Tangye had taken off his spectacles and was polishing them on a crumpled handkerchief. He seemed about to reply, even made a quick half-turn towards Mahony; then thought better of it, and went on rubbing. A smile played round his lips.
“And in conclusion let me say this,” went on Mahony, not unnettled by his companion’s expression. “It’s sheer folly to talk about what life makes of us. Life is not an active force. It’s we who make what we will, of life. And in order to shape it to the best of our powers, Mr. Tangye, to put our brief span to the best possible use, we must never lose faith in God or our fellow-men; never forget that, whatever happens, there is a sky, with stars in it, above us.”
“Ah, there’s a lot of bunkum talked about life,” returned Tangye dryly, and settled his glasses on his nose. “And as a man gets near the end of it, he sees just what bunkum it is. Life’s only got one meanin’, doctor; seen plain, there’s only one object in everything we do; and that’s to keep a sound roof over our heads and a bite in our mouths—and in those of the helpless creatures who depend on us. The rest has no more sense or significance than a nigger’s hammerin’ on the tam-tam. The lucky ones o’ this world don’t grasp it; but we others do; and after all p’raps, it’s worth while havin’ gone through it to have got at one bit of the truth, however small. Good night.”
He turned on his heel, and before his words were cold on the air had vanished, leaving Mahony blankly staring.
The moonshine still bathed the earth, gloriously untroubled by the bitterness of human words and thoughts. But the night seemed to have grown chilly; and Mahony gave an involuntary shiver. “Some one walking over my. . . .now what would that specimen have called it? Over the four by eight my remains will one day manure!”
“An odd, abusive, wrong-headed fellow,” he mused, as he made his way home. “Who would ever have thought, though, that the queer little chemist had so much in him? A failure?. . . .yes, he was right there; and as unlovely as failures always are—at close quarters.” But as he laid his hands on the gate, he jerked up his head and exclaimed half aloud: “God bless my soul! What he wanted was not argument or reason but a little human sympathy.” As usual, however, the flash of intuition came too late. “For such a touchy nature I’m certainly extraordinarily obtuse where the feelings of others are concerned,” he told himself as he hooked in the latch.
“Why, Richard, where have you been?” came Mary’s clear voice—muted so as not to disturb John and Jinny, who had retired to rest. Purdy and she sat waiting on the verandah. “Were you called out? We’ve had time to clear everything away. Here, dear, I saved you some sandwiches and a glass of claret. I’m sure you didn’t get any supper yourself, with looking after other people.”
Long after Mary had fallen asleep he lay wakeful. His foolish blunder in response to Tangye’s appeal rankled in his mind. He could not get over his insensitiveness. How he had boasted of his prosperity, his moral nicety, his saving pursuits—he to boast!—when all that was asked of him was a kindly: “My poor fellow-soul, you have indeed fought a hard fight; but there is a God above us who will recompense you at His own time, take the word for it of one who has also been through the Slough of Despond.” And then just these. . . .these hobbies of his, of which he had made so much. Now that he was alone with himself he saw them in a very different light. Lepidoptera collected years since were still unregistered, plants and stones unclassified; his poor efforts at elucidating the Bible waited to be brought into line with the Higher Criticism; Home’s levitations and fire-tests called for investigation; while the leaves of some of the books he had cited had never even been cut. The mere thought of these things was provocative, rest-destroying. To induce drowsiness he went methodically through the list of his acquaintances, and sought to range them under one or other of Tangye’s headings. And over this there came moments when he lapsed into depths. . . .fetched himself up again—but with an effort. . . .only to fall back. . . .
But he seemed barely to have closed his eyes when the night-bell rang. In an instant he was on his feet in the middle of the room, applying force to his sleep-cogged wits.
He threw open the sash. “Who’s there? What is it?”
Henry Ocock’s groom. “I was to fetch you out to our place at once, governor.”
“But—Is Mrs. Henry taken ill?”
“Not as I know of,” said the man dryly. “But her and the boss had a bit of a tiff on the way home, and Madam’s excited-like.”
“And am I to pay for their tiffs?” muttered Mahony hotly.
