The Fortunes of Richard Mahony

by Henry Handel Richardson

  “Why, what a piece of special pleading!” cried Mahony, and leaning forward, he kissed the young flushed face.

  “Don’t laugh at me. I’m in earnest.”

  “Why, no, child. But Polly, my dear, even if I were tempted for a moment to think seriously of what you say, where would the money come from? Fees are high; it’s true, if the ball’s once set a-rolling. But till then? With a jewel of a wife like mine, I’d be a scoundrel to take risks.”

  Polly had been waiting for this question. On hearing it, she sat back on her heels and drew a deep breath. The communication she had now to make him was the hub round which all turned. Should he refuse to consider it. . . .Plucking at the fringe of the tablecloth, she brought out, piecemeal, the news that John was willing to go surety for the money they would need to borrow for the start. Not only that: he offered them a handsome sum weekly to take entire charge of his children.—“Not here, in this little house—I know that wouldn’t do,” Polly hastened to throw in, forestalling the objection she read in Richard’s eyes. Now did he not think he should weigh an offer of this kind very carefully? A name like John’s was not to be despised; most people in their position would jump at it. “I understand something about it,” said the little woman, and sagely nodded her head. “For when I was in Geelong, Mr. Beamish tried his hardest to raise some money and couldn’t, his sureties weren’t good enough.” Mahony had not the heart to chide her for discussing his private affairs with her brother. Indeed, he rather admired the business-like way she had gone about it. And he admitted this, by ceasing to banter and by calling her attention to the various hazards and inconveniences the step would entail.

  Polly heard him out in silence. Enough for her, in the beginning, that he did not decline off-hand. They had a long talk, the end of which was that he promised to sleep over John’s proposal, and delay fixing the date of the auction till the morning.

  Having yielded this point Mahony kissed his wife and sent her to bed, himself going out with the dog for his usual stroll.

  It was a fine night—moonless, but thick with stars. So much, at least, could be said in favour of the place: there was abundant sky-room; you got a clear half of the great vault at once. How he pitied, on such a night, the dwellers in old, congested cities, whose view of the starry field was limited to a narrow strip, cut through house-tops.

  Yet he walked with a springless tread. The fact was, certain of his wife’s words had struck home; and in the course of the past year he had learnt to put considerable faith in Polly’s practical judgment. As he wound his way up the little hill to which he had often carried his perplexities, he let his pipe go out, and forgot to whistle Pompey off butcher’s garbage.

  Sitting down on a log he rested his chin in his hands. Below him twinkled the sparse lights of the Flat; shouts and singing rose from the circus.—And so John would have been willing to go surety for him! Let no one say the unexpected did not happen. All said and done, they were little more than strangers to each other, and John had no notion what his money-making capacities as a doctor might be. It was true, Polly had been too delicate to mention whether the affair had come about through her persuasions or on John’s own initiative. John might have some ulterior motive up his sleeve. Perhaps he did not want to lose his sister. . . .or was scheming to bind a pair of desirables fast to this colony, the welfare of which he had so much at heart. Again, it might be that he wished to buy off the memory of that day on which he had stripped his soul naked. Simplest of all, why should he not be merely trying to pay back a debt? He, Mahony, might shrink from lying under an obligation to John, but, so far, the latter had not scrupled to accept favours from him. But that was always the way with your rich men; they were not troubled by paltry pride; for they knew it was possible to acquit themselves of their debts at a moment’s notice, and with interest. This led him to reflect on the great help to him the loan of his wealthy relative’s name would be: difficulties would melt before it. And surely no undue risk was involved in the use of it? Without boasting, he thought he was better equipped, both by aptitude and training, than the ruck of colonial practitioners. Did he enter the lists, he could hardly fail to succeed. And out here even a moderate success spelled a fortune. Gained double-quick, too. After which the lucky individual sold out and went home, to live in comfort. Yes, that was a point, and not to be overlooked. No definite surrender of one’s hopes was called for; only a postponement. Ten years might do it—meaty years, of course, the best years of one’s life—still. . . .It would mean very hard work; but had he not just been contemplating, with perfect equanimity, an even more arduous venture on the other side? What a capricious piece of mechanism was the human brain!

  Another thought that occurred to him was that his services might prove more useful to this new country than to the old, where able men abounded. He recalled the many good lives and promising cases he had here seen lost and bungled. To take the instance nearest home—Polly’s confinement. Yes, to show his mettle to such as Rogers; to earn respect where he had lived as a mere null—the idea had an insidious fascination. And as Polly sagely remarked: if it were not he, it would be some one else; another would harvest the kudos that might have been his. For the rough-and-ready treatment—the blue pills and black draughts—that had satisfied the early diggers had fallen into disrepute; medical skill was beginning to be appreciated. If this went on, Ballarat would soon stand on a level with any city of its size at home. But even as it was, he had never been quite fair to it; he had seen it with a jaundiced eye. And again he believed Polly hit the nail on the head, when she asserted that the poor position he had occupied was responsible for much of his dislike.

