Oh, these unbidden, injudicious confidences! How they complicated life! And as a doctor he was pestered with only too many; he was continually being forced to see behind the scenes. Now, outsiders, too, must needs choose him for the storehouse of their privacies. Himself he never made a confidence; but it seemed as though just this buttoned-upness on his part loosened people’s tongues. Blind to the flags of warning he hoisted in looks and bearing, they innocently proceeded, as Ocock had done, to throw up insurmountable barriers. He could hear a new tone in his own voice when he replied, and was relieved to know the old man dull of perception. For now Ocock had finished speaking, and sat perspiring with anxiety to learn his fate. Mahony pulled himself together; he could, in good faith, tender the advice to let the dead past bury its dead. Whatever the original fault had been—no, no, please!. . . .and he raised an arresting hand—it was, he felt sure, long since fully atoned. And Mr. Ocock had said a true word: women were strange creatures. The revelation of his secret might shipwreck his late-found happiness. It also, of course, might not—and personally Mahony did not believe it would; for Ocock’s business throve like the green bay-tree, and Miss Tilly had been promised a fine two-storeyed house, with bow-windows and a garden, and a carriage-drive up to the door. Again, the admission might be accepted in peace just now, and later on used as a weapon against him. In his, Mahony’s, eyes, by far the wisest course would be, to let the grass grow over the whole affair.
And here he rose, abruptly terminating the interview. “You and I, too, sir, if you please, will forget what has passed between us this morning, and never come back on it. How is Tom getting on in the drapery business? Does he like his billet?”
But none the less as he ushered his visitor out, he felt that there was a certain finality about the action. It was—as far as his private feelings were concerned—the old man’s moral exit from the scene.
On the doorstep Ocock hoped that nothing that had been said would reach “your dear little lady.” “To ’Enry, too, doc., if you’ll be so good, mum’s the word! ’Enry ’ud never forgive me, nay, or you eether, if it got to ’is ’ears I’d bin an’ let the cat outer the bag. An’ ’e’s got a bit of a down on you as it is, for it ’avin’ bin your place I met the future Mrs. O. at.”
“My good man!” broke from Mahony—and in this address, which would previously never have crossed his lips, all his sensations of the past hour were summed up. “Has your son Henry the”—he checked himself; “does he suppose I—I or my wife—had anything to do with it?”
He turned back to the surgery hot with annoyance. This, too! Not enough that he must be put out of countenance by indiscreet babblings; he must also get drawn into family squabbles, even be held responsible for them: he who, brooking no interference in his own life, demanded only that those about him should be as intolerant as he.
It all came from Polly’s indiscriminate hospitality. His house was never his own. And now they had the prospect of John and his electoral campaign before them. And John’s chances of success, and John’s stump oratory, and the backstair-work other people were expected to do for him would form the main theme of conversation for many a day to come.
Mrs. Glendinning confirmed old Ocock’s words.
She came to talk over the engagement with Polly, and sitting in the parlour cried a little, and was sorry. But then “poor little Agnes” cried so easily nowadays. Richard said her nerves had been shattered by the terrible affair just before Christmas, when Mr. Glendinning had tried first to kill her, and then to cut his own throat.
Agnes said: “But I told Henry quite plainly, darling, that I would not cease my visits to you on that account. It is both wrong and foolish to think you or Dr. Mahony had anything to do with it—and after the doctor was so kind, too, so very kind, about getting poor Mr. Glendinning into the asylum. And so you see, dear, Henry and I have had quite a disagreement”; and Agnes cried again at the remembrance. “Of course, I can sympathise with his point of view. . . .Henry is so ambitious. All the same, dearest, it’s not quite so bad—is it?—as he makes out. Matilda is certainly not very comme il faut—you’ll forgive my saying so, love, won’t you? But I think she will suit Henry’s father in every way. No, the truth is, the old gentleman has made a great deal of money, and we naturally expected it to fall to Henry at his death; no one anticipated his marrying again. Not that Henry really needs the money; he is getting on so well; and I have. . . .I shall have plenty, too, by and by. But you know, love, what men are.”
