But he could hear her uneasily consulting with Purdy in the passage.
It was not till his pulse beat normally again that he could smile at his exaggerated fears. Now, too, reviving health brought back a wholesome interest in everyday affairs. He listened with amusement to Polly’s account of the shifts Purdy was reduced to, to enter the house unseen by Miss Tilly. On his faithful daily call, the young man would creep round by the back door, and Tilly was growing more and more irate at her inability to waylay him. Yes, Polly was rather redly forced to admit, she had abetted him in his evasions. (“You know, Poll, I might just as well tie myself up to old Mother B. herself and be done with it!”) Out of sheer pique Tilly had twice now accepted old Mr. Ocock’s invitation to drive with him. Once, she had returned with a huge bag of lollies; and once, with a face like a turkey-cock. Polly couldn’t help thinking. . . .no, really, Richard, she could not!. . . .that perhaps something might come of it. He should not laugh; just wait and see.
Many inquiries had been made after him. People had missed their doctor, it seemed, and wanted him back. It was a real red-letter day when he could snap to the catches of his gloves again, and mount the step of a buggy.
He had instructed Purdy to arrange for the hire of this vehicle, saddle-work being out of the question for him in the meantime. And on his first long journey—it led him past Doyle’s hut, now, he was sorry to see, in the hands of strangers; for the wife, on the way to making a fair recovery, had got up too soon, overtaxed her strength and died, and the broken-hearted husband was gone off no one knew where—on this drive, as mile after mile slid from under the wheels, Mahony felt how grateful was the screen of a hood between him and the sun.
While he was laid up, the eternal question of how to live on his income had left him, relatively speaking, in peace. He had of late adopted the habit of doing his scraping and saving at the outset of each quarter, so as to get the money due to Ocock put by betimes. His illness had naturally made a hole in this; and now the living from hand to mouth must begin anew.
With what remained of Doyle’s money he proposed to settle his account at the livery-stable. Then the unexpected happened. His reappearance—he looked very thin and washed-out—evidently jogged a couple of sleepy memories. Simultaneously two big bills were paid, one of which he had entirely given up. In consequence, he again found himself fifty pounds to the good. And driving to Ocock’s office, on term day, he resolved to go on afterwards to the Bank of Australasia and there deposit this sum.
Grindle, set off by a pair of flaming “sideboards,” himself ushered Mahony into the sanctum, and the affair was disposed of in a trice. Ocock was one of the busiest of men nowadays—he no longer needed to invent sham clients and fictitious interviews and he utilised the few odd minutes it took to procure a signature, jot down a note, open a drawer, unlock a tin box to remark abstractedly on the weather and put a polite inquiry: “And your good lady? In the best of health, I trust?”
On emerging from the inner room, Mahony saw that the places formerly filled by Tom and Johnny were occupied by strangers; and he was wondering whether it would be indiscreet to ask what had become of the brothers, when Ocock cut across his intention. “By the way, Jenkins, has that memorandum I spoke of been drawn up?” he turned to a clerk.
With a sheet of foolscap in his hand, he invited Mahony with a beck of the chin to re-enter his room. “Half a moment! Now, doctor, if you happen to have a little money lying idle, I can put you on to a good thing—a very good thing indeed. I don’t know, I’m sure, whether you keep an eye on the fluctuations of the share-market. If so, you’ll no doubt have noticed the. . . .let me say the extreme instability of ‘Porepunkahs.’ After making an excellent start, they have dropped till they are now to be had at one-twentieth of their original value.”
He did not take much interest in mining matters was Mahony’s reply. However he knew something of the claim in question, if only because several of his acquaintances had abandoned their shares, in disgust at the repeated calls and the lack of dividends.
“Exactly. Well now, doctor, I’m in a position to inform you that ‘Porepunkahs’ will very shortly be prime favourites on the market, selling at many times their original figure—their original figure, sir! No one with a few hundreds to spare could find a better investment. Now is the time to buy.”
A few hundreds!. . . .what does he take me for? thought Mahony; and declined the transaction off-hand. It was very good of Mr. Ocock to think of him; but he preferred to keep clear of that kind of thing.
