The Fortunes of Richard Mahony

by Henry Handel Richardson

  She had pulled Mrs. Beamish over the threshold; had got her into the bedroom and shut the door, before any of the “ohs” and “ahs” she saw painted on the broad, rubicund face could be transformed into words. And hugs and kisses over, she bravely seized the bull by the horns and begged her guest not to criticise house or furnishings in front of Richard.

  It took Mrs. Beamish a minute or two to grasp her meaning. Then, she said heartily: “There, there, my duck, don’t you worry! I’ll be as mum as mum.” And in a whisper: “So, ’e’s got a temper, Polly, ’as ’e? But this I will say: if I’d known this was all ’e ’ad to h’offer you; I’d ’a’ said, stop w’ere you are, my lamb, in a comfortable, ’appy ’ome.”

  “Oh, I am happy, mother dear, indeed I am!” cried Polly. “I’ve never regretted being married—never once!”

  “There, there, now!”

  “And it’s only. . . .I mean. . . .this is the best we can afford in the meantime, and if I am satisfied. . . .” floundered Polly, dismayed to hear her words construed into blame of her husband. “It’s only that it upsets Richard if people speak slightingly of our house, and that upsets me—and I mustn’t be worried just now, you know,” she added with a somewhat shaky smile.

  “Not a word will I say, ducky, make yer pore little mind easy about that. Though such a poky little ’en-coop of a place I never was in!”—and, while tying her cap-strings, Mrs. Beamish swept the little bedroom and its sloping roof with a withering glance. “I was ’orrified, girls, simply ’orrified!” she related the incident to her daughters. “An’ I up an’ told ’er so—just like me, you know. Not room enough to swing a cat in, and ’im sittin’ at the ’ead of the table as ’igh an’ mighty as a dook! You can thank yer stars, you two, ’e didn’t take one o’ you instead o’ Polly.” But this was chiefly by way of a consolation-prize for Tilly and Jinny.

  “An’ now, my dear, tell me everything.” With these words, Mrs. Beamish spread her skirts and settled down to a cosy chat on the subject of Polly’s hopes.

  But like the majority of her sex she was an adept at dividing her attention; and while making delicate inquiries of the young wife, she was also travelling her shrewd eye round the little bedchamber, spying out and appraising: not one of poor Polly’s makeshifts escaped her. The result of her inspection was to cause her to feel justly indignant with Mahony. The idea! Him to rob them of Polly just to dump her down in a place like this! She would never be able to resist telling him what she thought of him.

  Here, however, she reckoned without Polly. Polly was sharp enough to doubt “mother’s” ability to hold her tongue; and saw to it that Richard and she were not left alone together. And of an evening when talk languished, she would beg her husband to read to them from the Ballarat Star, until, as often as not, Mrs. Beamish fell asleep. Frequently, too, she persuaded him to go out and take a hand in a newly-formed whist club, or discuss politics with a neighbour.

  Mahony went willingly enough; his home was less home than ever since the big woman’s intrusion. Even his food lost its savour. Mrs. Beamish had taken over the cooking, and she went about it with an air that implied he had not had a decent bite to eat since his marriage.

  “There! what do you say to that now? That’s something like a pudding!” and a great plum-duff was planked triumphantly down in the middle of the dinner-table. “Lor, Polly! your bit of a kitchen. . . .in this weather. . . .I’m fair dished.” And the good woman mopped her streaming face and could herself eat nothing.

  Mahony much preferred his wife’s cooking, which took account of his tastes—it was done, too, without any fuss—and he persisted in upholding Polly’s skill, in face of Mrs. Beamish’s good-natured disbelief. Polly, on edge, lest he should openly state his preference, nervously held out her plate.

  “It’s so good, mother, I must have a second helping,” she declared; and then, without appetite in the cruel, midday heat, did not know what to do with the solid slab of pudding. Pompey and Palmerston got into the way of sitting very close to her chair.

  She confided to Richard that Mrs. Beamish disapproved of his evening outings. “Many an ’usband takes to goin’ out at such a time, my dear, an’ never gets back the ’abit of stoppin’ at ’ome. So just you be careful, ducky!” This was a standing joke between them. Mahony would wink at Polly when he put his hat on, and wear it rakishly askew.

