LITTLE PETER IS PROVIDED FOR.
Sailing down the stream of life in his new moral boat, of which he,
the Moral Shoeblack, was the Skipper, Grif was often at a loss what to
do with his leisure time. Having relinquished his profession of
vagrancy, he no longer felt himself at liberty to wander through the
streets without an object. He had an instinctive foreboding that the
Eye of the public was upon him, and was watching that he did not
misconduct himself. Every time he met that Eye (and he met it as often
as he dared to look into the human face) it appeared to be holding up
a warning finger, if such a metaphor may be allowed. It appeared to
say, Take care, now; be careful; no slouching about and trying to
deceive ME; I am watching you! He was so acutely sensitive of this
that it soon became his custom of an evening, when his day's work was
done, to wander into the suburbs, that he might escape from the Eye
which distressed him in the city's crowded streets. His day's work
often proved, in its result, a delusion and a snare; and on many and
many an evening did he gather together the implements of his trade,
and walk away without a sixpence in his pocket. He had no place where
he could safely deposit his bootstand and brushes, so wherever he
wandered he carried them with him.
Behold him now, with these badges of his office slung round his
shoulders, sauntering down a shady lane, with Little Peter by his
side. For Little Peter was better. Milly had nursed him through his
illness, and by her care had restored him to health. Was he grateful?
It is hard to say. Little Peter's mind was almost a blank. He suffered
without repining; he enjoyed without rejoicing. He took things as they
came, and never dreamt that any effort on his part could alter them.
After a scanty meal came hunger, and he waited patiently for the next
poor crumbs which charity bestowed him, and which he received without
gratitude. Then he hungered again and so on. It was all one to him.
Whether it were night or day was a matter of indifference.
Walking along listlessly by the side of his best friend, he paid no
heed to the beauty of nature, nor to the balmy air of evening. With
Grif it was different. He was keenly alive to the joys and sorrows of
life, and to all its surroundings. Even now, although he was hungry,
and heart-sore, and weary, he looked from side to side with eager
wonder and delight. The soft breeze was sweet to him, and he breathed
it in so gratefully that the shadow of a spiritual beauty stole into
his common face. He felt and rejoiced with nature that summer was
coming. The clouds smiled at its approach, and as Zephyr whispered the
glad tidings to field and forest, pretty blossoms peeped shyly out
from the bosom of the earth, wondering if winter had really taken its
departure. Grif was far from insensible to these influences, and the
delicious air of spring was in some measure a recompense to him for
the sufferings of his lot. So he sat him down under a hawthorn edge,
hungry yet grateful, and Little Peter sat beside him, looking at the
blood of the dying sun staining the western sky.
Not far from where he sat was the house of Nicholas Nuttall. The
female head of that house was in a high state of glorification, for
Matthew, their rich brother, had dined with them that day, and had
behaved so graciously that visions of future greatness grew in her
imagination. Matthew was a single man; of that fact she had made
herself sure by a process of cross-examination to which she had
subjected her lord and master the previous night. Certainly, her task
had not been an easy one, for Nicholas was singularly reticent and
hesitating in his replies to her eager queries; but goaded, pushed
thereto by his wife's perseverance, he had at length given her to
understand that his brother had no family.
"And why you should have endeavoured to keep the fact from me," Mrs.
Nicholas had said, before composing herself to sleep, "is beyond my
comprehension. I am not a murderess, and I don't wish to poison your
brother--I may say _our_ brother--to-morrow at dinner. But you always
_were_ aggravating, Nicholas. I wonder I've a bit of flesh left on my
bones!"
"You haven't much," thought Nicholas as, shifting himself in bed, he
came in contact with some of her bony protuberances; "you have worn it
nearly all away by nagging."
But Mrs. Nicholas Nuttall was satisfied. She had ascertained that
Matthew had no family, and that was sufficient for her. Whether he
were a widower or a bachelor was immaterial. He had no ties, and
Nicholas was his only brother. Nicholas was, therefore, the natural
heir to the property, and the one remaining duty her newly-found
brother-in-law owed to his family was not to remain too long upon
earth. Such a proceeding would be manifestly indecent.