“Quite so, quite so!” returned Ocock suavely, and dry-washed his hands with the smile Mahony had never learnt to fathom. “Just as you please, of course.—I’ll only ask you, doctor, to treat the matter as strictly confidential.”
“I suppose he says the same to everyone he tells,” was Mahony’s comment as he flicked up his horse; and he wondered what the extent might be of the lawyer’s personal interest in the “Porepunkah Company.” Probably the number of shareholders was not large enough to take up the capital.
Still, the incident gave him food for thought, and only after closing time did he remember his intention of driving home by way of the Bank.
Later in the day he came back on the incident, and pondered his abrupt refusal of Ocock’s offer. There was nothing unusual in this: he never took advice well; and, was it forced upon him, nine times out of ten a certain inborn contrariness drove him to do just the opposite. Besides, he had not yet learned to look with lenience on the rage for speculation that had seized the people of Ballarat; and he held that it would be culpable for a man of his slender means to risk money in the great game.—But was there any hint of risk in the present instance? To judge from Ocock’s manner, the investment was as safe as a house, and lucrative to a degree that made one’s head swim. “Many times their original figure!” An Arabian-nights fashion of growing rich, and no mistake! Very different from the laborious grind of his days, in which he had always to reckon with the chance of not being paid at all. That very afternoon had brought him a fresh example of this. He was returning from the Old Magpie Lead, where he had been called to a case of scarlet fever, and saw himself covering the same road daily for some time to come. But he had learned to adjudge his patients in a winking; and these, he could swear to it, would prove to be non-payers; of a kind even to cut and run, once the child was out of danger. Was he really justified, cramped for money as he was, in rejecting the straight tip Ocock had given him? And he debated this moot point—argued his need against his principles—the whole way home.
As soon as he had changed and seen his suspect clothing hung out to air, he went impetuously back to Ocock’s office. He had altered his mind. A small gift from a grateful patient: yes, fifty, please; they might bring him luck.—And he saw his name written down as the owner of half a hundred shares.
After this, he took a new interest in the mining sheet of the Star; turned to it, indeed, first of all. For a week, a fortnight, “Porepunkahs” remained stationary; then they made a call, and, if he did not wish to forfeit, he had to pay out as many shillings as he held shares. A day or two later they sank a trifle, and Mahony’s hopes with them. There even came a day when they were not mentioned; and he gave up his money for lost. But of a sudden they woke to life again, took an upward bound, and within a month were quoted at five pounds—on rumour alone. “Very sensitive indeed,” said the Star. Purdy, his only confidant, went about swearing at himself for having let the few he owned lapse; and Mahony itched to sell. He could now have banked two hundred and fifty pounds.
But Ocock laughed him out of countenance—even went so far as to pat him on the shoulder. On no account was he to think of selling. “Sit tight, doctor. . . .sit tight! Till I say the word.”
And Mahony reluctantly obeyed.
CHAPTER NINE
In the course of the following winter John Turnham came to stand as one of two candidates for th
e newly proclaimed electoral district of Ballarat West.
The first news his relatives had of his intention was gleaned from the daily paper. Mahony lit on the paragraph by chance one morning; said: “Hullo! Here’s something that will interest you, my dear,” and read it aloud.
Polly laid down her knife and fork, pushed her plate from her, and went pink with pleasure and surprise. “Richard! You don’t mean it!” she exclaimed, and got up to look over his shoulder. Yes, there it was—John’s name in all the glory of print. “Mr. John Millibank Turnham, one of the foremost citizens and most highly respected denizens of our marvellous metropolis, and a staunch supporter of democratic rights and the interests of our people.” Polly drew a deep breath. “Do you know, Richard, I shouldn’t wonder if he came to live on Ballarat—I mean if he gets in.—Does Trotty hear? This is Trotty’s papa they’re writing about in the papers.—Of course we must ask him to stay with us.” For this happened during an interregnum, when the spare room was temporarily out of use.
“Of course we must do nothing of the kind. Your brother will need the best rooms Bath’s can give him; and when he’s not actually on the hustings, he’ll be hobnobbing in the bar, standing as many drinks as there are throats in the crowd,” gave back Mahony, who had the lowest possible opinion of colonial politics.