“Dearest Agnes!. . . .don’t fret about it. Mr. Henry thinks too much of you, I’m sure, to be vexed with you for long. And when he looks at it calmly, he’ll see how unfair it is to make us responsible. I’m like you, dear; I can’t consider it a misfortune. Tilly is not a lady; but she’s a dear, warm-hearted girl and will make the old man a good wife. I only hope though, Agnes, Mr. Henry won’t say anything to Richard. Richard is so touchy about things of that sort.”
The two women kissed, Polly with feelings of the tenderest affection: the fact that, on behalf of their friendship, Agnes had pitted her will against Mr. Henry’s, endeared her to Polly as nothing else could have done.
But when, vigilant as a mother-hen, she sought to prepare her husband for a possible unpleasantness, she found him already informed; and her well-meant words were like a match laid to his suppressed indignation.
“In all my born days I never heard such impudence!”
He turned embarrassingly cool to Tilly. And Tilly, innocent of offence and quite unskilled in deciphering subtleties, put this sudden change of front down to jealousy, because she was going to live in a grander house than he did. For the same reason he had begun to turn up his nose at “Old O.,” or she was very much mistaken; and in vain did Polly strive to convince her that she was in error. “I don’t know anyone Richard has a higher opinion of!”
But it was a very uncomfortable state of things; and when a message arrived over the electric telegraph announcing the dangerous illness of Mrs. Beamish, distressed though she was by the news, Polly could not help heaving a tiny sigh of relief. For Tilly was summoned back to Melbourne with all speed, if she wished to see her mother alive.
They mingled their tears, Polly on her knees at the packing, Tilly weeping whole-heartedly among the pillows of the bed.
“If it ’ad only been pa now, I shouldn’t have felt it half so much,” and she blew her nose for the hundredth time. “Pa was always such a rum old stick. But poor ma. . . .when I think how she’s toiled and moiled ’er whole life long, to keep things going. She’s ’ad all the pains and none of the pleasures; and now, just when I was hoping to be able to give ’er a helping hand, this must happen.”
The one bright spot in Tilly’s grief was that the journey would be made in a private conveyance. Mr. Ocock had bought a smart gig and was driving her down himself; driving past the foundations of the new house, along the seventy odd miles of road, right up to the door of the mean lodging in a Collingwood back street, where the old Beamishes had hidden their heads. “If only she’s able to look out of the window and see me dash up in my own turn-out!” said Tilly.
Polly fitted out a substantial luncheon-basket, and was keenest sympathy to the last. But Mahony was a poor dissembler; and his sudden thaw, as he assisted in the farewell preparations, could, Polly feared, have been read aright by a child.
Tilly hugged Polly to her, and gave her kiss after kiss. “I shall never forget ’ow kind you’ve been, Poll, and all you’ve done for me. I’ve had my disappointments ’ere, as you know; but p’raps after all it’ll turn out to be for the best. One o’ the good sides to it anyhow is that you and me’ll be next-door neighbours, so to say, for the rest of our lives. And I’ll hope to see something of you, my dear, every blessed day. But you’ll not often catch me coming to this house, I can tell you that! For, if you won’t mind me saying so, Poll, I think you’ve got one of the queerest sticks for a
husband that ever walked this earth. Blows hot one day and cold the next, for all the world like the wind in spring. And without caring twopence whose corns ’e treads on.” Which, thought Polly, was but a sorry return on Tilly’s part for Richard’s hospitality. After all, it was his house she had been a guest in.
Such were the wheels within wheels. And thus it came about that, when the question rose of paving the way for John Turnham’s candidature, Mahony drew the line at approaching Henry Ocock.
CHAPTER TEN
John drove from Melbourne in a drag and four, accompanied by numerous friends and well-wishers. A mile or so out of Ballarat, he was met by a body of supporters headed by a brass band, and escorted in triumph to the George Hotel. Here, the horses having been led away, John at once took the field by mounting the box-seat of the coach and addressing the crowd of idlers that had gathered round to watch the arrival. He got an excellent hearing—so Jerry reported, who was an eye- and ear-witness of the scene—and was afterwards borne shoulder-high into the hotel.