“Hush, Richard! He’ll hear you,” warned Mary, and sat up.
“I shall decline to go. Henry’s a regular old woman.”
Mary shook her head. “You can’t afford to offend the Henrys. And you know what he is—so hasty. He’d call in some one else on the spot, and you’d never get back. If only you hadn’t stayed out so long, dear, looking at the moon!”
“Good God! Mary, is one never to have a moment to oneself? Never a particle of pleasure or relaxation?”
“Why, Richard!” expostulated his wife, and even felt a trifle ashamed of his petulance. “What would you call tonight, I wonder? Wasn’t the whole evening one of pleasure and relaxation?”
And Mahony, struggling into shirt and trousers, had to admit that he would be hard put to it to give it another name.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Hush, dolly! Mustn’t cry, and make a noise. Uncle Richard’s cross.”
Trotty sat on a hassock and rocked a china babe, with all the appurtenant mother-fuss she had picked up from the tending of her tiny stepsister. The present Trotty was a demure little maid of some seven summers, who gave the impression of having been rather rudely elongated. Her flaxen hair was stiffly imprisoned behind a round black comb; and her big blue eyes alone remained to her from a lovely infancy. (“Poor Emma’s eyes,” said Mary.)
Imitative as a monkey she went on—with a child’s perfect knowledge that it is all make-believe, yet with an entire credence in the power of make-believe: “Naughty child—will you be quiet? There! You’ve frown your counterpane off now. Wonder what next you’ll do. I declare I’ll slap you soon—you make me so cross.”
Through the surgery-window the words floated out: “For goodness’ sake, don’t bother me now with such trifles, Mary! It’s not the moment—with a whole string of people waiting in the other room.”
“Well, if only you’ll be satisfied with what I do, dear, and not blame me afterwards.”
“Get Purdy to give you a hand with Ned’s affair. He has time and to spare.” And wetting his finger-tip Mahony nervously flipped over a dozen pages of the book that lay open before him.
“Well. . . .if you think I should,” said Mary, with a spice of doubt.
“I do. And now go, wife, and remember to shut the door after you. Oh, and tell that woman in the kitchen to stop singing. Her false notes drive me crazy.—How many are there, this morning?”
“Eight—no, nine, if that’s another,” replied Mary, with an ear to the front door.
“Tch! I’ll have to stop then,” and Mahony clapped to the work he had been consulting. “Never a minute to keep abreast of the times.” But: “That’s a good, helpful wife,” as Mary stooped to kiss him. “Do the best you can, mavourneen, and never mind me.”
“Take me with you, Auntie!” Trotty sprang up from her stool, overturning babe and cradle.
“Not to-day, darling. Besides, why are you here? You know I’ve forbidden you to be on the front verandah when the patients come. Run away to the back, and play there.”
Mary donned hat and shawl, opened her parasol and went out into the sun. With the years she had developed into rather a stately young woman: she held her head high and walked with a firm, free step.
Her first visit was to the stable to find Long Jim—or Old Jim as they now called him; for he was nearing the sixties
. The notice to leave, which he had given the day before, was one of the “trifles” it fell to her to consider. Personally Mary thought his going would be no great loss: he knew nothing about a garden, yet resented instruction; and it had always been necessary to get outside help in for the horses. If he went they could engage some one who would combine the posts. But Richard had taken umbrage at the old man’s tone; had even been nervously upset over it. It behoved her to find out what the matter was.
“I want a change,” said Old Jim dourly in response to her inquiry; and went on polishing wheel-spokes, and making the wheel fly. “I’ve bin ’ere too long. An’ now I’ve got a bit o’ brass together, an’ am thinkin’ I’d like to be me own master for a spell.”
“But at your age, Jim, is it wise?—to throw up a comfortable home, just because you’ve laid a little past?”
“It’s enough to keep me. I turned over between four and five ’undred last week in ‘Piecrusts.’”
“Oh!” said Mary, taken by surprise. “Then that—that’s your only reason for wishing to leave?” And as he did not reply, but went on swishing: “Come, Jim, if you’ve anything on your mind, say it out. The doctor didn’t like the way you spoke to him last night.”
