Title:      Ultima Thule
            Third book in the trilogy - The Fortunes of Richard Mahony
Author:     Henry Handel Richardson (1870-1946)
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Language:   English
Date first posted:          September 2001
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Title:      Ultima Thule
            Third book in the trilogy - The Fortunes of Richard Mahony
Author:     Henry Handel Richardson (1870-1946)





Dedication

To M.L.R.



Epigraph

"And some there be, which have no memorial . . ."
Ecclesiasticus, xliv, 90





Part I




Chapter I



When for the third time, Richard Mahony set foot in Ausralia, it was to
find that the fortune with which that country but some six years back
had so airily invested him no longer existed. He was a ruined man; and
at the age of forty-nine, with a wife and children dependent on him,
must needs start life over again.

Twice in the past he had plucked up his roots from this soil, to which
neither gratitude nor affection bound him. Now, fresh from foreign
travel, from a wider knowledge of the beauties of the old world, he
felt doubly alien; and, with his eyes still full of greenery and
lushness, he could see less beauty than ever in its dun and and
landscape.--It was left to a later generation to discover this: to
those who, with their mother's milk, drank in a love of sunlight and
space; of inimitable blue distances and gentian-blue skies. To them,
the country's very shortcomings were, in time, to grow dear: the
scanty, ragged foliage; the unearthly stillness of the bush; the long,
red roads, running inflexible as ruled lines towards a steadily
receding horizon . . . and engendering in him who travelled them a
lifelong impatience with hedge-bound twists and turns. To their eyes,
too, quickened by emotion, it was left to descry the colours in the
apparent colourlessness: the upturned earth that showed red, white,
puce, gamboge; the blue in the grey of the new leafage; the geranium
red of young scrub; the purple-blue depths of the shadows. To know,
too, in exile, a rank nostalgia for the scent of the aromatic foliage;
for the honey fragrance of the wattle; the perfume that rises hot and
heavy as steam from vast paddocks of sweet, flowering lucerne--even
for the sting and tang of countless miles of bush ablaze.

Of ties such as these, which end by drawing a man home, Richard
Mahony knew nothing. He returned to the colony at heart the stranger he
had always been.

Landing in Melbourne one cold spring day in the early seventies, he
tossed his belongings into a hansom, and without pausing to reflect
drove straight to his old club at the top of Collins Street. But his
stay there was short. For no sooner did he learn the full extent of his
losses, than he was ripe to detect a marked reserve, not to say
coolness, in the manner of his former friends and acquaintances. More
than one, he fancied, deliberately shunned him. Bitterly he regretted
his overhasty intrusion on this, the most exclusive club in the city;
to which wealth alone was the passport. (He had forgotten, over his
great wanderings, how small a world he had here come back to. Within
the narrow clique of Melbourne society, anything that happened to one
of its members was quickly known to all; and the news of his crash had
plainly preceded him.) Well! if this was a foretaste of what he had to
expect--snubs and slights from men who would once have been honoured
by his notice--the sooner he got out of people's way the better. And
bundling his clothes back into his trunk, he drove off again, choosing,
characteristically enough, not a quiet hotel in a good neighbourhood,
but a second-class boarding-house on the farther side of the Victoria
Parade. Here, there was no earthly chance of meeting any one he knew.
Or, for that matter, of meeting any one at all! For these outlying
streets, planned originally for a traffic without compare--the
seething mob of men, horses, vehicles that had once flowed, like a
living river, to the goldfields--now lay as bare as they had then been
thronged. By day an occasional spindly buggy might amble along their
vast width, or a solitary bullock-wagon take its tortoise way; but
after dark, feebly lit by ill-trimmed lamps set at enormous distances
one from another, they turned into mere desolate, wind-swept spaces. On
which no creature moved but himself.

It was here that he took his decisions, laid his plans. His days
resembled a blurred nightmare, in which he sped from one dingy office
to the next, or sat through interviews with lawyers and bankers--
humiliating interviews, in the course of which his unbusiness-like
conduct, his want of NOUS in money matters was mercilessly
dragged to light. But in the evening he was free: and then he would
pace by the hour round these deserted streets, with the collar of his
greatcoat turned up to his ears, his hands clasped at his back, his
head bent against the icy south winds; or, caught by a stinging
hail-shower, would seek shelter under the lee of an old, half dismantled
"Horse, Cow and Pig-Market," of which the wild wind rattled and shook
the loose timbers as if to carry them sky-high.