With Jerry at his heels, Mahony called at the hotel that evening. He found John entertaining a large impromptu party. The table of the public dining-room was disorderly with the remains of a liberal meal; napkins lay crushed and flung down among plates piled high with empty nutshells; the cloth was wine-stained, and bestrewn with ashes and breadcrumbs, the air heady with the fumes of tobacco. Those of the guests who still lingered at the table had pushed their chairs back or askew, and sat, some a-straddle, some even with their feet on the cloth. John was confabbing with half a dozen black-coats in a corner. Each held a wineglass in his hand from which he sipped, while John, legs apart, did all the talking, every now and then putting out his forefinger to prod one of his hearers on the middle button of the waistcoat. It was some time before he discovered the presence of his relatives; and Mahony had leisure to admire the fashion in which, this corner-talk over, John dispersed himself among the company; drinking with this one and that; glibly answering questions; patting a glum-faced brewer on the back; and simultaneously checking over, with an oily-haired agent, his committee-meetings for the following days. His customary arrogance and pompousness of manner were laid aside. For the nonce, he was a simple man among men.
Then espying them, he hurried over, and rubbing his hands with pleasure said warmly: “My dear Mahony, this is indeed kind! Jerry, my lad, how do how do? Still growing, I see! We’ll make a fine fellow of you yet—Well, doctor!. . . .we’ve every reason, I think, to feel satisfied with the lie of the land.”
But here he was snatched from them by an urgent request for a pronouncement—“A quite informal word, sir, if you’ll be so good,”—on the vexed question of vote by ballot. And this being a pet theme of John’s, and a principle he was ready to defend through thick and thin, he willingly complied.
Mahony had no further talk with him. The speech over—it was a concise and spirited utterance, and, if you were prepared to admit the efficacy of the ballot, convincing enough—Mahony quietly withdrew. He had to see a patient at eleven. Polly, too, would probably be lying awake for news of her brother.
As he threw back his braces and wound up his watch, he felt it incumbent on him to warn her not to pitch her hopes too high. “You mustn’t expect, my dear, that your brother’s arrival will mean much to us. He is now a public man, and will have little time for small people like ourselves. I’m bound to admit, Polly, I was very favourably impressed by the few words I heard him say,” he added.
“Oh, Richard, I’m so glad!” and Polly, who had been sitting on the edge of the bed, stood on tiptoe to give him a kiss.
As Mahony predicted, John’s private feelings went down before the superior interests of his campaign. Three days passed before he found time to pay his sister a visit; and Polly, who had postponed a washing, baked her richest cakes and pastries, and clad Trotty in her Sunday best each day of the three: Polly was putting a good face on the matter, and consoling herself with Jerry’s descriptions of John’s triumphs. How she wished she could hear some of the speechifying! But Richard would never consent; and electioneering did certainly seem, from what Jerry said, a very rough-and-ready business—nothing for ladies. Hence her delight knew no bounds when John drove up unexpectedly late one afternoon, between a hard day’s personal canvassing and another of the innumerable dinners he had to eat his way through. Tossing the reins to the gentleman who sat next him, he jumped out of the wagonette—it was hung with placards of “Vote for Turnham!”—and gave a loud rat-a-tat at the door.
Forgetting in her excitement that this was Ellen’s job, Polly opened to him herself, and drew him in. “John! How pleased I am to see you!”
“My dear girl, how are you? God bless me, how you’ve altered! I should never have known you.” He held her at arm’s length, to consider her.
“But you haven’t changed in the least, John. Except to grow younger.—Richard, here’s John at last!—and Trotty, John. . . .here’s Trotty!—Take your thumb out of your mouth, naughty girl!—She’s been watching for you all day, John, with her nose to the window.” And Polly pushed forward the scarlet, shrinking child.
