawn of a good and strong purpose upon his face, she
encouraging him with hopeful, loving speech. A blanket, rolled up,
gold-digger fashion, was upon the ground. Grif walked swiftly towards
them and asked abruptly--
"Are you goin' away to-night?"
There was so much earnestness in his manner, that, with startled
looks, they asked for his meaning.
"I can't tell you," he said, in a rapid, sharp tone; "I'm under a
promise not to tell. But you must go away to-night."
"We were thinking just now, Grif," said Alice, "whether it would not
be better for him to go in the morning."
"Make up your mind at once," said Grif, looking round as if he were
fearful of being overheard, "that it won't do to wait here any longer.
I've overheerd somethin', Ally, and I'm bound down not to tell. If you
stop till to-morrow, somethin' dreadful 'll happen."
"Richard, you must go," said Alice, with gathering alarm, for Grif's
impressiveness was filling her with fearful forebodings. "You must go,
and at once."
"But why?" asked Richard, fretfully, and regarding Grif as if he were
anything but a friend. "Why must I go? Why can't he tell what he
knows? What difference will a few hours make?"
"All the difference," said Grif; "in a few hours perhaps you won't be
able to go at all, unless--"
"Unless--" repeated Alice, eagerly.
"Unless it's in company with Jim Pizey and the Tenderhearted
Oysterman. They've set a trap for you that you won't be able to get
out of, if you refuse to join 'em. Don't ask me again to tell you what
I've overheerd, for I can't I mustn't I darn't! I've run all the way
here to tell you that there's more and more danger every minute you
stop. It'll be all the better for you to go away in the dark."
Weak natures like Richard Handfield's are easily impressed, and more
easily impressed with fear, which springs from selfishness, than with
any other feeling. Almost without knowing what he was doing, Richard
proceeded to sling the blanket round his shoulders. Alice's eager
fingers assisted him.
"Grif is right, dearest," she said; "I'm sure he is. His looks are
against him, but he is a faithful friend." Grif nodded his head, and
his eyes brightened. "After all, it is but a few hours more. They
would soon be past. Bless you, darling I bless you, Richard!" She
kissed him again and again, and clung to him, and broke away from him,
choosing rather to endure the pain springing from repressed
tenderness, than do aught, in word or deed, to weaken him in his
purpose.
"Yes, I will go," he said, in a decided tone, and having made up his
mind, he took Alice in his arms and held her to him. While thus they
clung together, she whispered,--
"Be strong and firm, Richard dear!"
"I will, dearest and best," he said, as with a passionate
love-clinging he held the good and faithful woman to his breast.
"If the thought that I am true to you, darling--that I am yours in
life, and afterwards--that I would share a crust with you and be happy
if you were so--if that thought will strengthen and comfort you,
Richard, take it with you, keep it in your mind, for, oh! it is true,
my darling, it is true!"
"I know it, Alice, I know it."
"I shall bless you and pray for you every day. Until we are together
again, my eyes can never close without thinking of you. See, Richard,
I am not crying." She put his hand to her eyes, which were hot but
tearless. "I can send you away with gladness, for it is the beginning
of a better time. Though I feel that it is hard to part with you, I
can say cheerfully, Go, my dear, for I know that your going is for the
good of both of us. Write to me often, and tell me how and where to
write to you. Good bye, good bye--Heaven bless and preserve you!"
And she broke from him, and then, meeting his eyes, a look of electric
love brought them together again, and once more their arms were twined
about each other's neck. Then she glided from his embrace, and sank
upon the stool. Richard walked slowly out of the room, his heart
filled with love and tenderness, his eyes seeking the ground. It was
bitter to part. Even in the agony of separation he found time to
murmur at the hardness of his lot which tore him away from the woman
who was to him as a saint. As he walked down the stairs, his foot
kicked against something. He stooped and picked it up. A stone heart!
Indeed, Little Peter's stone heart which Grif had dropped without
knowing it. Richard's nature was superstitious. The shape of the stone
was comforting to him. A heart! It was a good omen. He put it
carefully in his pocket, and was about to close the street door when
an uncontrollable impulse urged him to look again upon Alice's face.
He ran up the stairs into the room. Alice was still sitting upon the
stool, her head and arms were resting upon the table; and she was
convulsed with outward evidences of a grief she had no longer any
motive to conceal.
He spake no word, but kneeling before her, bowed his head in her lap,
as a child might have done. She looked at him through her tears, and
placed her hands upon his head: in that action were blended the
tenderness of a mother to her child and a wife to her husband. He
raised his lips to hers; they kissed once more, solemnly, and he went
out of the house with her tears upon his face. As he walked along the
streets towards the country where was hidden the gold which had
tempted thousands to break up happy homes and sever fond ties of
affection, the picture of Alice mourning for him, and Grif quiet and
sad in the background, was very vivid to his mind. No forewarning of
the manner of their next meeting was upon him; if it had been, he
would have taken Grif's hand, and kissed it humbly, penitently,
instead of parting from him without a farewell nod.
Left alone with Alice, Grif, with a delicacy of feeling in keeping
with his general character, was about to retire, when Alice, in a
voice broken by emotion, said,--
"Do not go for a minute or two, Grif. I want to speak to you."
Grif gave a nod of acquiescence, and sat upon the floor, patiently.
Presently Alice dried her eyes and beckoned him to come closer to her.
"Grif," she said, in a sweet voice. "Why are you not honest?"