“Well, at least I can write and tell him how delighted we are,” said Polly, not to be done.
“Find out first, my dear, if there’s any truth in the report. I can hardly think John would have left us in the dark to this extent.”
But John corroborated the news; and, in the letter Polly read out a week later, announced the opening of his campaign for the coming month.
I shall feel much obliged to your husband if he will meanwhile exert his influence on my behalf. He is no doubt acquainted professionally with many of the leading squatters round Ballarat, whom he can induce to support my candidature.
“Umph!” said Mahony grumpily, and went on scooping out his egg. “We’re good enough to tout for him.”
“Ssh!” warned Polly, with a glance at Trotty. “Think what it means to him, Richard, and to us, too. It will do your practice ever so much good if he gets in—to be the brother-in-law of the member! We must help all we can, dear.”
She was going driving to Yarangobilly that day with Archdeacon Long to see a new arrival Richard had recently brought into the world; and now she laid plans to kill two birds with one stone, entering into the scheme with a gusto that astonished Mahony. “Upon my word, wife, I believe you’re glad to have something to do.”
“Will my own papa gimme a dolly?. . . .like Uncle Papa?” here piped Trotty.
“Perhaps. But you will have to be a very good girl, and not talk with your mouth full or dirty your pinnies. Oh, here’s a postscript!” Polly had returned to the sheet, and was gloating over it. “John writes:
Especially must he endeavour to win Lawyer Ocock over to my side. I lay great weight on O.’s support.
Oh, Richard, now isn’t that unfortunate? I do hope it won’t make any difference to John’s chances.”
Polly’s dismay had good grounds. A marked coolness had sprung up between her husband and the lawyer; and on no account, she knew, would Richard consent to approach Mr. Henry. Some very hot remarks made by the latter had been passed on to her by Mrs. Glendinning. She had not dared to tell Richard the worst.
The coolness dated from an afternoon when Tilly Beamish had burst into the house in a state of rampant excitement. “Oh, Polly! oh, I say! my dear, whatever do you think? That old cove—old O.—’as actually had the cheek to make me a proposal.”
“Tilly!” gasped Polly, and flushed to the roots of her hair. “Oh, my dear, I am pleased!” For Polly’s conscience was still somewhat tender about the aid she had lent Purdy in his evasions. The two women kissed, and Tilly cried a little. “It’s certainly her first offer,” thought Mrs. Polly. Aloud, she asked hesitatingly: “And do you. . . .shall you. . . .I mean, are you going to accept him, Tilly?”
But this was just where Tilly could not make up her mind: should she take him, or should she not? For two whole days she sat about debating the question; and Polly listened to her with all the sympathy and interest so momentous a step deserved.
“If you feel you could really learn to care for him, dear. Of course it would be nice for you to have a house of your own. And how happy it would make poor mother to see you settled!”
Tilly tore the last veil from her feelings, uttered gross confidences. Polly knew well enough where her real inclination lay. “I’ve hoped against hope, Poll, that a certain person would come to the scratch at last.” Yes, it was true enough, he had nothing to offer her; but she wasn’t the sort to have stuck at that. “I’d have worked my hands to the bone for ’im, Poll, if ’e’d only said the word.” The one drawback to marriage with “you know ’oo” would have been his infirmity. “Some’ow, Polly, I can’t picture myself dragging a husband with a gammy leg at my heels.” From this, Tilly’s mind glanced back to the suitor who had honourably declared himself. Of course “old O.” hadn’t a great deal of the gentleman about him; and their ages were unsuitable. “’E owns to fifty-eight, and as you know, Poll, I’m only just turned twenty-five,” at which Polly drooped her head a little lower over the handkerchief she was hemming, to avoid meeting her friend’s eye. Poor dear Tilly! she would never see thirty again; and she need hardly have troubled, thought Polly, to be insincere with her. But in the same breath she took back the reproach. A woman herself, she understood something of the fear, and shame, and heartburning that had gone to the making of the lie. Perhaps, too, it was a gentle hint from Tilly what age she now wished to be considered. And so Polly agreed, and said tenderly: yes, certainly, the difference was very marked. Meanwhile Tilly flowed on. These were the two chief objections. On the other hand, the old boy was ludicrously smitten; and she thought one might trust her, Tilly B., to soon knock him into shape. It would also, no doubt, be possible to squeeze a few pounds out of him towards assisting “pa and ma” in their present struggle. Again, as a married woman she would have a chance of helping Jinny to find a husband: “Though Jinn’s gone off so, Polly, I bet you’d hardly know her if you met ’er in the street.” To end all, a bird in hand, etc.; and besides, what prospects had she, if she remained a spinster?
