GRIF BEARS FALSE WITNESS.
When Grif had fallen asleep an hour ago, overcome by fatigue, the
fever which had made him shiver to his marrow seemed to have left him.
Alice's words: "You are my brother, now and always," were like balm to
his aching body, and caused him to forget his pain. "Her brother now
and always!" he murmured to himself again and again, and sleep
overtook him with a smile upon his lips. When he awoke he was not
surprised to see Richard standing by Alice's side. It was a fitting
continuation of the fancies that had been busy in his brain while he
was dozing--fancies which took no defined mental shape, but pointed to
a happy termination of Alice's troubles. So, he had stood quietly by
the side of Alice and her husband, listening attentively to Richard's
story, and taking no credit to himself for the part he had played in
bringing husband and wife to each other's arms. As Richard spoke of
Poor Welsh Tom, Grif thought, "I should like to know him; he's the
right sort, he is," and when the despairing man came to the Welshman's
murder, Grif felt as if he had lost a friend. It would be difficult to
analyse the sensations that crowded upon Grif's mind as Richard
proceeded with his story. All his pain came back to him intensified by
the misery he felt was in store for Alice, unless her husband's
innocence were established. Misery, not happiness, would be her
portion if this were not accomplished. It must be done. But how! There
were two reasons why it must be done--one infinitely less strong than
the other, but having its weight nevertheless in the light of Grif's
untrained intellect. The stronger reason was Alice's welfare; all
considerations, but one, sank into utter insignificance, when her
happiness was in question. The weaker reason sprang from his
implacable hatred to the Tenderhearted Oysterman. And now the two
dominant feelings which possessed him--the earnest desire to benefit
Alice, and the intense desire to revenge himself upon the
Tenderhearted Oysterman--seemed in some dim way to be connected. The
very accomplishment of his desire to serve Alice must spring from the
accomplishment of his desire to be revenged upon his enemy. That end
he saw; but how about the means?
All this passed through Grif's mind while Richard was telling his
story. The story being told, a despairing conviction stole upon Grif
that Richard was lost, and with him, Alice. There was no way to prove
Richard's innocence. As he thought this, he heard Richard's next
words, "If I had a witness, one who heard the villain confess, as he
confessed to me, laughing the while, that he stole my knife, and with
it did the deed, for the purpose of trapping me--if I had such a
witness, my innocence would be established." Then he heard Alice
console her husband and say, "Heaven will send such a witness. I know
it! I feel it!" As these words fell upon his ears, light dawned upon
him, and a suddenly-formed, but fixed purpose, entered his mind.
Watching his opportunity, he stole softly away--so softly that neither
Alice nor Richard observed him. He heard Alice call to him, but he did
not reply. He lingered for a little while, and was grateful to them
for the trouble they took to find him. Alice was so close to him once
that he was enabled to touch her; and for the second time that night
he touched her dress with his hand, and then raised his hand to his
lips. He kept it there for a few moments, thinking the while. "She
wouldn't call me if she knew what I was goin' to do," he said.
"Besides, she's got her husband now; she don't want me. What a artful
trap they set to catch Dick Handfield! What oneners they are! But
Grif'll show 'em!" And he walked off towards Matthew Nuttall's house,
talking and communing with himself as he went.
"She wants a witness," he said. "She's got her husband, and she'd be
all right if she had a witness. It's not a bit of good her comin' all
the way up here, if she don't get a witness. What did Dick Handfield
say? If he had a witness who could swear that he heard the Oysterman
confess to stealin' his knife and murderin' the poor cove with it, his
innocence would be proved! Yes, that was what he said. If he don't get
that witness, he'll be took up for murder, and somethin' dreadful 'll
happen to Ally. And if his innocence is proved, Ally will be happy all
her life. That'd be very good, that would. 'Eaven will send the
witness, Ally said. No, it won't. For I'll be the witness! And 'Eaven
don't send me! Not a bit of it! Only think of the Oysterman laughin'
all the while he told how he murdered poor Tom!" (Grif lingered
lovingly over the memory of Welsh Tom, as if they had been friends.)
"He's a rasper, is the Oysterman! But I'll be even with him. If I can
get in with the gang--but they'd suspect me. I was moral when the
Oysterman and Jim sor me in Melbourne--they won't believe I ain't
moral now. How shall I manage it? I've got to be very careful with
'em. They're up to pretty nearly every move. I've got it!" he cried,
after pondering for a few moments. "I'll say I've been sent up by Old
Flick, to tell 'em that Dick Handfield's going to peach upon 'em.
