The Fortunes of Richard Mahony

by Henry Handel Richardson

  It was at this crisis that he felt most thankful Mary was not with him. How she would have got on his nerves!. . . .with her doubts and hesitations, her aversion to taking risks, her fears lest he should land them all in Queer Street. Women paid dearly for their inexperience: when it came to a matter of business, even the most practical could not see beyond the tips of their noses. And, humiliating though the present step might be, there was absolutely no cause for alarm. These things were done—done on every hand—his eye had been opened to that, in his recent wanderings. By men, too, less favourably placed than he. But even suppose, for supposing’s sake, that he did not succeed to the top of his expectations—get, that was, the mortgage paid off within a reasonable time—where would be the hardship in treating the interest on the loan as a rental, in place of living rent-free? (And a very moderate rent, too, for a suitable house!) But Mary would never manage to forget the debt that lay behind. And it was here the temptation beset him to hold his tongue, to say nothing to her about the means he had been forced to employ. Let her believe he had built out of the resources left to him. For peace’ sake, in the first place; to avoid the bother of explanation and recrimination. (What a drag, too, to know that somebody was eternally on the qui vive to see whether or no you were able to come up to the mark!) Yet again, by keeping his own counsel, he would spare her many an hour’s anxiety—a sheerly needless anxiety. For any doubts he might have had himself, at the start, vanished like fog before a lifting breeze as he watched the house go up. Daily his conviction strengthened that he had done the right thing.

  It became a matter of vital importance to him that the walls should be standing and the roof on, before Mary saw it: Mary needed the evidence of her senses: could grasp only what she had before her eyes. Then, pleasure at getting so fine a house might help to reconcile her to his scheme. . . .God alone knew what the poor soul would be expecting. And so, in the belief that his presence stimulated the work-people, he spent many an hour in the months that followed watching brick laid to brick, and the hodmen lumber to and fro; or pottering about among clay and mortar heaps: an elderly gentleman in a long surtout, carrying gloves and a cane; with greyish hair and whiskers, and a thin, pointed face.

  Again, he cooled his heels there because he had nothing better to do. Once bitten, twice shy, was his motto; and he continued rigidly to give friends and relatives the go-by: time enough to pick up the threads when he could step out once more in his true colours. Besides, the relatives were Mary’s; the friends as well. The consequence was, he now fell into a solitariness beyond compare: got the habit of solitude, and neither missed nor wanted the company of his fellows.

  Since, however, every man who still stands upright needs some star to go by, he kept his eyes steadfastly fixed on the coming of wife and children. This was to be his panacea for every ill. And as the six months’ separation drew to an end, he could hardly contain himself for anxiety and impatience. Everything was ready for them: he had taken a comfortably furnished house in which to instal them till their own was built; had engaged a servant, moved in himself. Feverishly he scanned the shipping-lists. Other boats made port which had left England at the same time. . . .and even later. . . .despite gales, and calms, and contrary winds. But it was not till the middle of December that the good ship Sobraon, ninety odd days out, was sighted off Cape Otway; and he could take train to Queenscliffe for a surprise meeting with his dear ones, and to sail with them up the Bay.

  In his hand he carried a basket of strawberries—the first to come on the market.

  Standing pointing out to the children familiar landmarks on the shores of their new-old home, Mary suddenly stopped in what she was saying and rubbed her eyes.

  “Why! I do declare. . . .if it’s not—Look, children, look, there’s your Papa! He’s waving his handkerchief to you. Wave back! Nod your heads! Throw him a kiss!”

  “Papa!. . . .dere’s Papa!” the twins told each other, and obediently set to wagging like a pair of china mandarins; the while with their pudgy hands they wafted kisses in the direction of an approaching boat-load of men.