  But there was something else at work in him besides. Below the surface an admission awaited him, which he shrank from making. All these pros and cons, these quibbles and hairsplittings were but a misfit attempt to cloak the truth. He might gull himself with them for a time: in his heart he knew that he would yield—if yield he did—because he was by nature only too prone to follow the line of least resistance. What he had gone through to-night was no new experience. Often enough, after fretting and fuming about a thing till it seemed as if nothing under the sun had ever mattered so much to him, it could happen that he suddenly threw up the sponge and bowed to circumstance. His vitality exhausted itself beforehand—in a passionate aversion, a torrent of words—and failed him at the critical moment. It was a weakness in his blood—in the blood of his race.—But in the present instance, he had an excuse for himself. He had not known—till Polly came out with her brother’s offer—how he dreaded having to begin all over again in England, an utter stranger, without influence or recommendations, and with no money to speak of at his back.

  But now he had owned up, and there was no more need of shift or subterfuge: now it was one rush and hurry to the end. He had capitulated; a thin-skinned aversion to confronting difficulties, when he saw the chance of avoiding them, had won the day. He intended—had perhaps the whole time intended—to take the hand held out to him. After all, why not? Anyone else, as Polly said, would have jumped at John’s offer. He alone must argue himself blue in the face over it.

  But as he sat and pondered the lengthy chain of circumstance—Polly’s share in it, John’s, his own, even the part played by incorporeal things—he brought up short against the word “decision.” He might flatter himself by imagining he had been free to decide; in reality nothing was further from the truth. He had been subtly and slily guided to his goal—led blindfold along a road that was not of his own choosing. Everything and every one had combined to constrain him: his favours to John, the failure of his business, Polly’s inclinations and persuasions, his own fastidious shrinkings. So that, in the end, all he had had to do was to brush aside a flimsy gossamer veil, which hung between him and his fate. Was it straining a point to see in the whole affair the workings of a Power outside himself—against himself, in so far as it took no count of his poor earth-blind vis
ion?

  Well, if this were so, better still: his ways were in God’s hand. And after all, what did it matter where one strove to serve one’s Maker—east or west or south or north—and whether the stars overhead were grouped in this constellation or in that? Their light was a pledge that one would never be overlooked or forgotten, traced by the hand of Him who had promised to note even a sparrow’s fall. And here he spoke aloud into the darkness the ancient and homely formula that is man’s stand-by in face of the untried, the unknown.

  “If God wills. . . .God knows best.”

  PART III

  CHAPTER ONE

  The house stood not far from the Great Swamp. It was of weatherboard, with a galvanised iron roof, and might have been built from a child’s drawing of a house: a door in the centre, a little window on either side, a chimney at each end. Since the ground sloped downwards, the front part rested on piles some three feet high, and from the rutty clay-track that would one day be a street, wooden steps led up to the door. Much as Mahony would have liked to face it with a verandah, he did not feel justified in spending more than he could help. And Polly not only agreed with him, but contrived to find an advantage in the plainer style of architecture. “Your plate will be better seen, Richard, right on the street, than hidden under a verandah.” But then Polly was overflowing with content. Had not two of the rooms fireplaces? And was there not a wash-house, with a real copper in it, behind the detached kitchen? Not to speak of a spare room!—To the rear of the house a high paling-fence enclosed a good-sized yard. Mahony dreamed of a garden, Polly of keeping hens.

  There were no two happier people on Ballarat that autumn than the Mahonys. To and fro they trudged down the hill, across the Flat, over the bridge and up the other side; first, through a Sahara of dust, then, when the rains began, ankle-deep in gluey red mud. And the building of the finest mansion never gave half so much satisfaction as did that of this flimsy little wooden house, with its thin lath-and-plaster walls. In fancy they had furnished it and lived in it, long before it was even roofed in. Mahony sat at work in his surgery—it measured ten by twelve—Polly at her Berlin-woolwork in the parlour opposite: “And a cage with a little parrot in it, hanging at the window.”

  The preliminaries to the change had gone smoothly enough—Mahony could not complain. Pleasant they had not been; but could the arranging and clinching of a complicated money-matter ever be pleasant? He had had to submit to hearing his private affairs gone into by a stranger; to make dear to strangers his capacity for earning a decent income.

  With John’s promissory letter in his pocket, he had betaken himself to Henry Ocock’s office.

  This, notwithstanding its excellent position on the brow of the western hill, could not deny its humble origin as a livery-barn. The entry was by a yard; and some of the former horse-boxes had been rudely knocked together to provide accommodation. Mahony sniffed stale dung.

  In what had once been the harness-room, two young men sat at work.

  “Why, Tom, my lad, you here?”

  Tom Ocock raised his freckled face, from the chin of which sprouted some long fair hairs, and turned red.

  “Yes, it’s me. Do you want to see ’En——” at an open kick from his brother—“Mr. Ocock?”

  “If you please.”

  Informed by Grindle that the “Captain” was at liberty, Mahony passed to an inner room where he was waved to a chair. In answer to his statement that he had called to see about raising some money, Ocock returned an: “Indeed? Money is tight, sir, very tight!” his face instantly taking on the blank-wall solemnity proper to dealings with this world’s main asset.