Now, Grif knew perfectly well the meaning of honesty--that is to say,
he knew the meaning of the word literally. To be honest, one must not
take what belongs to other people. Well, he was not honest; he had
often taken what did not belong to him. But he was not a systematic
thief; what he had stolen he had stolen from necessity. And he had
never stolen anything but food, and then only when hunger sharply
pressed him. The thought flew swiftly to his mind that if he had not
taken food when he wanted it, he must have starved. Was that right?
No, he was sure it was not. Little as he knew about it, he was sure he
was not sent into the world to starve. But he must have starved if he
had not taken what belonged to other people! Clearly, then, it was not
wrong to steal. Grif's mind was essentially logical, as may be seen
from the process of thought which occupied it directly after Alice
asked him the question. And yet if he were right, Alice was wrong.
Could she be wrong? Could the woman who was to him the perfection of
women, the embodiment of all that was pure and noble--could she be
wrong? Here came the doubt whether it would not have been the proper
thing to have starved, and not stolen. "There'd have been an end of
it, at all events," he muttered to himself, when his musings reached
this point. After which he grew perplexed, and the logical sequence of
his thoughts became entangled. He did not blame Alice for asking the
question; but, for all that, he bit his lip and looked imploringly at
her.
"You have been so good a friend to me and Richard," she said, "that it
pains me to see you as you are. I would like to see you better, for
your sake and for mine, Grif."
"I never know'd how to be honest, Ally," he said. Then he thought of
Milly's words to him that night. "If I knew how to be good," she had
said, "I think I would be. But I don't know how." That was just the
case with him. He did not know how to be honest. And yet he had told
Milly that Alice could make her good. Perhaps Alice could make him
honest. Not that he cared particularly about being honest, but he
would like to please Alice. "I don't want not to be honest," he said;
"all I wants is my grub and a blanket."
"And those, Grif," she said, gently, yet firmly, "you can earn if you
like."
"Can I? I'd like to know how, Ally?"
"You must work for them."
"Yes, that's all right. I'm willin' enough to work. I'd go out this
minute to work, if I had it to do. But I couldn't get no work--a pore
beggar like me! I don't know nothin', that's one thing. And then, if I
get a 'orse to mind, the peelers take it from me and tell me to cut
off. I tried to git papers to sell, and I did one day; but some of the
other boys told the paper man I was a thief, and when I went for more
papers the next mornin' he wouldn't give 'em to me. I've got a
precious bad character, Ally, there's no mistake about that; and I've
been to quod a good many times. I can't look a peeler in the face,
upon my soul I can't!"
Grif did not make this last remark in a humorous manner; he made it
reflectively. It really was a fact, and he stated it seriously.
But Alice was not convinced.
"You're willing to work," she said.
"Yes, I'm willin' enough."
"Every one can get work if he likes, and if he tries."
Grif looked dubious. His knowledge of the world was superior to hers.
He had battled with it and fought with it since he was a baby. "She
don't know what a bad lot we are," he thought. But he was sincerely
desirous to please her.
"What do you want me to do, Ally?"
"I want you to give me a promise to be honest, Grif," she said,
earnestly.
"I'll do it," he replied, without a moment's hesitation. And then he
added seriously, for he felt he was undertaking a great
responsibility, "I'll be honest, Ally, whatever comes of it."
"And if ever you want anything to eat and can't earn it, Grif, you
will come to me."
"Yes, I'll come to you, Ally," he said, almost crying, for he knew how
poor she was.
"Suppose now, to-morrow morning you go into all the shops and ask if
they want an errand boy. That does not require any learning, Grif."
"No, I could do that all right; I can run fast, too. But you'll see,
Ally; it'll be no go."
"You'll try, Grif, will you not?"
"I'll try, Ally."
"This is the last night I shall be here. I am going to other lodgings
to-morrow, and shall remain there until my husband writes for me.
Perhaps he will write for me to join him on the diggings; if he does,
and you fail in getting work, you shall come with me, Grif."
He stood before her, mute and grateful. She wrote an address on a
piece of paper. "This is where I am going to live," she said, giving
it to him. He took it, and seeing that she was weary, bade her good
night.
"Good night, Grif, my good boy. I am very grateful for the service you
have done us this night."
"You've got no call to be grateful to me, Ally," said Grif. "Only let
me be your friend, as you said I was, and I don't want no more."
Outside the door, Grif considered where he should sleep. He did not
care to go to the barrel, for it would be so lonely there without
Little Peter. It had been Grif's chronic condition, before he took
possession of the barrel, never to know in the morning where he was
going to sleep at night. It all depended upon where he found himself
when he made up his mind to retire to rest. Knowing there was a cellar
to the house, he groped his way down to it.
"I wish I had a match," he muttered, when he was at the bottom of the
stairs. "There was a empty packin'-case somewhere about; I remember
seein' it. Oh, here it is; it's hardly long enough, but I can double
myself up;" thus soliloquising, he crept into it. "Now then," he said,
as he lifted the cover of the packing-case on the top, popping his
head down quickly to avoid a bump; "that's warm and comfortable, that
is. It'd be warmer, though, if I had Rough here, or Little Peter.
Wouldn't it be jolly! I'm honest now," he thought, recurring to his
promise, as he closed his eyes. "I'm honest now, that's what I am. I
ain't a-goin' to crib no more pies or trotters. It's a rum go, and no
mistake!"
And Grif fell asleep, and dreamt that all the pies and trotters he had
pilfered were transformed into little hobgoblins, and were holding a
jubilee because he had turned honest!