Of the large fortune he had amassed--the fortune so happily invested,
so carefully husbanded--he had been able to recover a bare three
thousand pounds. The unprincipled scoundrel in whose charge he had left
it--on Purdy's equally unprincipled advice--had fleeced him of all
else. On this pitiful sum, and a handful of second-rate shares which
might bring him in the equivalent of what he had formerly spent in the
year on books, or Mary on her servants and the running of the
nurseries, he had now to start life anew: to provide a home, to feed,
clothe, educate his children, pay his way. One thing was clear: he must
set up his plate again with all dispatch; resume the profession he had
once been so heartily glad to retire from. And his first bitterness and
resentment over, he was only too thankful to have this to fall back on.

The moot question was, where to make the start; and in the course of
the several anxious debates he had with himself on this subject, he
became ever more relieved that Mary was not with him. Her absence gave
him a freer hand. For, if he knew her, she would be all in favour of
his settling up-country, dead against his trying to get a footing in
Melbourne. Now he was as ready as any man could be, to atone to her for
the straits to which he had brought her. But--he must be allowed to
meet the emergency in his own way. It might not be the wisest or the
best way; but it was the only one he felt equal to.

Bury himself alive up-country, he could and would not! . . . not if she
talked till all was blue. He saw her points, of course: they were like
herself. . . entirely practical. There were, she would argue, for every
opening in Melbourne ten to be found in the bush, where doctors were
scarce, and twice and three times the money to be made there.
Living-expenses would be less, nor would he need to keep up any style.
Which was true enough . . . as far as it went. What, womanlike, she
would overlook, or treat as of slight importance, was the fact that he
had also his professional pride to consider. He with his past to
condemn himself to the backwoods! Frankly, he thought he would be doing
not only himself, but his children after him, an injury, did he agree
to anything of the kind. No! he was too good for the bush.

But the truth had still another facet. Constrained, at his age, to
buckle to again, he could only, he believed, find the necessary courage
under conditions that were not too direly repellent. And since, strive
as he might, he could not break down Mary's imagined disapproval, he
threw himself headlong into the attempt to get things settled--
irrevocably settled--before she arrived; took to scouring the city and
its environs, tramping the inner and outer suburbs, walking the soles
off his boots and himself to a shadow, to find a likely place. Ruefully
he turned his back on the sea at St. Kilda and Elsternwick, the
pleasant spot of earth in which he once believed he had found a resting
place; gave the green gardens of Toorak a wide berth--no room there
for an elderly interloper!--and, stifling his distaste, explored the
outer darkness of Footscray, Essendon, Moonee Ponds. But it was always
the same. If he found what he thought a suitable opening, there was
certain not to be a house within coo-ee fit for them to live in.

What finally decided him on the pretty little suburb of Hawthorn--
after he had thoroughly prowled and nosed round, to make sure he would
have the field to himself--was not alone the good country air, but the
fact that, at the junction of two main streets--or what would some day
be main streets, the place being still in the making--he lit on a
capital building lot, for sale dirt-cheap. For a doctor no finer
position could be imagined--and in fancy he ran up the house that was
to stand there. Of brick, two storeys high, towering above its
neighbours, it would face both ways, be visible to all comers. The
purchase of the land was easily effected--truth to tell, only too
easily! He rather let himself be blarneyed into it. The house formed
the stumbling-block. He sped from firm to firm; none would touch the
job under a couple of thousand. In vain he tried to cut down his
requirements. Less than two sitting-rooms they could not
possibly do with, besides a surgery and a waiting-room. Four bedrooms,
a dressing-room or two, a couple of bathrooms were equally necessary;
while no house of this size but had verandah and balcony to keep the
sun off, and to serve as an outdoor playroom for the children.