So, when she was asked, Tilly accepted without further humming and hawing an invitation to drive out in the smart dog-cart Mr. Ocock had hired for the purpose; and Polly saw her off with many a small private sign of encouragement. All went well. A couple of hours later Tilly came flying in, caught Polly up in a bear’s hug, and danced her round the room. “My dear, wish me joy!—Oh, lor, Polly, I do feel ’appy!” She was wearing a large half-hoop of diamonds on her ring-finger: nothing would do “old O.” but that they should drive there and then to the finest jeweller’s in Sturt Street, where she had the pick of a trayful. And now Mr. Ocock, all a-smirk with sheepish pride, was fetched in to receive congratulations; and Polly produced refreshments; and healths were drunk. Afterwards the happy couple dallied in the passage and loitered on the doorstep, till evening was far advanced.
It was Polly who, in clearing away, was struck dumb by the thought: “But now whatever is to become of Miss Amelia?”
She wondered if this consideration troubled the old man. Trouble there was, of some sort: he called at the house three days running for a word with Richard. He wore a brand-new pair of shepherd’s-plaid trousers, a choker that his work-stained hands had soiled in tying, a black coat, a massive gold watch-chain. On the third visit he was lucky enough to catch Mahony, and the door of the surgery closed behind them.
Here Mr. Ocock sat on the extreme edge of a chair; alternately crushed his wide-awake flat between his palms and expanded it again, as though he were playing a concertina; and coughed out a wordy preamble. He assured Mahony, to begin with, how highly he esteemed him. It
was because of this, because he knew doctor was as straight as a pound of candles, that he was going to ask his advice on an awkward matter—devilish awkward!—one nobody had any idea of either—except Henry. And Henry had kicked up such a deuce of a row at his wanting to marry again, that he was damned if he’d have anything more to do with him. Besides, doctor knew what lawyers were—the whole breed of ’em! Sharp as needles—especially Henry—but with a sort of squint in their upper storey that made ’em see every mortal thing from the point of law. And that was no good to him. What he needed was a plain and honest, a. . . .he hesitated for a word and repeated, “a honest opinion;” for he only wanted to do the right thing, what was straight and above board. And at last out it came: did “doc.” think it would be acting on the square, and not taking a low-down advantage of a female, if he omitted to mention to “the future Mrs. O.” that, up till six months back, he had been obliged to. . . .well, he’d spit it out short and say, obliged to report himself to the authorities at fixed intervals? Women were such shy cattle, so damned odd! You never knew how they’d take a thing like this. One might raise Cain over it, another only laugh, another send him packing. He didn’t want to let a fine young woman like Matilda slip if he could help it, by dad he didn’t! But he felt he must either win her by fair dealing or not at all. And having got the load off his chest, the old colonist swallowed hard, and ran the back of his hand over his forehead.
He had kept his eyes glued to the table-leg in speaking, and so saw neither his hearer’s involuntary start at the damaging disclosure, nor the nervous tightening of the hand that lay along the arm of the chair. Mahony sat silent, balancing a paper-knife, and fighting down a feeling of extraordinary discomfort—his very finger-tips curled under the strain. It was of little use to remind himself that, ever since he had known him, Ocock had led a decent, God-fearing life, respected both in his business relations and by his brethren of the chapel. Nor could he spare more than a glance in passing for those odd traits in the old man’s character which were now explained: his itch for public approval; his unvarying harshness towards the pair of incorrigibles who weighed him down. At this moment he discounted even the integrity that had prompted the confession. His attitude of mind was one of: why the deuce couldn’t the old fool have held his tongue?
The Fortunes of Richard Mahony Page 30