Dinner was over, and Matthew and Nicholas were sitting in the
verandah, smoking their cigars. Had Matthew wished to smoke in the
drawing-room he might have done so; indeed, Mrs. Nuttall had hinted as
much, had even tried to prevail upon him to do so. She was so fond of
smoke! nothing was so agreeable as a good cigar! the fragrance, and
all that, was so delicious! (It was lucky for Nicholas that the wife
of his bosom did not see the sly smile which played about his lips
while she was uttering these rhapsodies.) But Matthew Nuttall would
not be persuaded. He was too shrewd a man not to see through the small
soul of Mrs. Nicholas, and he valued her excess of politeness at
exactly its proper worth.
Thus it was that, notwithstanding the importunities of Mrs. Nuttall,
Matthew and his brother were sitting in the verandah smoking their
cigars. When he had consented to dine with them he made it a special
provision that no guests were to be invited to meet them; it was
to be a quiet family dinner. And Mrs. Nuttall, although inwardly
disquieted--for she had laid out plans for a grand entertainment in
honour of the rich squatter, an entertainment which would humiliate
her neighbours (there is even that sort of pride in the Australian
colonies)--wisely deferred to his wish. They had spent a pleasant
afternoon. Mrs. Nuttall was amiability personified, although her
graciousness was a trifle too obtrusive; and both Matthew and
Nicholas, without any thought of pounds, shillings, and pence, were
genuinely glad to renew brotherly relations. They sat together in
silence, each engrossed in his own special thoughts. Nicholas was
speculating upon his brother's previous life. From what Matthew had
said to him on the occasion of their first meeting, he knew that there
was present unhappiness connected with it--some domestic misery which
even now, in spite of all his obstinate attempts at concealment, was
preying upon his heart. Nothing could more surely denote this than his
behaviour to his niece, Marian. Now, he would be all tenderness to
her, would speak to her affectionately, caressingly; and now, as if
some sudden remembrance had risen, which chilled the tender feeling,
he would turn cold and stern, and would strive to steel himself
against her girlish graces and fascinations. It was happiness and
torture to be in her society, for she reminded him of his daughter.
When she was present he juggled with his senses, and, shutting his
eyes, believed that it was Alice who was in the room. Ha could feel
her presence about him, and while the impression was strong upon him,
the love he bore to her came back to his heart, bringing with it a
painful sense of desolation. For he did love her, in spite of all; he
did love her, although he would never look upon her face again. To
that he was pledged. He had told her he would never see her again
unless she renounced her husband; at the time he had told her, and
ever since, he knew that she would be faithful to her marriage
vows--he knew that she would be faithful till death to the man she had
chosen. The words he had spoken to her on the night she made her last
appeal to him were constantly recurring to him: "The day you ran away
from your home I resolved to shut you from my heart as long as you
were tied to that scheming scapegrace." Ah! but could he shut her from
his heart? No, he felt that he could not do that. Her sweet pale face
was for ever pleading to him. It was indelibly stamped upon his mind,
and he could not efface it. Not long ago, when he was in his grand
house at Highlay Station, he rose from his bed one night, and went to
the room she used to occupy. There he sat down, and conjured her
before him. Then he went outside the house, and looked around. All was
his as far as he could see, and miles beyond and on every side of him.
He was lord of range and gully, and all that was thereon. Forests of
iron-bark and gum, tens of thousands of sheep, vast herds of oxen,
droves of horses, the growing wealth of mountain and plain, were his.
He was lord of all. Yet, as he stood there gazing on his greatness, he
would gladly have bartered it for his daughter's love. Thus much he
confessed to himself. He knew his own weakness, but the world should
not know it. He owed it to himself that he should be consistent in
this. Often and often he thought to himself that Alice might be in
want, might be suffering. Well, if she suffered, did he not suffer
also? The worst of suffering was his. The suffering of a lonely life,
unblessed by a single caress. No, not one--not one loving smile, not
one bright look, of the tender light of which he could say, "This is
for me, from the heart; it is not bought." Worshipper as he was of the
power of money, these thoughts came home to him, and brought
desolation with them.