There was nothing for it, in the long run, but to put his pride in his
pocket and take the advice given him on every hand: to build, as
ninety-nine out of a hundred did here, through one of the numerous
Building Societies that existed to aid those short of ready money. But
it was a bitter pill for a man of his former wealth to swallow. Nor did
it, on closer acquaintance, prove by any means the simple affair he had
been led to believe. In the beginning, a thousand was the utmost he
felt justified in laying down. But when he saw all that was involved he
contrived, after much anxious deliberation, to stretch the thousand to
twelve hundred, taking out a mortgage at ten per cent, with regular
repayment of capital.

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 workpeople, 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? . . after 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 II



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-a-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 only 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."

She spoke heartily; but doubts beset her. It was one thing to put your
finger on the root of an ill; another to cure it. Yet a failure to do
so might cost them dear. Here was Richard with his way and his name to
make, a practice to build up, connections to form; and, instead of
taking every hand that offered, he kept up his "Ultima Thule" habits of
refusing invitations, shirking introductions; and declined into
this "let me alone and don't bother me" state, than which, for a
doctor, she could imagine none more fatal.

Of course, having to start work again at his age was no light matter,
and he undoubtedly felt the strain; found it hard also, after all the
go-as-you-please latter years, to nail himself down to fixed hours and
live by the clock. He complained, too, that his memory wasn't what it
used to be. Names, now. If he didn't write down a name the moment he
heard it, it was bound to escape him; and then he could waste the
better part of a morning in struggling to recapture it.

"You're out of the way of it, dear, that's all," she resolutely strove
to cheer him, as she brushed his hat and hunted for his gloves. "Now
have you your case-book? And is everything in your bag?" More than once
he had been obliged to tramp the whole way home again, for a forgotten
article.

The reminder annoyed him. "Yes, yes, of course. But my thermometer. . .
now where the dickens have I put that?" And testily he tapped pocket
after pocket.

"Here . . . you've left it lying. Oh, by the way, Richard, I wonder if
you'd mind leaving an order at the butcher's as you go past?"

But at this he flared up. "Now, Mary, IS it fair to bother me with that
kind of thing, when I've so much else to think of?"

"Well, it's only. . . the shop's so far off, and I can't spare cook.
You've just to hand in a note as you pass the door."

"Yes, yes. A thousand and one reasons!"

"Oh well, never mind. Eliza and the children must go that way for their
walk--though it does take them down among the shops."

"And why not? Are the children everlastingly to be spared at my
expense?"

He went off, banging the gate behind him. The latch did not hold; Mary
stepped out to secure it. And the sight of him trudging down the road
brought back her chief grievance against him. This was his obstinate
refusal to keep a horse and trap. It stood to reason: if he would only
consent to drive on his rounds, instead of walking, he would save
himself much of the fatigue he now endured; and she be spared his
perpetual grumbles. Besides, it was not the thing for a man of
his age and appearance to be seen tramping the streets, bag in hand.
But she might as well have talked to a post. The only answer she got
was that he couldn't afford it. Now this was surely imagination. She
flattered herself she knew something about a practice, and could tell
pretty well what the present one was likely to throw off. . . if
properly nursed. To the approximate three hundred a year which Richard
admitted to drawing from his dividends, it should add another three;
and on six, with her careful management, they could very well pull
through to begin with. It left no margin for extravagances, of course;
but the husbanding of Richard's strength could hardly be put down under
that head. Since, however, he continued obdurate, she went her own way
to work; with the result that, out of the money he allowed her to keep
house on, she contrived at the end of three months to hand him back a
tidy sum.

"Now if you don't feel you want to BUY a horse and buggy, you can at
least give a three months' order at the livery-stable."

But not a bit of it! More, he was even angry. "Tch! DO, for goodness'
sake, leave me to manage my own affairs! I don't want a horse and trap,
I tell you. I prefer to go on as I am." And, with that, her economics
just passed into and were swallowed up in the general fund. She
wouldn't do it again.

"Mamma!"

This was Cuffy, who had followed her out and climbed the gate at her
side. He spoke in a coaxy voice; for as likely as not Mamma would say:
"Run away, darling, and don't bother me. I've no time." But Cuffy badly
wanted to know something. And, since Nannan left, there had never been
any one he could ask his questions of: Mamma was always busy, Papa not
at home.

