ALICE AND GRIF MEET FRIENDS UPON THE ROAD.
With a dreadful fear at her heart, and her whole frame quivering under
the pressure of a terrible excitement, Alice, with Grif by her side,
walked swiftly on towards North Melbourne. There lay the road to the
open country, away from the sea. The fatigue Alice had undergone the
previous day seemed to have had no effect upon her. Poor Milly's
death, and the letter which she still unconsciously held crushed in
her hand, had strung her nerves to the highest pitch of tension. Poor
Milly's death! As she thought of it, her eyes filled with pitiful
tears. Her husband's danger! She shuddered at that; and she hurried on
the faster. She heard a voice crying, "On! on! and save him! Delay
not; you may be in time!" There are periods in life when the mind is
so enthralled by one all-engrossing idea, that the body is
unconsciously strengthened to bear strains, that, if thought of, would
appear impossible. Delicate as Alice was, she had within her now the
strength of twenty women. Her first great fear had destroyed all sense
of fatigue. Alice could not think of physical possibilities in
presence of her devoted determination to save her husband. She _must_
save him. "On, on!" the voice cried to her. "Delay not a moment. Your
husband's and your father's safety are in your keeping." Oh, pitiful
heaven! if she should be too late. Despair almost seized her at the
thought. She possessed but a few shillings, the remains of the money
Richard had left her. She yearned for means to take her to her
father's Station; and she looked round imploringly, as if she fancied
that some good Samaritan knowing her anxious misery, might come
forward, purse in hand, to aid her.
"Have you any money, Grif?" she asked.
"Yes," replied Grif.
"How much?"
"Fourteen bob."
She had about the same amount. It would be sufficient to pay for
riding a quarter of the distance, perhaps, and then--why, then she
would be worse off than now. Her money gone, where could she obtain
the means of completing her journey? No: they must walk, and their
little money must be kept for food. The letter mentioned the date when
her father was to complete his purchase of the Station. She rapidly
ran over in her mind the intervening days, and she knew that she could
accomplish the journey in time, if no accident happened to her, and if
her strength held out.
"Are you tired, Grif?"
"No," he answered, stoutly.
"How many miles can we walk in a day?"
"Twenty, perhaps, Ally; but, lord! it'll kill you."
"I can bear anything now. I don't feel the least bit weak. You don't
mind coming with me, Grif?"
"Mind! I'll walk my feet off, and not stop then, Ally, if you tell me
to go on."
Their road lay past the burial-ground where Grif had buried his dog
Rough. He cast a wistful glance in the direction of the grave, and
vindictive feelings towards the Tenderhearted Oysterman burned
powerfully within him. All through the piece the Oysterman had been
his enemy. "But I'll be even with him yet," Grif muttered, "I'll
cry quits with him one day." Grif was possessed with the firm
conviction that the time would come when he would be revenged--fully
revenged--upon the Tenderhearted Oysterman, and the thought brought
much satisfaction with it.
They walked on for many hours, stopping only once for rest and
refreshment. Alice had impressed upon Grif the necessity of economy,
and their purchases during the day comprised but a small loaf, some
tea and sugar, and a tin can. There were many people on the road, but
each traveller appeared so wrapped up in his own concerns as not to
have even a glance of wonder for so strange a couple as Alice and
Grif. They chose tracks some little distance from the main road, so as
to escape observation as much as possible. About mid-day they came to
a refreshment-tent, where many a thirsty wayfarer was solacing himself
with long drinks of cider and lemonade. They were crossing at the back
of this tent, while a woman was drawing water from a well. Coming
close to her, Alice saw that she was a Negress--an old woman, whose
hair was turning white. When Alice asked her for a draught of water,
the old woman said, "Certainly my dear;" and, regarding Alice's
slender form with compassion, she invited her into the tent. Alice
thankfully accepted the invitation, and seated herself upon a stool in
the back division of the tent. This portion was used as a bedroom. It
contained a very clean-looking bed, made upon canvas, which was tacked
to posts of strong "quartering," driven into the ground; a snow-white
quilt was spread over the bed. The walls of the room which were simply
of calico, lined with green baize, were embellished with two or three
religious pictures, pinned or pasted on to the baize.
"You look tired, my dear," said the old woman.
"I am not very tired," said Alice. "I must not be tired; for we have a
long distance to walk."
"You are very young, to be walking in the hot sun such a day as this,"
said the woman.