They'll b'lieve that! Dick Handfield's runnin' away to-day 'll make
'em believe it. They won't be up to that dodge. And I'll tell Jim
Pizey that Milly's dead, and that she made me promise to come and see
him at once, and arks him to take care of the baby. That's a artful
move, that is, and no mistake! He liked Milly, did Jim, and he'll be
sorry to hear she's dead." (Grif laughed and hugged himself as he
thought of his scheme.) "And father's in the gang, too. I heard Dick
tell Ally that; though he said it in a whisper, and didn't want me to
hear. I ain't seen father since he shied that bottle at my head for
stealin' pies. He said I'd disgraced him, and that he never was in
quod for stealin' pies. He wouldn't mind if I'd been in quod for
somethin' worse. I know what I'll do. I'll tell him I'm a regular
plucky 'un, a regular bad 'un, up to anythin', and I'll get him to
tell me all about the Oysterman's plot. Then I'll go and be a witness.
Lord!" he mused, "what a queer move it is! They'll kill me when they
find it out, but I don't care. It'll make Ally happy, and she'll like
me all the better. Then there's the Oysterman! I'll cry quits with
him, now, for pizenin' Rough! Won't he be savage!"
But any pleasure he might have derived from this last reflection was
soon lost in the contemplation of his fixed purpose to serve Alice.
Grif's love for her amounted almost to worship. When he told her that
he would die for her, he meant, actually, that he would be glad to
die, if, by his death, he could serve her. Born and reared in the
midst of thieves and ruffians, no softening influence had fallen upon
him until he had met Alice. She had been kind and gentle to him, who
had never before received kind or gentle treatment. Accustomed from
his birth to the association of men in whom brutality and selfishness
were predominant, the picture of Alice's unselfish devotion caused him
to reflect. It awoke the good principle within him, and she became at
once his standard of perfection. "When she gave him her friendship, he
felt that he was unworthy of it. Could he make himself worthy of it?
No, he was sure he could not; he was so different to her, or, rather,
she was so different to every one else. He was surrounded with evil
associations, and he could not disentangle himself from them. Only
once had he made an attempt to free himself, and that he did rather to
please Alice than in the belief that he would be successful. Well, he
had tried to be honest, and he had almost starved; he would have
starved if he had persevered in his moral career--that he had settled
satisfactorily with himself. It was clearly evident that honesty was
not for such as he. It was not his fault that he had been born; it was
not his fault that he was what he was; yet the world punished him for
it. But Alice had pitied him because of his unfortunate position, and
her sympathy fell upon his heart, like rain upon parched land. To the
world, for its harshness, he returned defiance; to Alice, for her
tenderness, he gave all he had to give of love.
"I wonder if they're at the house," Grif said, as he walked along. "If
they are, I hope they won't hurt no one. He's a wicked devil, is Jim
Pizey, though, and he'll be mad at Dick's runnin' away from 'em."
Soon he came to a fence, and, three or four hundred yards before him,
he saw the Home Station. A fine house, built of stone, with a broad
verandah in front, and surrounded with garden-grounds in beautiful
order. Grif crept slowly along by the side of the fence, in the
direction of the house.
"I can see lights movin' about," he muttered. "There's a man outside,
walkin' up and down. He's got a gun in his hand, too. Yes, they're
there, and he's keepin' watch. Everything very quiet."
By this time, Grif was within twenty yards of the house. He halted for
a minute or two; he had crept very cautiously and carefully along in
the shade of the fence, and had not been observed.
"I can't make it out," he said, conscious that he must not lose time,
and puzzled at the almost deathlike stillness that prevailed; "Where
are all the Station men? They can't have killed 'em. How awful quiet
it is! Who's that keepin' watch?" he muttered, looking eagerly
forward. "It ain't Jim Pizey, and it ain't the Oysterman. Why, it's
father! I'll go right up to him."
And he walked away from the fence, towards the house. As he did so, he
was seen by the sentinel, who gave a shrill whistle, and cried,--
"Stand!"
"It's all right," exclaimed Grif, recognising his father's voice;
"Don't you know me?"
But the man did not distinguish what Grif said.
"Stand!" he cried again; "or I'll fire!"
"It's me, father!" cried Grif, running swiftly towards him. "Don't
fire! It's me--Grif!"