At this the old man straightened his back, took a straw from between his teeth, spat and said: “Well, if you must know, Mrs. Mahony, the doctor’s not the boss it pleases me to be h’under any more—and that’s the trewth. I’m tired of it—dog-tired. You can slave yer ’ead off for ’im, and ’e never notices a thing you do, h’or if ’e does, it’s on’y to find fault. It h’ain’t ’uman, I say, and I’ll be danged if I stand it h’any longer.”
But people who came to Mary with criticism of Richard got no mercy. “You’re far too touchy, Jim. You know, if any one does, how rushed and busy the doctor is, and you ought to be the first to make allowance for him—after all he’s done for you. You wouldn’t be here now, if it hadn’t been for him. And then to expect him to notice and praise you for every little job you do!”
But Jim was stubborn. ’E didn’t want to deny anything. But ’e’d rather go. An’ this day a week if it suited her.
“It’s really dreadful how uppish the lower classes get as soon as they have a little money in their pocket,” she said to herself, as she walked the shadeless, sandy road. But this thought was like a shadow cast by her husband’s mind on hers, and was ousted by the more indigenous: “But after all who can blame him, poor old fellow, for wanting to take life easy if he has the chance.” She even added: “He might have gone off, as most of them do, without a word.”
Then her mind reverted to what he had said of Richard, and she pondered the antagonism that had shown through his words. It was not the first time she had run up against this spirit, but, as usual, she was at a loss to explain it. Why should people of Old Jim’s class dislike Richard as they did?—find him so hard to get on with? He was invariably considerate of them, and treated them very generously with regard to money. And yet. . . .for some reason or other they felt injured by him; and thought and spoke of him with a kind of churlish resentment. She was not clever enough to find the key to the riddle—it was no such simple explanation as that he felt himself too good for them. That was not the case: he was proud, certainly, but she had never known any one who—under, it was true, a rather sarcastic manner—was more broadly tolerant of his fellow-men. And she wound up her soliloquy with the lame admission: “Yes, in spite of all his kindness, I suppose he is queer. . . .decidedly queer,” and then she heaved a sigh. What a pity it was! When you knew him to be, at heart, such a dear, good, well-meaning man.
A short walk brought her to the four-roomed cottage where Ned lived with wife and children. Or had lived, till lately. He had been missing from his home now for over a week. On the last occasion of his being in Melbourne with the carrying-van, he had decamped, leaving the boy who was with him to make the return-journey alone. Since then, nothing could be heard of him; and his billet in the Agency had been snapped up.
“Or so they say!” said his wife, with an angry sniff. “I don’t believe a word of it, Mary. Since the railway’s come, biz has gone to the dogs; and they’re only too glad to get the chance of sacking another man.”
Polly looked untidier than ever; she wore a slatternly wrapper, and her hair was thrust unbrushed into its net. But she suffered, no doubt, in her own way; she was red-eyed, and very hasty-handed with her nestful of babes. Sitting in the cheerless parlour, Ned’s dark-eyed eldest on her knee, Mary strove to soothe and encourage. But: it has never been much of a home for the poor boy was her private opinion; and she pressed her cheek affectionately against the little black curly head that was a replica of Ned’s own.
“What’s goin’ to become of us all, the Lord only knows,” said Polly, after having had the good cry the sympathetic presence of her sister-in-law justified. “I’m not a brown cent troubled about Ned—only boiling with ’im. ’E’s off on the booze, sure enough—and ’e’ll turn up again, safe and sound, like loose fish always do. Wait till I catch ’im though! He’ll get it hot.
“We never ought to have come here,” she went on drying her eyes. “Drat the place and all that’s in it, that’s what I say! He did better’n this in Castlemaine; and I’d pa behind me there. But once Richard had sent ’im that twenty quid, he’d no rest till he got away. And I thought, when he was so set on it, may be it’d have a good effect on ’im, to be near you both. But that was just another shoot into the brown. You’ve been A1, Mary; you’ve done your level best. But Richard’s never treated Ned fair. I don’t want to take Ned’s part; he’s nothing in the world but a pretty-faced noodle. But Richard’s treated ’im as if he was the dirt under ’is feet. And Ned’s felt it. Oh, I know whose doing it was, we were never asked up to the house when you’d company. It wasn’t yours, my dear! But we can’t all have hyphens to our names, and go driving round with kid gloves on our hands and our noses in the air.”