Alice answered, "Yes; but I have no choice." She spoke hesitatingly,
for she had a dread of being questioned. In the secret she had to
keep, in the task she had to perform, lay her father's safety and her
husband's honour. If others knew what she knew, the peril of both of
those who were dear to her would be greater. She almost fainted with
terror when the Negress raised the calico door in the centre of the
tent, and gently called "Moses!" At her call there entered a Negro,
whose hair, also, was almost white.
"Don't be alarmed, my dear," said the old woman; "it is only my
husband."
Alice looked up, and saw a face of singular kindness. The eyes of the
Negro beamed with benevolence. No one who saw him could doubt that,
black as he was, he was a man in whose breast resided humanity's best
virtues. The old woman said a few words to him in an undertone, and
Moses returned to the store, and brought in lemonade and other
refreshments, and laid them before Alice. He handed her a glass of
lemonade; it looked deliciously cool, but Alice was compelled to
refuse it. The instinctive delicacy of the Negro served him here. He
did not ask Alice the reason of her refusal: he knew that she would
not drink it because she could not afford to pay for it.
"This is not for payment, young lady," he said. "You are my wife's
guest, and you will hurt her if you do not drink."
She did not answer; the Negro's kind action and gentle voice
overpowered her, and she could not speak. She raised the lemonade to
her hot lips, and felt as if she were drinking in fresh life.
"You, also," said Moses to Grif, who had been attentively watchful;
and he handed the lad the jug of lemonade. Grif, without demur, took a
long draught, and wiped his lips upon the cuff of his ragged jacket.
Then he smiled gravely at Moses, who smiled gravely at him in return.
Moses the Negro lived in Grif's remembrance for ever afterwards, and,
indeed, he deserves to be kindly remembered by many whose skins are
fairer than his own.
Alice would have departed immediately after this, but the old woman
would not allow them to leave without having eaten something. She
insisted, too, on bathing Alice's feet. Alice almost wept at the
kind treatment of the good old Negress; but she needed all her
fortitude for her task, and she repressed her tears. She rested for
half-an-hour, and then rose, refreshed and inexpressibly grateful, and
kissed and blessed the old woman as she bade her good-bye. Many a
thankful look did both Alice and Grif cast back at the woman, who
stood at the door of her refreshment-tent and watched them until they
were out of sight. They did not walk many miles further that day.
Grif, with a peculiar instinct, discovered a sheltered nook where they
could camp for the night. He had been thoughtful enough to fill his
tin can with water from the old woman's well, and he soon kindled a
fire and made tea. After drinking some, Alice, thoroughly wearied,
fell asleep, while Grif, stretched upon the ground a short distance
off, watched and slumbered by turns. It was a beautifully clear
night--such a night as is only seen during the Australian summer. The
soft wind swept gently over the sleeping girl, and the heavens seemed
to look down upon her with kindliness.
She rose with the first flush of morning, and, strong in her purpose,
set out again upon her journey. She struggled on bravely, but she was
a weak, delicate girl, and the fatigue she had already undergone was
telling sadly upon her. Her limbs were weary, and her feet were very
sore; and towards the afternoon a deathly feeling overpowered her. Her
strength was giving way. The hot glare of the sun was too much for her
to bear, and she sank at the foot of a tree in an almost fainting
state. Grif, with a swelling heart, could scarcely keep from crying as
he looked at her white face.
"I must rest a little, Grif," Alice said, faintly. "Can you get some
water?"
Grif raced down a hollow, where he expected to find a creek; a creek
there was, sure enough, but not a drop of moisture in it. Its bed was
choked with stones, and dead leaves and branches, and hard mud. He
clambered up again, and set off in another direction, and met the same
bad fortune. He ran back to Alice, and looked round despairingly as he
saw the expression of suffering in her face. There was not a tent near
them for miles, and every water hole was dried up. But a hundred yards
or so before him was a bullock-dray, toiling painfully along--so
painfully, that its wheels squeaked and groaned, as if for pity.
"Stop here half a minute, Ally," Grif said. "I'll get some from the
bullock-driver."
And, running off, he soon overtook the dray, and, almost breathless,
begged for water.
"A nice thing to ask for!" grumbled the driver. "Look at my bullocks.
Water! why, it's worth more than champagne, such a day as this."
"I don't want it for myself," pleaded Grif; "but she'll die if you
don't give me a little."
"Who will die if I don't give her a little?"
"My sister," said Grif, boldly. "She's been walkin' all day, and she's
dead beat."