The soft sycophancy of Mrs. Nuttall disgusted him; he knew well enough
what evoked it. And he marvelled how it was that his brother, who was
unselfish and tender-hearted, could have married such a cross-grained
woman. "But I suppose Nicholas did not know her nature until it was
too late," he thought; "all women are false--all women are two-faced,
deceitful, or mean, or selfish, or something worse." All? He knew he
was lying to himself. All women were not so. The remembrance of his
married life rose before him, for it had been a happy one. His wife
had been to him an angel of devotion and goodness. All women were not
bad; but he took a stern delight in striving to make himself believe
so.
Nicholas had been watching the shadows of sad remembrance pass over
his brother's face; he was getting to be an old man, but his heart was
very tender to his brother, and he yearned to administer consolation.
"Mat," he said, "you are not happy."
"No, I am not." The reply was drawn from him almost involuntarily.
"Can I do anything?"
"Nothing, Nic." He paused for a short while, and then, laying his hand
upon his brother's arm, he said, "When we first met I hinted that I
did not wish my domestic life touched upon. I may one day speak of it
to you; until then let it remain a sealed book between us." Nicholas
bent his head. "I think it is your pretty little blossom, Marian, that
has opened my wounds this afternoon, for I--I once had a daughter
myself." He passed his hand across his eyes, and rose. "I see Marian
in the garden," he said; "I will take a stroll with her."
He pressed his brother's hand, and joined Marian. Nicholas looked
after him, and sighed. "So rich," he said, "and so unhappy! I am
happier than he, notwithstanding--yes, notwithstanding that I am
blessed with Mrs. Nuttall." The appearance of that lady upon the
verandah just at the moment he uttered this qualification, made him
feel very guilty, and he mutely thanked Heaven that she had not heard
him.
"Where is brother Matthew, my dear?" she inquired, in her most sugary
tones.
"He is taking a stroll with Marian," replied her spouse, pointing to
the two figures in the distance. "They are just turning into the
lane."
Mrs. Nicholas Nuttall looked, and seated herself with a satisfied air.
Things were going on famously. Matthew would make his niece his
heiress. Should they stop in the colony, or return to England when
that event occurred? It might occur any day. People went off so
suddenly in these hot climates. As she pondered, the servant came on
to the verandah with coffee, of which Nicholas took a cup thankfully.
It was not every day that such attention was paid him. Mrs. Nicholas
Nuttall declined coffee. Her soul was too highly attuned for such
common beverage.
"She is a dear good girl!" she mused.
"That she is, Maria," assented Nicholas, sipping his coffee, "and her
wages are not at all high, as wages go. So neat and tidy, too!"
"Of whom are you speaking, Mr. Nuttall?" asked Mrs. Nuttall, with a
lofty stare of surprise at her husband.
"Of Jane, my dear, the new servant, of course."
"I referred to our child," said Mrs. Nuttall, in her grandest tones,
which always conveyed a frozen sensation to Mr. Nuttall's marrow; "to
our child, Marian. You do not suppose that I should speak in that
manner of a menial."
"Oh, I beg your pardon, I am sure," apologised Nicholas, very
crest-fallen. The next moment he almost choked himself in an attempt
to hide his shame by swallowing his coffee too hastily.
Mrs. Nuttall regarded with complacency his efforts to recover his
breath. His punishment was just.
"A dear good girl," repeated the lady, with emphasis, when Nicholas's
struggles had subsided. "And I shouldn't wonder if she mightn't look
as high as a lord, or even a marquis."
"I shouldn't wonder either, Maria," said Nicholas, profoundly
stupified by his wife's words. "I have often looked as high myself."
"The coffee has surely got into your head, Mr. Nuttall," observed Mrs.
Nuttall, with a look of supreme contempt.