  “Where’s he? I don’t see!” opposed Cuffy, in a spirit to which the oneness of his sisters—still more, of sisters and mother—often provoked him. But this time he had a grievance as well. Throughout the voyage there had been ever such lots of laughing and talking and guessing, about who would reckernise Papa first: and he, as the eldest, had felt quite safe. Now Mamma, who had joined in the game and guessed with them, had spoilt everything, not played fair.

  But for once his mother did not heed his pouting. She was gazing with her heart in her eyes at the Health Officer’s boat, in which, by the side of the doctor coming to board the ship, sat Richard in a set of borrowed oilskins, ducking his head to avoid the spray, and waving and shouting like an excited schoolboy. In a very few minutes now the long, slow torture of the voyage would be over, and she would know the worst.

  Here he came, scrambling up the ladder, leaping to the deck.

  “Richard!. . . .my dear! Is it really you? But oh, how thin you’ve got!”

  “Yes, here I am, safe and sound! But you, wife. . . .how are you?—And the darlings? Come to Papa, who has missed you more than he can say!—Good day, good day, Eliza! I hope I see you well!—But how they’ve grown, Mary! Why, I hardly know them.”

  The Dumplings, pink and drooping with shyness but docile as ever, dutifully held up their bud mouths to be kissed; then, smiling adorably, wriggled back to Mamma’s side, crook’d finger to lip. But Cuffy did not smile as his father swung him aloft, and went pale instead of pink. For, at sight of the person who came jumping over, he had been seized by one of his panicky fears. The Dumplings, of course, didn’t remember Papa, they couldn’t, they were only four; but he did. . . .and somehow he remembered him diffrunt. Could it be a mistake? Not that it wasn’t him. . . .he didn’t mean that. . . .he only meant. . . .well, he wasn’t sure what he did mean. But when this new-old Papa asked: “And how’s my big boy?” a fresh spasm of distrust shot through him. Didn’t he know that everybody always said “small for his age”?

  But, dumped down on the deck again, he was forgotten, while over his head the quick, clipped voice went on: “Perfectly well!. . . .and with nothing in the world to complain of, now I’ve got you again. I thought you’d never come. Yes, I’ve been through an infernally anxious time, but that’s over now, and things aren’t as bad as they might be. You’ve no need to worry. But let’s go below where we can talk in peace.” And with his arm round her shoulders he made to draw Mary with him. . . .followed by the extreme silent wonder of three pairs of eyes, whose owners were not used any more to seeing Mamma taken away like this without asking. Or anybody’s arm put round her either. When she belonged to them.

  But at the head of the companion-way Mahony paused and slapped his brow.

  “Ha!. . . .but wait a minute. . . .Papa was forgetting. See here!” and from a side pocket of the capacious oilskins he drew forth the basket of strawberries. These had suffered in transit, were bruised and crushed.

  “What, strawberries?—already?” exclaimed Mary, and eyed the berries dubiously. They were but faintly tinged.

  “The very first to be had, my dear! I spied them on my way to the train.—Come, children!”

  But Mary barred the way. . . .stretched out a preventing hand. “Not just now, Richard. Later on, perhaps. . . .when they’ve had their dinners. Give them to me, dear.”

  Jocularly he eluded her, holding the basket high, out of her reach. “No, this is my treat!—Now who remembers the old game? ‘Open your mouths and shut your eyes and see what Jacko will send you!’”

  The children closed in, the twins displaying rosy throats, their eyes faithfully glued to.

  But Mary peremptorily interposed. “No, no, they mustn’t! I should have them ill. The things are not half ripe.”

  “What? Not let them eat them?. . . .aft
er the trouble I’ve been to, to buy them and lug them here? Not to speak of what I paid for them.”

  “I’m sorry, Richard, but—ssh, dear! surely you must see. . . .” Mary spoke in a low, persuasive voice, at the same time frowning and making other wifely signals to him to lower his. (And thus engrossed did not feel a pull at her sleeve, or hear Cuffy’s thin pipe: “I’ll eat them, Mamma. I’d like to!” Now he knew it was Papa all right.) For several of their fellow passengers were watching and listening, and there stood Richard looking supremely foolish, holding aloft a single strawberry.