The man cast a queer look at Grif, and, stopping his bullocks,
accompanied the lad to where Alice was lying. She had fainted.
"Poor lass!" said the bullock-driver, and, stooping, he raised her
head upon his knee, and sprinkled her face with the water he had
brought with him. Presently she opened her eyes, and gratefully drank
from the tin cup he held to her lips.
"Thank you," she said. "I feel much better. I think I can walk on
now."
But, when she rose to her feet, she staggered against the tree.
"You're not strong enough to walk," said the bullock-driver, who had
been regarding her with compassionate curiosity. "Which way are you
going?"
Learning that their road lay for some distance in the same direction,
he offered her a ride upon his dray. The offer was thankfully
accepted, and the bullock-driver arranged a comfortable place for
Alice to lie in, and assisted her to the top of the dray. Then he
cracked his whip, and the bullocks strained at their harness, and the
dray creaked slowly onwards. Alice closed her eyes, and yielded
herself to the peaceful influences that surrounded her. The awning
over the dray protected her from the sun; the grateful shade, the buzz
of insect life, even the gentle jolting of the dray and the faint
crack of the driver's whip, all invited repose. And the sweet sense of
rest that fell upon her brought with it a balm to her bruised spirit.
There was good in the world for her still. She had experienced it even
in the short time she had been upon her journey. Yesterday, that kind
Negro couple--to-day, this bullock-driver, who ministered unselfishly
to her wants. These kind friends were surely sent to help her in the
accomplishment of her task--they were omens for good. She lay, with
hands clasped, prayerfully, and the weary look faded from her face,
and hope rested there instead. And thus she fell asleep, peacefully.
Meantime, Grif and the bullock-driver walked side by side. They did
not exchange many words at first. They were studying each other.
Grif's face and dress and general manner were evidently puzzles to his
new friend.
"You're a rum one," the bullock-driver said to Grif.
Grif acquiesced so readily and quietly, that the puzzle became still
more puzzling.
"You told me she was your sister," the driver said, nodding his head
towards the dray, where Alice lay sleeping. Grif looked a little
dubiously into the face of his companion.
"Is she your sister?"
"Yes," answered Grif, unhesitatingly.
"Are you in the habit of telling fibs, young man?"
Grif did not reply. He was very grateful for the kindness the man had
shown to Alice, and, for her sake, he did not wish to anger him. The
driver did not pursue his inquiries, but contented himself with
drawing Grif out upon other matters. Grif, glad of any diversion in
the conversation, made himself so amusing, that they soon became good
friends. When evening came, Grif helped to unyoke the oxen, which,
with bells round their necks, were allowed to wander in the bush in
search of food. Then they collected some brushwood, and kindled a
fire. Tea being made, Alice was roused to partake of it. Rest and
soothing thought had brought back somewhat of freshness to her fair
young face; and when she stood before the bullock-driver and thanked
him, he lifted his cap with the air of a gentleman, and bowed. Tea
being over, he said,--
"You thanked me just now. I do not know why. It is I who should be
thankful, for it is a long time since I sat down to tea in a lady's
company. You will excuse me saying that I look upon this adventure as
one of the strangest I have ever met with. It is not from any
impertinent curiosity, but from a sincere desire to serve you, that I
am emboldened to ask why so young a lady as yourself should be
compelled (for I suppose you do not do it from choice) to undergo such
a fatigue?"
He paused as if expecting Alice to speak, but she did not reply.
"You may trust me," he continued; "for, although I am a
bullock-driver, I am a gentleman."
"I am sure of that, sir," said Alice; "your kindness is a sufficient
proof."
"That may or may not be. I have lived long enough to have learnt to
distrust most things; especially smooth professions. But as
bullock-driving is scarcely a gentlemanly occupation, I could have
forgiven you for doubting that I am a gentleman. You are a lady; I can
see that. You are not this lad's sister!"
"Poor Grif!" said Alice, laying her hand upon his head. "He is not my
brother, but he is my very dear friend."
Grif nodded, and that peculiar brightness came into his eyes
which dwelt there whenever Alice spoke of him as her friend. The
circumstance of his being detected in telling a lie was of the most
trifling matter.
"It is really so strange for a gentleman to be a bullock-driver, and I
have seen altogether so many queer things in these colonies, that I
can easily imagine a set of circumstances (although, of course, I
should most probably not guess the truth) which might place a lady in
your position. You will excuse me for speaking thus, will you not?"
"Yes."