He had scarcely uttered the words, when he was struck down by a
bullet. Confused and dizzy, he struggled to his feet, pressing his
hand to his side. In the midst of his confusion he became conscious of
a terrible change in the aspect of the scene. A wild fury appeared to
take possession of the place. As he looked round, dazed, he saw men
running towards the house, and heard the sound of shots following each
other rapidly.
"Who are you?" asked one of the men, seizing him roughly by the
shoulder.
"Who am I?" the boy replied, looking about him in a bewilderment of
deathly pain. The blood was flowing from his wound, staining the grass
and flowers, and everything was fading from his sight, when he
suddenly saw Alice. "Who am I?" he repeated. "Arks Ally! She knows.
I'm Grif!"
And, with a wild shudder, he staggered forward and fell senseless at
Alice's feet!
She threw herself beside him, and, tearing off a portion of her dress,
she endeavoured to staunch his wound. By this time, the bushrangers
were in full retreat, pursued by most of the men who had been engaged
in the search for the children. Amongst those who stayed behind were
Matthew Nuttall and his brother, and Richard Handfield. Nicholas had
hurried into the house, to ascertain if his wife and daughter were
safe; and he now returned with some brandy, which he put to Grif's
lips. Richard, who had some little knowledge of surgery, examined the
wound, and said,--
"He must not be moved, Alice. He cannot live many minutes."
"Do not say that!" cried Alice, weeping bitterly. "Oh, my poor Grif!
He has died for me! My poor, dear Grif!"
The brandy which Grif tasted partially restored him. Opening his eyes,
and looking with a loving tenderness upon Alice's face, he pressed her
hand which held his, and said faintly,--
"All right, Ally. Don't you cry for me. I'm her friend," he muttered,
"and her brother, too! She said so herself, she did."
"Are you in pain, dear Grif?" she asked.
"Not much. 'Tain't worth botherin' about. Where's father?" Turning, he
saw Matthew Nuttall, and a look of recognition came into his eyes.
Seeing that Grif wished to speak to him, he came closer to the dying
lad. "Do you remember me, sir?" Grif asked wistfully.
"Yes."
"I want to tell you, sir, about them brushes and the boot-stand. You
remember when Mr. Blemish set me up as a moral shoeblack? You was in
the office, sir, at the time. I ain't ungrateful to Mr. Blemish;
'tain't likely I should be. But I couldn't get a livin', sir;
everybody seemed to say to me, You got no business to be moral, you
ain't! You ought to be ashamed of yourself for being moral, you ought!
They was right, sir; it was out of my line, that's a fact. And one
day, when I was very hungry, I sold them brushes and the stand to Old
Flick for four bob. It was wrong of me, sir, but I couldn't help it--I
was so hungry! Will you arks Mr. Blemish to forgive me, sir, and tell
him he can get the brushes and stand back from Old Flick? Only he'll
have to pay more nor four bob for 'em. Will you tell Mr. Blemish?"
Matthew nodded in pitying silence. "Thank you, sir. Then I sor you the
night you took care of Little Peter. You was very kind to me then,
sir. I've often thought of it, and thanked you, when you didn't know
nothin' about it." Grif had to stop many times from weakness. He
looked at Alice, then at Matthew, and motioning him to lean forward,
said in a whisper, "I had it in my mind, sir, to speak to you about
her when you sor me and Little Peter under the hedge, but I didn't
dare. I'm such a poor common beggar! But I know what good is, sir, I
do. She's good;--ah! that she is! And she tried to make me good; but
it was no go. You don't know what she's suffered, sir. I told you I'd
made a promise, and couldn't break it. It was her I made the promise
to, sir. And I've tried to be true and faithful to her, and I
will--till I die!"
A gleam of satisfaction lit up Grif's face as Matthew Nuttall placed
his hand on his daughter's arm, in sympathy with her grief.
"That's good, at all events," Grif said, softly to himself; "he ain't
such a bad sort, after all." Then aloud, "I'd like to see Little
Peter."
Little Peter was soon brought to Grif's side; he was tired and worn
out with his day's wanderings, and he evinced no emotion at seeing
Grif. But Grif did not look for any exhibition of gladness from the
lad whom he had nursed and fed.
"How are you, Little Peter?" Grif asked, patting the boy's hand. "He
looks well, sir. You're never hungry now, are you?"
"I was hungry to-day," Little Peter said.
"He was lost in the bush, Grif, with other children," Alice whispered,
in explanation. "We found him very tired, and very hungry. He will be
well to-morrow."