"I must have coughed it up, I suppose, my dear," said Nicholas,
jocularly; he was fond of his joke, and enjoyed it even when Mrs.
Nuttall's freezing influence was upon him. "Don't be alarmed, Maria.
It will settle down eventually."
"Your coarse wit is beneath contempt," exclaimed Mrs. Nuttall,
severely, "and is cruelly out of place when the happiness of our only
child is concerned."
"Upon my soul, I haven't the slightest idea what you mean, Maria."
"Then I shall not explain, sir," said Mrs. Nuttall, rising with
dignity, and walking away.
Nicholas, perfectly satisfied at being deprived of her company,
disposed himself for a nap. Clearly, Mr. Nicholas Nuttall was not a
model for husbands.
In the meantime, Grif and Little Peter had not moved from where they
had at first seated themselves, under the shadow of the hawthorn
hedge. Their conversation had not been very animated. Once, Grif had
asked Little Peter if he was hungry, and Little Peter had answered,
Yes. And then Grif had unconsciously constituted himself a committee
of ways and means, and found that he was totally unable to vote the
supplies. Time was when, Little Peter being hungry, Grif would issue
forth and prowl about and beg, or steal perhaps; at all events, he
would seldom return to Little Peter without food, obtained somehow or
other. He could not do that now; he had taken the pledge of honesty;
he had renounced vagrancy, and he was helpless. Glancing at Little
Peter every now and then, he began to be perplexed with an entirely
new consideration. It was this. Little Peter was hungry. Grif had only
one means open of obtaining food. Supposing he was unfortunate the
next day, and was unable to supply Little Peter's stomach, what was to
be done? Here was a great difficulty; and looking it steadily in the
face, it dawned grimly upon Grif's mind that Little Peter was a
serious responsibility.
Engaged in the contemplation of this subject, Grif became suddenly
aware of the approach of two long shadows, and looking up, saw Matthew
Nuttall and Marian. Although the day was waning fast, he recognised
Alice's father on the instant. Their eyes met, and Matthew stopped.
Marian, whose hand was resting lightly on her uncle's arm, looked at
the two lads with compassion.
"You are the boy who came to Mr. Blemish's office for a situation one
day when I was there," said Matthew Nuttall in a tone of inquiry.
Grif looked an affirmative. He did not dare to trust himself to speak
just yet.
"And Mr. Blemish kindly gave you one," said Matthew.
Grif looked another affirmative.
"Are you doing well?"
"No, sir," Grif found voice to reply.
"He looks very miserable, uncle," said Marian, in a half whisper; "and
see that other little boy there. Is he asleep?"
"No, miss; he is hungry," Grif had to check a rising sob as he said
this. "Look up, Little Peter."
Little Peter looked up with his large pleading eyes, and then turned
his face to the ground again.
"He seems ill, uncle," whispered Marian. "Shall I run to the house,
and bring him something to eat?"
"Hush! my dear," said Matthew Nuttall, taking the girl's hand in his.
The little bit of womanly sympathy reminded him of his daughter, who
never allowed a poor man to go hungry from Highlay Station. "Wait a
moment. Is he your brother?" This to Grif.
"No, sir."
"Any relation?"
"Not as I knows on."
"Why are you two together?"
"I takes care on him," said Grif; "but I don't know what to do now. I
ain't got nothin' to give him to eat."
"Oh, uncle!" cried Marian.
But he did not release her hand.
"Where is his mother and father?"
"Got none."
"And yours?"
"Got none." Grif told the lie readily enough. He was ashamed of his
father, and did not want to be questioned about him.
"What have you earned to-day?"
"Nothin'."
"And have you had nothing to eat?"
"Not since this mornin'."
"How am I to know that you are telling the truth?"
The tears came to Grif's eyes. He would have given a saucy independent
answer, but the thought of Little Peter restrained him. He did the
best thing he could. He was silent.
"And you have no money?"