  But he was too put out to care who saw or heard. “Well and good then, if they’re not fit to eat—not even after dinner!—there’s only one thing to be done with them. Overboard they go!” And picking up the basket he tossed it and its contents into the sea. Before the children. . . .Eliza. . . .everybody.

  With her arm through his, Mary got him below, to the privacy and seclusion of the cabin. The same old Richard! touchy and irascible. . . .wounded by any trifle. But she knew how to manage him; and, by appealing to his common sense and good feelings, soon talked him round. Besides, on this particular day he was much too happy to see them all again, long to remain in dudgeon. Still, his first mood of pleasure and elation had fizzled out and was not to be recaptured. The result was, the account he finally gave her of the state of his finances, and their future prospects, was not the rose-coloured one he had intended and prepared. What she now got to hear bore more relation to sober fact.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A neighbour’s cocks and hens wakened him before daybreak. The insensate creatures crew and cackled, cackled and crew; and, did they pause for breath, the sparrows took up the tale. He could not sleep again. Lying stiff as a log so as not to disturb Mary, he hailed each fresh streak of light that crept in at the sides of the blinds or over the tops of the valances; while any bagatelle was welcome that served to divert his thoughts and to bridge the gap till rising-time. The great mahogany wardrobe, for instance. This began as an integral part of the darkness, gradually to emerge, a shade heavier than the surrounding gloom, as a ponderous mass; only little by little, line by line, assuming its true shape. Faithfully the toilet-glass gave back each change in the room’s visibility. Later on there were bars to count, formed by unevenness in the slats of the venetians, and falling golden on the whitewashed walls.

  Yes, whitewash was, so far, the only covering the walls knew. The papering of them had had to be indefinitely postponed. And gaunt indeed was the effect of their cold whiteness on eyes used to rich, dark hangings. This was one reason why he preferred the penance of immobility, to getting up and prowling about downstairs. Never did the house look more cheerless than on an early morning, before the blinds were raised, the rooms in order. One realised then, only too plainly, what a bare barn it was; and how the task of rendering it cosy and homelike had baffled even Mary. He would not forget her consternation on first seeing it; her cry of: “But Richard!. . . .how shall we ever fill it?” Himself he stood by dumbfounded, as he watched her busy with tape and measure: truly, he had never thought of this. She had toiled, dear soul, for weeks on end, stitching at curtains and draperies to try to clothe the nakedness—in vain. If they had not had his books to fall back on, the place would have been uninhabitable. But he had emptied the whole of his library into it, with the result that books were everywhere: on the stair-landings, in the bedrooms; wherever they could with decency stop a gap. Another incongruity was the collection of curios and bric-à-brac garnered on their travels. This included some rare and costly objects, which looked odd, to say the least of it, in a room where there were hardly chairs enough to go round. For he had had everything to buy, down to the last kitchen fork and spoon. And by the time he had paid for a sideboard that did not make too sorry a show in the big dining-room; a dinner-table that had some relation to the floor-space; a piano, a desk for his surgery and so on, he was bled dry. Nor did he see the smallest prospect, in the meantime, of finishing the job. They had just to live on in this half-baked condition, which blazoned the fact that funds had given out; that he had put up a house it was beyond his means to furnish. How he writhed when strangers ran an appraising glance over it!

  No: unrested, and without so much as a cup of tea in him, he could not bring himself to descend and contemplate the evidences of his folly. Instead, the daylight by now being come, he lay and totted up pound to pound until, for sheer weariness, he was ready to drop asleep again. But eight o’clock had struck, there could be no lapsing back into unconsciousness. He rose and went down to breakfast.

  They had the children with them at table now. And good as the little things were by nature, yet they rose from ten hours’ sound sleep lively as the sparrows: their tongues wagged without a stop. And though he came down with the best intentions, he soon found his nerves jarred. Altering the position of his newspaper for the tenth time, he was pettishly moved to complain: “Impossible! How can I read in such a racket?”