"You found him, Ally!" Grif said. "After I went away?"
"Yes. Why did you go away?"
"Never you mind. I didn't go away for no harm. The young lady who was
with you that night, sir!" he said to Matthew Nuttall. "I think it was
a good deal through her that you took care of Little Peter. Thank her
for me, sir, please, when you see her."
"Thank her yourself, my lad," Matthew said, beckoning to Marian, who
came forward, and stooped towards Grif. As she did so, Grif caught the
stone heart which the Tenderhearted Oysterman had compelled her to
place round her neck.
"It's like a dream," he said, holding the emblem in his hand;
"everythin' seems to be comin' all at once. This heart--"
"One of the bad men who were here to-night made me place it round my
neck," Marian said.
"This is Little Peter's heart," said Grif; "how did one of them get
hold of it, I wonder?"
"Have you seen it before?" asked Richard.
"Yes, sir; it's Little Peter's heart, that is--I remember losin' it
one night, but I don't know where. It belonged to Little Peter's
mother. When she died in the horspital, she put it round his neck."
"His mother, then, must have been poor Tom's sister," Richard
whispered to Alice. "I picked up the heart on the stairs when I wished
you good-bye in Melbourne. The night before Tom died he saw it and
recognised it. The Oysterman must have stolen it from Welsh Tom that
dreadful night. It may be a clue to the proof of my innocence."
Alice pressed her husband's hand, and motioned him to look at Grif,
over whose countenance a change was passing. Richard knelt and felt
his pulse, and Alice took Grif's other hand in hers.
"Grif, my dear," she said, placing her lips close to his face, "you
see that my father has forgiven me."
He nodded. Her lips to his ear, her hand clasping his, were heaven to
him.
"It is you I thank for it, my dear," she continued. "I am in hopes
that all will be well with us for the future, and that my trouble is
nearly over."
"That's good!" he murmured.
"I tell you this, knowing you will be glad to hear it. I tell you this
gratefully, thankfully, oh, my dear! because I owe it all to you!"
A smile of much sweetness rested on his lips. "I'm her brother, now,
and always, that's what I am," he murmured.
"He is sinking fast, Alice," Richard whispered; "he cannot live much
longer."
"What's that?" Grif exclaimed, in a loud voice, trying to raise
himself; he had heard Richard's words. "I mustn't die yet. Don't let
me die till I've said what I've got to say! Will anybody fetch a
magistrate for a poor cove? I want a magistrate, that's what I want!"
"I am a magistrate," Matthew Nuttall said.
"That's the sort," Grif gasped out. "You hear what I've got to say,
and put it down in writin'! I'm dyin', you know. Take her away first,"
and he relinquished Alice's hand. "Stand off a bit for a minute or
two, Ally, and take him away with you." He pointed to Richard
Handfield. The husband and wife fell back, in wonder; but, although
she could not hear what he said, Alice followed, with her eyes, every
movement of the dying lad.
"Now, then," said Grif, when Alice and her husband were out of
hearing. "I've got something to say with my dyin' breath. Will what I
say be evidence? I arks you as a magistrate, will what I say when I'm
dyin' be evidence?"
"If you swear to it, my poor boy," replied Matthew Nuttall, gently.
"I'll swear to it! All right! I'll kiss the Bible on it. That's
swearin', ain't it?"
"Yes," said Matthew, whispering to Nicholas, who ran into the house,
and returned with a Bible and a writing-desk. While he was away, Grif
turned his eyes to where Alice was standing, weeping, and he continued
to gaze on her lovingly as he spoke.
"All right, Ally!" he muttered to himself. "I'll make you happy. You
shall owe it every bit to me. You want a witness, that's what you
want. I heerd you say so; everythin' might go wrong if you don't have
a witness. And I'm a-goin' to be that witness, though 'Eaven didn't
send me!"
"Now, my lad," said Matthew Nuttall. "What is it you want to say? Do
not speak too fast, for you are very weak."
"Yes, I'm very weak. I'm a dyin', you know, and when I've said what I
got to say, I shan't trouble nobody no more. Fust and foremost, then,
them coves as stuck up your house was bushrangers. Put that down."
"That is down. I can write as you speak."