Grif turned out his pockets. Every one of them was full of holes. He
had answered Matthew Nuttall's questions quietly and sadly, not in
that reckless defiant manner which Matthew remembered he had used in
Mr. Blemish's office. This itself pleaded for him. The stern man of
the world knew genuine suffering when he saw it before him. The very
hopelessness which spoke out of Grif's voice was in the lad's favour.
He felt a desire to befriend Grif. But there were more questions to
ask before he determined.
"When you applied to Mr. Blemish for a situation, you said you had
given a promise to a lady. What was your promise?"
"I promised to be honest," answered Grif, wondering whether Matthew
Nuttall had any suspicion who the lady was.
"And you have kept your promise?"
"Yes."
"Why do you not go to the lady now you are hungry, and ask her for
assistance?"
"I don't like to," said Grif. "Somethin' pulls me back. She's hardly
got enough for herself, I think. She'd give it me out of her own
mouth, she would. She's poor--but she's good, mind! I never knowed any
one so good as her! And I'd lay down my life for her this minute if
she wanted me to!" He burned to tell who she was; he forgot his own
cause when he spoke of her. Ah! if he could make her happy! But some
feeling restrained him--some fear that he might make matters worse for
Alice if her father knew that she was a friend and companion to him,
who was no better than a thief.
"He speaks the truth, uncle, I am sure," said Marian.
"And so am I, my dear." He considered how he could best assist them.
"You lead a hard life," he presently said.
"I don't care for myself," Grif said; "only for Little Peter."
"Well, I will send you and Little Peter on to one of my Stations, if
you like, where you can learn to make yourself useful, and where at
all events you will have enough to eat and drink. Anything else will
depend upon yourself. What do you say?"
Grif's mind was made up in an instant. For Little Peter--yes. For
himself--no. He could not leave Alice. He would starve sooner.
"Will you take Little Peter, sir, and not me?" he asked, in a
trembling voice. "I can't leave this, sir. I've made a promise, and
daren't break it. The lady who's been kind to me might want me, and I
mustn't be away. I shan't like to part with Little Peter, sir, but
it'll be for his good. He's often hungry when I've got nothin' to give
him to eat. I ain't give him anythin' to-day, and p'rhaps shan't be
able to to-morrow. Don't say no, sir! Take Little Peter, and not me,
and I'll do anythin'--anythin' but go away from where she is." And
Grif burst into a passion of tears, and stood imploringly before
Alice's father.
He turned to his niece, and she caught his hand and pressed it to her
lips. He needed no stronger appeal in his then softening mood.
"It shall be as you ask," he said. "Little Peter, as you call him,
shall go with us now."
Grif lifted Little Peter to his feet. "This gentleman's going to take
care of you, Peter," he said. "You'll never be hungry no more." Little
Peter opened his eyes very wide. "You're to go with the gentleman,"
Grif continued, "and he'll give you plenty to eat and drink. You are
not sorry to part with me, are you?"
"No," replied Little Peter, with perfect sincerity.
A keen pang of disappointment caused Grif to press his nails into his
hands; he threw a troubled look at Little Peter, but he soon recovered
himself, and taking the child's wasted hand, he said tenderly, "Good
bye, Little Peter."
"Good bye," said Little Peter, without the slightest show of feeling.
A big lump rose in Grif's throat as he stooped to kiss the lad. He
touched his ragged cap when Matthew Nuttall gave him a piece of
silver.
"Thank you, sir," he said. "You'll take care on him?"
Matthew Nuttall nodded, and the three walked away. So Grif and Little
Peter parted. Grif gazed after the lad, but Little Peter did not turn
his head to give his more than brother one parting look of affection.
"Never mind," Grif thought, with a heavy sigh; "he'll never be hungry
no more." He sat upon the ground, and watched them till they were out
of sight. He was alone now. Rough was dead, and Little Peter was gone,
for ever. How lonely everything seemed! But there was comfort in the
thought that Little Peter was provided for, and would always have his
grub and a blanket. And with that reflection to console him, Grif laid
him down beneath the hawthorn hedge, and went to sleep with the stars
shining upon him.