  “Oh, come, you can’t expect children to sit and never say a word.”

  But she hushed them, with frowns and headshakes, to a bout of whispering, or the loud, hissing noise children make in its stead; under fire of which it was still harder to fix his thoughts.

  Retired to the surgery he was no better off; for now the thrumming of five-finger exercises began to issue from the drawing-room, where the children were having their music-lessons. This was unavoidable. With the arrival of the patients all noise had to cease; later on, Mary was too busy with domestic duties to sit by the piano; and that the youngsters must learn music went without saying. But the walls of the house had proved mere lath-and-plaster; and the tinkle of the piano, the sound of childish voices and Mary’s deeper tones, raised in one-two-threes and one-two-three-fours, so distracted him that it took him all his time to turn up and make notes on his cases for the day. By rights, this should have been his hour for reading, for refreshing his memory of things medical. But not only silence failed him; equally essential was a quiet mind; and as long as his affairs remained in their present uncertain state, that, too, was beyond his reach. Before he got to the foot of a page, he would find himself adding up columns of figures.

  The truth was, his brain had reverted to its ancient and familiar employment with a kind of malicious glee. He was powerless to control it. Cark and care bestrode him; rode him to death; and yet got him nowhere; for all the calculations in the world would not change hard facts. Reckon as he might, he could not make his dividends for the past six months amount to more than a hundred and fifty pounds: a hundred and fifty! Nor was this wretched sum a certainty. It came from shares that were to the last degree unstable—in old days he had never given them a thought. And against this stood the sum of eight hundred pounds. Oh! he had grossly over-estimated his faculty for self-deception. Now that he was in the thick of things, it went beyond him to get this debt out of his mind. Suppose anything should happen to him before he had paid it off? What a legacy to leave Mary! Out and away his sorest regret was that, in the good old days now gone for ever, he had failed to insure his life. Thanks to his habitual dilatoriness he had put it off from year to year, always nursing the intention, shirking the effort. Now, the premium demanded would be sheerly unpayable.

  At present everything depended on how the practice panned out. The practice. . . .Truth to tell, after close on a six months’ trial, he did not himself know what to make of it. Had he been less pressed for time and money, he might have described it as not unpromising. As matters stood, he could only say that what there was of it was good: the patients of a superior class, and so on. But from the first it had been slow to move—there seemed no sickness about—the fees slower still to come in. If, by the end of the year, things did not look up, he would have to write down his settling there as a bad job. It was an acute disappointment that he had only managed to secure two paltry lodges. Every general practitioner knew what that meant. He had built on lodge-work; not onl
y for the income it assured, but also to give a fillip to the private practice. Again: not expecting what work there was to be so scattered, he had omitted to budget for horse hire, or the hire of a buggy. This made a real hole in his takings. He walked wherever he could; but calls came from places as far afield as Kew and Camberwell, which were not to be reached on foot. Besides, the last thing in the world he could afford to do was to knock himself up. Even as it was, he got back from his morning round tired out; and after lunch would find himself dozing in his chair. Of an evening, he was glad to turn in soon after ten o’clock; the one bright side to the general slackness being the absence of night-work. Of course, such early hours meant giving the go-by to all social pleasures. But truly he was in no trim for company, either at home or abroad. How he was beginning to rue the day when he had burdened himself with a house of this size, merely that he might continue to make a show among his fellow-men. When the plain truth was, he would not turn a hair if he never saw one of them again.

  Yes, his present feeling of unsociableness went deeper than mere fatigue: it was a kind of deliberate turning-in on himself. Mary no doubt hit the mark, when she blamed the months of morbid solitude to which he had condemned himself on reaching Melbourne. He had, declared she, never been the same man since.

  “I ought to have known better than to let you come out alone.”