"Jim Pizey and the Tenderhearted Oysterman was two on 'em. I kiss the
Bible, and I ses, I heerd the Tenderhearted Oysterman say as how he
murdered a man--a Welshman--on the diggins', and as how he stole Dick
Handfield's knife to kill him with, so that it'd look as if Dick had
done it instead of him; and I kisses the Bible agin, and I ses as how
all the gang knows it was the Tenderhearted Oysterman who done the
murder, and not Dick Handfield."
"You heard the man you call the Tenderhearted Oysterman confess to the
murder?"
"I heerd him say he done it himself, with Dick Handfield's knife. I
kisses the Bible on it. You've got all that down?"
"It is all written, my lad!" said Matthew Nuttall, gravely.
"And I furthermore ses as how Jim Pizey and the Oysterman wanted Dick
Handfield, when they was in Melbourne, to join them in robbin' Highlay
Station--Everthin's goin' away! hold me up! Don't let me die till I'm
done! The sky's a-comin' down upon me!"
The brandy was put to his lips, and he revived again; but the words
now came very slowly from him.
"Where was I?" he asked.
"They wanted Dick Handfield to join them in robbing Highlay Station."
"Yes, that's it," said Grif, his voice falling to a whisper. "And as
how Dick Handfield wouldn't. And as how they wanted to throw the
murder on him, out of revenge."
"Have you finished?" asked Matthew Nuttall, as the boy paused.
"Yes--I forget all the rest," muttered Grif. "Where's Ally?"
"One moment! You swear to this?"
"I kisses the Bible on it."
"Can you sign your name?"
"I can't write. I can only read large letters on the walls."
"What is your name?"
"Grif."
"But your other name?"
"I never had no other. I'm Grif, that's what I am!
"Raise him, Nicholas, and let him put a cross here."
The boy was raised, and the pen being held in his almost nerveless
fingers, he scrawled a cross.
"Tell Ally to come," he said, as they laid him down. Alice came, and
knelt by him. He was happy now. The false evidence he had given seemed
to him the only good thing he had ever done.
"It's all right, Ally," he gasped. She had to place her ear to his
lips to catch his words. "You won't have no more trouble. I've never
been no good all my life till now. I want to kiss Little Peter."
Little Peter was brought to him. "Poor Little Peter!" he said. "I'm
goin' away, and before I go I want you to promise to be moral. You
won't be no good unless you're moral. Say you'll be moral, Little
Peter."
"I'll be moral," said Little Peter, mechanically.
Grif gazed at the lad lovingly, kissed him, and turned again to Alice.
"Ally, dear, you said there was another world. There is, isn't there?"
"Yes, Grif. You are going there, now."
"Shall I see you there, by-and-by?"
"We shall meet there, dear Grif," she answered, keeping back her
tears.
"We shall meet there, we shall meet there!" he murmured, in a glad
voice, and then was silent for a while. Presently he whispered,--
"You kissed me once; will you kiss me again?"
She placed her arms about him, and kissed his lips.
"It wasn't my fault that I wasn't no good. I only wanted my grub and a
blanket. If any swell 'ad a-given 'em to me, it'd been all right. I
tried to be moral, but I couldn't be. I wasn't cut out for it. Why,
there's Milly!" and he suddenly raised himself, and a bright
expression came over his face. Alice held him in her arms, and watched
the fading light in his eyes.
"And there's Rough. Rough! Rough! And the old pie-woman, too!" he
cried, as his arm stole round Alice's neck. "What was it Milly said
the other night? Oh, I know! Forgive me, God!"
And with that supplication upon his lips, and with his head on Alice's
breast, Grif closed his eyes upon the world!
Richard Handfield's innocence was proved without Grif s dying
statement. The bushrangers were pursued; the Oysterman was shot dead,
and the others were captured. When Jim Pizey was lying in prison,
Alice visited him, and gave him Milly's message. In that poor girl's
name, Alice implored him to confess who had killed the Welshman. His
hard nature was softened by the thought of Alice's kindness to Milly,
and by her promise to take care of Milly's baby; and, knowing that his
career was over, he admitted that it was the Oysterman who had
committed the murder with Richard Handfield's knife.
Here the story ends. If misfortune and poverty should come again to
Richard, he would battle with them bravely, if only for the sake of
the true woman who called him husband. But it is not likely he will be
so tried, for Matthew Nuttall has been reconciled to him, and Richard
and Alice live happily at Highlay.
Grif was buried near the Home Station. The husband and wife often
visit his grave, and often speak of him, tenderly and lovingly, as of
a dear and cherished friend!
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's Grif, by B. L. (Benjamin Leopold) Farjeon