  Mahony did not at once hand over John’s way-soothing letter. He thought he would first test the lawyer’s attitude towards him in person—a species of self-torment men of his make are rarely able to withstand. He spoke of the decline of his business; of his idea of setting up as a doctor and building himself a house; and, as he talked, he read his answer pat and clear in the ferrety eyes before him. There was a bored tolerance of his wordiness, an utter lack of interest in the concerns of the petty tradesman.

  “H’m.” Ocock, lying back in his chair, was fitting five outstretched fingers to their fellows. “All very well, my good sir, but may I ask if you have anyone in view as a security?”

  “I have. May I trouble you to glance through this?” and triumphantly Mahony brandished John’s letter.

  Ocock raised his brows. “What? Mr. John Turnham? Ah, very good. . . .very good indeed!” The brazen-faced change in his manner would have made a cat laugh; he sat upright, was interested, courteous, alert. “Quite in order! And now, pray, how much do we need?”

  Unadvised, he had not been able, said Mahony, to determine the sum. So Ocock took pencil and paper, and, prior to running off a reckoning, put him through a sharp interrogation. Under it Mahony felt as though his clothing was being stripped piece by piece off his back. At one moment he stood revealed as mean and stingy, at another as an unpractical spendthrift. More serious things came out besides. He began to see, under the limelight of the lawyer’s inquiry, in what a muddle-headed fashion he had managed his business, and how unlikely it was he could ever have made a good thing of it. Still worse was his thoughtless folly in wedding and bringing home a young wife without, in this settlement where accident was rife, where fires were of nightly occurrence, insuring against either fire or death. Not that Ocock breathed a hint of censure: all was done with a twist of the eye, a purse of the lip; but it was enough for Mahony. He sat there, feeling like an eel in the skinning, and did not attempt to keep pace with the lawyer, who hunted figures into the centre of a woolly maze.

  The upshot of these calculations was: he would need help to the tune of something over one thousand pounds. As matters stood at present on Ballarat, said Ocock, the plainest house he could build would cost him eight hundred; and another couple of hundred would go in furnishing; while a saddle-horse might be put down at fifty pounds. On Turnham’s letter he, Ocock, would be prepared to borrow seven hundred for him—and this could probably be obtained at ten per cent on a mortgage of the house; and a further four hundred, for which he would have to pay twelve or fifteen. Current expenses must be covered by the residue of his savings, and by what he was able to make. They would include the keep of the horse, and the interest on the borrowed money, which might be reckoned roughly at a hundred and twenty per annum. In addition, he would be well advised to insure his life for five to seven hundred pounds.

  The question also came up whether the land he had selected for building on should be purchased or not. He was for doing so, for settling the whole business there and then. Ocock, however, took the opposite view. Considering, said he, that the site chosen was far from the centre of the town, Mahony might safely postpone buying in the meanwhile. There had been no government land-sales of late, and all main-road frontages had still to come under the hammer. As occupier, when the time arrived, he would have first chance at the upset price; though then, it was true, he would also be liable for improvements. The one thing he must beware of was of enclosing too small a block.

  Mahony agreed—agreed to everything: the affair seemed to have passed out of his hands. A sense of dismay invaded him while he listened to the lawyer tick off the obligations and responsibilities he was letting himself in for. A thousand pounds! He to run into debt for such a sum, who had never owed a farthing to anyone! He fell to doubting whether, after all, he had made choice of the easier way, and lapsed into a gloomy silence.

  Ocock on the other hand warmed to geniality.

  “May I say, doctor, how wise I think your decision to come over to us?”—He spoke as if Ballarat East were in the heart of the Russian steppes. “And that reminds me. There’s a friend of mine. . . .I may be able at once to put a patient in your way.”

  Mahony walked home in a mood of depression which it took all Polly’s arts to dispel.
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  Under its influence he wrote an outspoken letter to Purdy—but with no very satisfactory result. It was like projecting a feeler for sympathy into the void, so long was it since they had met, and so widely had his friend’s life branched off from his.

  Purdy’s answer—it was headed “The Ovens”—did not arrive till several weeks later, and was mainly about himself.

  In a way I’m with you, old pill-box, he wrote. You’ll cut a jolly sight better figure as an M.D. than ever you’ve done behind a counter. But I don’t know that I’d care to stake my last dollar on you all the same. What does Mrs. Polly say?—As for me, old boy, since you’re good enough to ask, why the less said the better. One of these days a poor worn old shicer’ll come crawling round to your back door to see if you’ve any cast-off duds you can spare him. Seriously, Dick, old man, I’m stony-broke once more and the Lord only knows how I’m going to win through.

  In the course of that winter, custom died a natural death; and one day, the few oddments that remained having been sold by auction, Mahony and his assistant nailed boards horizontally across the entrance to the store. The day of weighing out pepper and salt was over; never again would the tinny jangle of the accursed bell smite his ears. The next thing was that Hempel packed his chattels and departed for his new walk in life. Mahony was not sorry to see him go. Hempel’s thoughts had soared far above the counter; he was arrived at the stage of: “I’m just as good as you!” which everyone here reached sooner or later.