John’s heartiness suffered a distinct check as his eyes lit on Trotty, who stood stiff as a bit of Dresden china in her bunchy starched petticoats. “Come here, Emma, and let me look at you.” Taking the fat little chin between thumb and first finger, he turned the child’s face up and kept it so, till the red button of a mouth trembled, and the great blue eyes all but ran over. “H’m! Yes. . . .a notable resemblance to her mother. Ah, time passes, Polly my dear—time passes!” He sighed. “I hope you mind your aunt, Emma, and are properly grateful to her?”
Abruptly quitting his hold, he swept the parlour with a glance. “A very snug little place you have here, upon my word!”
While Polly, with Trotty pattering after, bustled to the larder, Mahony congratulated his brother-in-law on the more favourable attitude towards his election policy which was becoming evident in the local press. John’s persuasive tongue was clearly having its effect, and the hostility he had met with at the outset of his candidature was yielding to more friendly feelings on all sides. John was frankly gratified by the change, and did not hesitate to say so. When the wine arrived they drank to his success, and Polly’s delicacies met with their due share of praise. Then, having wiped his mouth on a large silk handkerchief, John disclosed the business object of his call. He wanted specific information about the more influential of their friends and acquaintances; and here he drew a list of names from his pocket-book. Mahony, his chin propped on the flaxen head of the child, whom he nursed, soon fell out of the running; for Polly proved far the cleverer at grasping the nature of the information John sought, and at retailing it. And John complimented her on her shrewdness, ticked off names, took notes on what she told him; and when he was not writing sat tapping his thick, carnation-red underlip, and nodding assent. It was arranged that Polly should drive out with him next day to Yarangobilly, by way of Dandaloo; while for the evening after they plotted a card-party, at which John might come to grips with Archdeacon Long. John expected to find the reverend gentleman a hard nut to crack, their views on the subject of a state aid to religion being diametrically opposed. Polly thought a substantial donation to the chancel-fund might smooth things over, while for John to display a personal interest in Mrs. Long’s charities would help still more. Then there were the Ococks. The old man could be counted on, she believed; but John might have some difficulty with Mr. Henry—and here she initiated her brother into the domestic differences which had split up the Ocock family, and prevented Richard from approaching the lawyer. John, who was in his most democratic mood, was humorous at the expense of Henry, and declared the latter should rather wish his father joy of coming to such a fine, bouncing young wife in his old age. The best way of getting at Mr. Henry, Polly considered, would be for Mrs. Glendinning to give a luncheon or a bushing-party, with the lawyer among the guests: “Th
en you and I, John, could drive out and join them—either by chance or invitation, as you think best.” Polly was heart and soul in the affair.
But business over, she put several straight questions about the boy, little Johnny—Polly still blamed herself for having meekly submitted to the child’s removal from her charge—and was not to be fobbed off with evasions. The unfavourable verdict she managed to worm out of John: “Incorrigible, my dear Polly—utterly incorrigible! His masters report him idle, disobedient, a bad influence on the other scholars,” she met staunchly with: “Perhaps it has something to do with the school. Why not try another? Johnny had his good qualities; in many ways was quite a lovable child.”
For the first time Mahony saw his wife and her eldest brother together and he could not but be struck by Polly’s attitude. Greatly as she admired and reverenced John, there was not a particle of obsequiousness in her manner, nor any truckling to his point of view; and she plainly felt nothing of the peculiar sense of discomfort that invariably attacked him, in John’s presence. Either she was not conscious of her brother’s grossly patronising air, or, aware of it, did not resent it, John having always been so much her superior in age and position. Or was it indeed the truth that John did not try to patronise Polly? That his overbearing nature recognised in hers a certain springy resistance, which was not to be crushed? In other words, that, in a Turnham, Turnham blood met its match.
John re-took his seat in the front of the wagonette, Trotty was lifted up to see the rosettes and streamers adorning the horses, the gentlemen waved their hats, and off they went again at a fine pace, and with a whip-cracking that brought the neighbours to their windows.
The Fortunes of Richard Mahony Page 31