  However, he quite enjoyed a crack with the postmaster or the town-surveyor, at this juncture. Colonial politics were more interesting than usual. The new Constitution had been proclaimed, and a valiant effort was being made to form a Cabinet; to induce, that was, a sufficient number of well-to-do men to give up time to the service of their country. It looked as if the attempt were going to fail, just as on the goldfields the Local Courts, by which since the Stockade the diggers governed themselves, were failing, because none could afford to spend his days sitting in them.

  Yet however high the discussion ran, he kept one ear turned towards his home. Here, things were at a standstill. Polly’s time had come and gone—but there was no end set to their suspense. It was blazing hot now in the little log house; walls and roof were black with flies; mosquitoes made the nights hideous. Even Polly lost patience with herself when, morning after morning, she got up feeling as well as ever, and knowing that she had to steer through another difficult day.

  It was not the suspense alone: the strain of keeping the peace was growing too much for her.

  “Oh, don’t quarrel with her, Richard, for my sake,” she begged her husband one night. “She means so well. And she can’t help being like she is—she has always been accustomed to order Mr. Beamish about. But I wish she had never, never come,” sobbed poor Polly. And Mahony, in a sudden flash of enlightenment, put his arms round her, and made humble promises. Not another word should cross his lips! “Though I’d like nothing so well as to throw her out, and her bags and bundles after her. Come, laugh a little, my Polly. Think of the old lady flying down the slope, with her packages in a shower about her head!”

  Rogers, M.D., looked in whenever he passed. At this stage he was of the jocular persuasion. “Still an unwelcome visitor, ma’am? No little tidbit of news for me to-day?” There he sat, twiddling his thumbs, reiterating his singsong: “Just so!” and looking wise as an owl. Mahony knew the air—had many a time seen it donned to cloak perplexity—and covert doubts of Rogers’ ability began to assail him. But then he fell mentally foul of every one he came in touch with, at present: Ned, for the bare-faced fashion in which he left his cheerfulness on the door-mat; Mrs. Beamish for the eternal “Pore lamb!” with which she beplastered Polly, and the antiquated reckoning-table she embarrassed them by consulting.

  However, this state of things could not last for ever, and at dawn, one hot January day, Polly was taken ill.

  The early hours promised well. But the morning wore on, turned to midday, then to afternoon, and matters still hung fire. While towards six o’clock the patient dismayed them by sitting up in bed, saying she felt much better, and asking for a cup of tea. This drew: “Ah, my pore lamb, you’ve got to feel worse yet afore you’re better!” from Mrs. Beamish.

  It ended in Rogers taking up his quarters there, for the night.

  Towards eleven o’clock Mahony and he sat, one on each side of the table, in the little sitting-room. The heat was insupportable and all three doors and the window were propped open, in the feeble hope of creating a draught. The lamp had attracted a swarm of flying things: giant moths beat their wings against the globe, or fell singed and sizzling down the chimney; winged-ants alighted with a click upon the table; blowflies and mosquitoes kept up a dizzy hum.

  From time to time Mahony rose and stole into the bedroom, where Mrs. Beamish sat fanning the pests off Polly, who was in a feverish doze. Leaning over his wife he let his finger lie on her wrist; and, back again in the outer room, he bit nervously at his little-finger nail—an old tric
k of his when in a quandary. He had curtly refused a game of bezique; so Rogers had produced a pack of cards from his own pocket—soiled, frayed cards, which had likely done service on many a similar occasion—and was whiling the time away with solitaire. To sit there watching his slow manipulation of the cards, his patent intentness on the game; to listen any longer to the accursed din of the gnats and flies passed Mahony’s powers of endurance. Abruptly shoving back his chair, he went out into the yard.

  This was some twenty paces across—from the row of old kerosene-tins that constituted his flower-garden, past shed and woodstack to the post-and-rail fence. How often he walked it he did not know; but when he went indoors again, his boots were heavy with mud. For a brief summer storm had come up earlier in the evening. A dense black pall of cloud had swept like a heavy curtain over the stars, to the tune of flash and bang. Now, all was clear and calm again; the white star-dust of the Milky Way powdered the sky just overhead; and though the heat was still intense, the air had a fragrant smell of saturated dust and rain-soaked earth—he could hear streamlets of water trickling down the hillside to the river below.