Mary felt quite depressed by this fresh attack on her husband. Reminding herself, however, that Polly was excited and over-wrought, she did not speak out the defence that leapt to her tongue. She said staunchly: “As you put it, Polly, it does seem as if we haven’t acted rightly towards Ned. But it wasn’t Richard’s doing alone. I’ve been just as much to blame as he has.”
She sat on, petting the fractious children and giving kindly assurances: as long as she and Richard had anything themselves, Ned’s wife and Ned’s children should not want: and as she spoke, she slipped a substantial proof of her words into Polly’s unproud hand. Besides, she believed there was every chance now of Ned soon being restored to them; and she told how they were going, that very morning, to invoke Mr. Smith’s aid. Mr. Smith was in the Police, as Polly knew, and had influential friends among the Force in Melbourne. By to-morrow there might be good news to bring her.
Almost an hour had passed when she rose to leave. Mrs. Ned was so grateful for the visit and the help that, out in the narrow little passage, she threw her arms round Mary’s neck and drew her to her bosom. Holding her thus, after several hearty kisses, she said in a mysterious whisper, with her lips close to Mary’s ear: “Mary, love, may I say something to you?” and the permission granted, went on: “That is, give you a bit of a hint, dearie?”
“Why, of course you may, Polly.”
“Sure you won’t feel hurt, dear?”
“Quite sure. What is it?” and Mary disengaged herself, that she might look the speaker in the face.
“Well, it’s just this—you mentioned the name yourself, or I wouldn’t have dared. It’s young Mr. Smith, Mary. My dear, in future don’t you have ’im quite so much about the house as you do at present. It ain’t the thing. People will talk, you know, if you give ’em a handle.” (“Oh, but Polly!” in a blank voice from Mary.) “Now, now, I’m not blaming you—not the least tiddly-wink. But there’s no harm in being careful, is there, love, if you don’t wa
nt your name in people’s mouths? I’m that fond of you, Mary—you don’t mind me speaking, dearie?”
“No, Polly, I don’t. But it’s the greatest nonsense—I never heard such a thing!” said Mary hotly. “Why, Purdy is Richard’s oldest friend. They were schoolboys together.”
“May be they were. But I hear ’e’s mostly up at your place when Richard’s out. And you’re a young and pretty woman; my dear; it’s Richard who ought to think of it, and he so much older than you. Well, just take the hint, love. It comes best, don’t it, from one of the family?”
But Mary left the house in a sad flurry; and even forgot for a street-length to open her parasol.
Her first impulse was to go straight to Richard. But she had not covered half a dozen yards before she saw that this would never do. At the best of times Richard abominated gossip; and the fact of it having, in the present case, dared to fasten its fangs in some one belonging to him would make him doubly wroth. He might even try to find out who had started the talk; and get himself into hot water over it. Or he might want to lay all the blame on his own shoulders—make himself the reproaches Ned’s Polly had not spared him. Worse still, he would perhaps accuse Purdy of inconsiderateness towards her, and fly into a rage with him; and then the two of them would quarrel, which would be a thousand pities. For though he often railed at Purdy, yet that was only Richard’s way: he was genuinely fond of him, and unbent to him as to nobody else.
But these were just so many pretexts put forward to herself by Mary for keeping silence; the real reason lay deeper. Eight years of married life had left her, where certain subjects were concerned, with all the modesty of her girlhood intact. There were things, indelicate things, which could not be spoken out, even between husband and wife. For her to have to step before Richard and say: some one else feels for me in the same way as you, my husband, do, would make her ever after unable frankly to meet his eyes. Besides giving the vague, cobwebby stuff a body it did not deserve.
The Fortunes of Richard Mahony Page 37