"I should like to win your confidence. If my family were to learn that
I am a bullock-driver, I think they would go insane, some of them, at
the degradation. My parents are at home; they mourned me as dead some
years since; and I am dead--to them. Are your parents living? Forgive
me," he said, quickly, as her face flushed with pain; "I did not mean
to hurt you. I will ask you nothing further. But I _should_ like to
serve you, for your face reminds me of a sister whom I loved, and who
died young."
"I think I could trust you, sir," said Alice; "but it would serve no
good purpose, for you could not assist me. I will tell you, in return
for your generous speech, that both my father and my husband are
living; that it is in connection with them that I am travelling with
this poor lad for a companion; and that my poverty compels me to walk.
Let this suffice you, I pray."
"It shall suffice me. I will not attempt to trespass upon your
confidence."
"Do not think any wrong of me, sir. I am unfortunate and unhappy, but
it is through no fault of mine."
"I can readily believe it. And now we will change the subject."
They sat talking in the quiet night for an hour or two. Then the
shafts of the dray were roofed and hung round with the tarpaulin, and
a bed of dried leaves was made for Alice. Before retiring she beckoned
Grif, and they strolled a short distance from the bullock-driver, as
he lay smoking his pipe. The cool air was delicious after the dreadful
heat of the day. Notwithstanding her one great grief, there was a
feeling of devout thankfulness at Alice's heart.
"God is very good, Grif," she said, looking up at the solemn splendour
of the stars.
Grif, who always listened to Alice with a feeling almost of
veneration, could not find words to reply. He also looked up at
heaven's bright beauty, and pondered. If God was so good, why was
Alice so unfortunate? Why was she not happy? _She_ was good, he knew
that. If God was so good, why had Rough been poisoned, why was Little
Peter torn from him, why had Milly died, why were they enduring such
misery to prevent the doing of a dreadful deed? Of himself, he was
doubtful. He might be really bad, and there was a doubt in his mind
whether he deserved any better lot. But there was no doubt in his mind
as regarded Alice. She had never done any wrong--never, never! If God
was so good, why was Alice so unhappy? He would have liked to run away
from her and hide himself in the wood, for he was afraid that she
would read his thoughts, which he knew would be displeasing to her.
She did read his thoughts; she saw the conflict in his mind; and she
took his hand and held it fast in hers.
"God _is_ very good, my dear," she said, earnestly.
"Yes," the boy replied, slowly; "I s'pose He is if you say so, Ally."
"You must not suppose it, Grif; you must believe it."
"I will believe anythin' you tell me, Ally." Blind yet noble faith!
Blind, from the very circumstances of his birth and education; noble,
because it was founded upon the rock of a good woman's goodness.
"I want you to believe it, not to please me, Grif," Alice said, "but
because it is so. If we suffer in this world, we shall be recompensed
for it by-and-by."
"That's good. It's what the preacher chap said when I was in quod;
only he told me it different like. I didn't believe him. But I do you.
And yet he wouldn't give me nothin' when I was starvin'!"
"See, now, how good God is," said Alice; "how He has sent us friends
when we most needed them. Those good people yesterday--"
"That was a queer move, that was, for niggers," mused Grif. "They're
the right sort, though. They oughtn't to be black; 'taint right. I've
heerd of Black Moses often, but I never sor him before yesterday."
"May God bless and prosper them! And our last friend, too. I think I
should have died if this kind man had not assisted us."
"He's a good sort of a cove, for a bullock-driver, and no mistake,"
said Grif.
"Do you ever pray, Grif?"
"No; never knowed how to."
"Kneel down with me, dear Grif, and thank the Lord for the good He has
sent to us. When I think that, but for the simple act of kindness of
that good man, I might be lying helpless, unable to pursue my journey,
my heart is full of gratitude."
They knelt down together, and Alice said a simple prayer, Grif
repeating it after her. When they rose, Alice said,--
"If I am in time to save my husband, I shall bless you all my life,
Grif."
"You've got no call to, Ally," said Grif, half crying. "I'm not a bit
of good, I ain't, and never shall be!"
"You are a dear true-hearted lad, and Heaven will reward you." And
stooping hurriedly, she kissed Grif's cheek, and went to her bed of
dry leaves.
Never before had Grif experienced such a delicious sensation as stole
over him at that moment. He trembled with an exquisite pang of
wondering happiness, and wrapping himself in a blanket which the
bullock-driver had lent him, he lay awake for an hour, nursing the
cheek which Alice had kissed, and which was wet with happy tears!