  Out there in the dark, several things became plain to him. He saw that he had not had any real confidence in Rogers from the start; while the effect of the evening spent at close quarters had been to sink his opinion to nothing. Rogers belonged to an old school; his method was to sit by and let nature take its course—perhaps just this slowness to move had won him a name for extreme care. His old fogyism showed up unmistakably in a short but heated argument they had had on the subject of chloroform. He cited such hoary objections to the use of the new anaesthetic in maternity cases as Mahony had never expected to hear again: the therapeutic value of pain; the moral danger the patient ran in yielding up her will (“What right have we to bid a fellow-creature sacrifice her consciousness?”); and the impious folly of interfering with the action of a creative law. It had only remained for him to quote Genesis, and the talking serpent!

  Had the case been in his own hands he would have intervened before now. Rogers, on the contrary, was still satisfied with the shape of affairs—or made pretence to be. For, watching lynx-eyed, Mahony fancied each time the fat man propelled his paunch out of the sickroom it was a shade less surely: there were nuances, too, in the way he pronounced his vapid: “As long as our strength is well maintained. . . .well maintained.” Mahony doubted Polly’s ability to bear much more; and he made bold to know his own wife’s constitution best. Rogers was shilly-shallying: what if he delayed too long and Polly slipped through his hands? Lose Polly? Good God! the very thought turned him cold. And alive to his finger-tips with the superstition of his race, he impetuously offered up his fondest dream to those invisible powers that sat aloft, waiting to be appeased. If this was to be the price exacted of him—the price of his escape from exile—then. . . .then. . . .

  To come back to the present, however, he was in an awkward position: he was going to be forced to take Polly’s case out of the hands of the man to whom he had entrusted it. Such a step ran counter to all the stiff rules of conduct, the punctilios of decorum, laid down by the most code-ridden profession in the world.

  But a fresh visit to Polly, whose pulse had grown markedly softer, put an end to his scruples.

  Stalking into the sitting-room he said without preamble: “In my opinion any further delay will mean a risk to my wife. I request you to operate immediately.”

  Rogers blinked up from his cards, surprise writ across his ruddy countenance. He pushed his spectacles to his forehead. “Eh? What? Well, well. . . .yes, the time is no doubt coming when we shall have to lend Mother Nature a hand.”

  “Coming? It’s come. . . .and gone. Are you blind, man?”

  Rogers had faced many an agitated husband in his day. “Now, now, Mr. Mahony,” he said soothingly, and laid his last two cards in line. “You must allow me to be the judge of that. Besides,” he added, as he took off his glasses to polish them on a red bandanna; “besides, I should have to ask you to go out and get some one to assist me.”

  “I shall assist you,” returned Mahony.

  Rogers smiled his broad, fat smile. “Easier said than done, my good sir!. . . .easier said than done.”

  Mahony considerately turned his back; and kept it turned. Emptying a pitcher of water into a basin he began to lather his hands. “I am a qualified medical man. Of the same university as yourself. I studied under Simpson.” It cost him an effort to get the words out. But, by speaking, he felt that he did ample penance for the fit of tetchy pride which, in the first instance, had tied his tongue.

  Rogers was dumbfounded.

  “Well, upon my word!” he ejaculated, letting his hands with glasses and handkerchief fall to the table. “God bless my soul! why couldn’t you say so before? And why the deuce didn’t you yourself attend——”

  “We can go into all that afterwards.”

  But Rogers was not one of those who could deal rapidly with the unexpected: he continued to vent his surprise, and to shoot distrustful glances at his companion. He was flurried, too, at being driven forward quicker than he had a mind to go, and said sulkily that Mahony must take full responsibility for what they were about to do. Mahony hardly heard him; he was looking at the instruments laid out on the table. His fingers itched to close round them.

  “I’ll prepare my wife,” he said briskly. And going into the bedroom he bent over the pillow. It was damp with the sweat that had dripped from Polly’s head when the pains were on her.

  “’Ere, you girl, get in quick now with your bucket and cloth, and give that place a good clean-up afore that pore lamb opens ’er eyes again. I’m cooked—that’s what I am!” and sitting heavily down on the kitchen-chair, Mrs. Beamish wiped her face towards the four points of the compass.

  Piqued by an unholy curiosity young Ellen willingly obeyed. But a minute later she was back, having done no more than set her pail down inside the bedroom door. “Oh, sure, Mrs. Beamish, and I can’t do’t!” she cried shrilly. “It’s jus’ like Andy Soakes’s shop. . . .when they’ve bin quarterin’ a sheep.”

  “I’ll quarter you, you lazy trollop, you!” cried Mrs. Beamish, rising to her aching legs again; and her day-old anxiety found vent in a hearty burst of temper. “I’ll teach you!” pulling, as she spoke, the floorcloth out of the girl’s hand. “Such airs and graces! Why, sooner or later, milady, you’ve got to go through it yourself.”

  “Me. . . .? Catch me!” said Ellen, with enormous emphasis. “D’yer mean to say that’s ’ow. . . .’ow the children always come?”

  “Of course it is, you mincing Nanny-hen!—every blessed child that walks. And I just ’ope,” said Mrs. Beamish, as she marched off herself with brush and scrubber: “I ’ope, now you know it, you’ll ’ave a little more love and gratitoode for your own mother than ever you ’ad before.”

  “Oh lor!” said the girl. “Oh, lor!” And plumping down on the chopping-block she snatched her apron to her face and began to cry.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Two months passed before Mahony could help Polly and Mrs. Beamish into the coach bound for Geelong.

  It had been touch and go with Polly; and for weeks her condition had kept him anxious. With the inset of the second month, however, she seemed fairly to turn the corner, and from then on made a steady recovery, thanks to her youth and an unimpaired vitality.

  He had hurried the little cradle out of sight. But Polly was quick to miss it, and quite approved of its having been given to a needy expectant mother near by. Altogether she bore the thwarting of her hopes bravely.

  “Poor little baby, I should have been very fond of it,” was all she said, when she was well enough to fold and pack away the tiny garments at which she had stitched with such pleasure.

  It was not to Mahony’s mind that she returned with Mrs. Beamish—but what else could be done? After lying a prisoner through the hot
summer, she was sadly in need of a change. And Mrs. Beamish promised her a diet of unlimited milk and eggs, as well as the do-nothing life that befitted an invalid. Just before they left, a letter arrived from John demanding the keys of his house, and proposing that Polly should come to town to set it in order for him, and help him to engage a housekeeper. A niggardly—a truly “John-ish”—fashion of giving an invitation, thought Mahony, and was not for his wife accepting it. But Polly was so pleased at the prospect of seeing her brother that he ended by agreeing to her going on to Melbourne as soon as she had thoroughly recuperated.

  Peace between him and Mrs. Beamish was dearly bought up to the last; they barely avoided a final explosion. At the beginning of her third month’s absence from home the good woman grew very restive, and sighed aloud for the day on which she would be able to take her departure.

  “I expec’ my bein’ away like this’ll run clean into a fifty-poun’ note,” she said one evening. “When it comes to managin’ an ’ouse, those two girls of mine ’aven’t a h’ounce o’ gumption between them.”

  It was tactless of her, even Polly felt that; though she could sympathise with the worry that prompted the words. As for Mahony, had he had the money to do it, he would have flung the sum named straight at her head.

  “She must never come again,” said Polly to herself, as she bent over the hair-chain she was making as a gift for John. “It is a pity, but it seems as if Richard can’t get on with those sort of people.”

  In his relief at having his house to himself, Mahony accepted even Polly’s absence with composure. To be perpetually in the company of other people irked him beyond belief. A certain amount of privacy was as vital to him as sleep.

  Delighting in his new-found solitude, he put off from day to day the disagreeable job of winding up his affairs and discovering how much—or how little—ready money there would be to set sail with. Another thing, some books he had sent home for, a year or more ago, came to hand at this time, and gave him a fresh pretext for delay. There were eight or nine volumes to unpack and cut the pages of. He ran from one to another, sipping, devouring. Finally he cast anchor in a collected edition of his old chief’s writings on obstetrics—slipped in, this, as a gift from the sender, a college chum—and over it, his feet on the table, his dead pipe in the corner of his mouth, Mahony sat for the better part of the night.