"Mamma! Why does Papa poke his head out so when he walks?"

"That's stooping. People do it as they grow older." Even the child, it
seemed, could see how tiresome Richard found walking.

"What's it mean growing old--really, truly?"

"Why, losing your hair and your teeth, and not being able to get about
as well as you used to."

"Does it hurt?"

"Of course not, little silly!"

"Does Papa lose his teeth? Does Eliza? And why has he always got a bag
in his hand now?"

"WHAT an inquisitive little boy! He carries things in it to make people
well with."

"Why does he want to make them well?"

"To get money to buy you little folks pretty clothes and good things to
eat. But come . . . jump down! And run and tell Eliza to get you ready
for your walk."

"I don't LIKE going walks with Eliza," said Cuffy and, one hand in his
mother's, reluctantly dragged and shuffled a foot in the gravel. "Oh, I
do wis' I had my little pony again."

"So do I, my darling," said Mary heartily, and squeezed his hand. "I'm
afraid you'll be forgetting how to ride. I must talk to Papa. Then
perhaps Santa Claus . . . or on your birthday . . ."

"Ooh! Really, truly, Mamma?"

"We'll see."--At which Cuffy hopped from side to side up the length of
the path.

And Mary meant what she said. It was unthinkable that HER children
should come short in any of the advantages other children enjoyed. And
not to be able to ride, and ride well, too, in a country like this,
might prove a real drawback to them in after life. Now she had pinched
and screwed for Richard's sake, to no purpose whatever. The next lump
sum she managed to get together should go to buying a pony.

But this was not all. Besides riding, the children ought to be having
dancing-lessons. She did so want her chicks to move prettily and
gracefully; to know what to do with their hands and feet; to be able to
enter a room without awkwardness; and they were just at their most
impressionable age: what they now took in they would never forget, what
they missed, never make good. But she could hope for no help from
Richard; manlike, he expected graces and accomplishments to spring up
of themselves, like wild flowers from the soil. Everything depended on
her. And she did not spare herself. Thanks to her skill with her
needle, they were still, did they go to a party, the best-dressed
children in the room; and the best-mannered, too, Nannan's
strict upbringing still bearing fruit. None of her three ever grabbed,
or gobbled, or drank with a full mouth; nor were they either lumpishly
shy or over-forward, like the general ruck of colonial children.

But they were getting big; there would soon be more serious things to
think of than manners and accomplishments. If only Richard did not
prove too unreasonable! So far, except for music-lessons, they had had
no teaching at all, one of his odd ideas being that a child's brain
should lie fallow till it was seven or eight years old. This meant that
she had sometimes to suffer the mortification of seeing children
younger than Cuffy and his sisters able to answer quite nicely at
spelling and geography, while hers stood mutely by. In the Dumplings'
case it did not greatly matter: they were still just Dumplings in every
sense of the word; fat and merry play-babies. But Cuffy was sharp for
his age; he could read his own books, and knew long pieces of poetry by
heart. It seemed little short of absurd to hold such a child back; and,
after she had once or twice seen him put publicly to shame, Mary took,
of a morning, when she was working up a flake-crust or footing her
treadle-machine, to setting him a copy to write, or giving him simple
lessons in spelling and sums. (Which little incursions into knowledge
were best, it was understood, not mentioned to Papa.)

Her thoughts were all for her children. Herself she needed little; and
was really managing without difficulty to cut her coat to suit her
cloth. In the matter of dress, for instance, she still had the rich
furs, the sumptuous silks and satins she had brought with her from home
--made over, these things would last her for years--had all her ivory
and mother-o'-pearl ornaments and trifles. True, she walked where she
had driven, hired less expensive servants, rose betimes of a morning,
but who shall say whether these changes were wholly drawbacks in Mary's
eyes, or whether the return to a more active mode of life did not, in
great measure, outweigh them? It certainly gave her a feeling of
satisfaction to which she had long been a stranger, to know that not a
particle of waste was going on in her kitchen; that she was once more
absolute monarch in her own domain. Minor pleasures consisted in seeing
how far she could economise the ingredients of pudding or cake and yet
turn it out light and toothsome. Had Richard wished to
entertain, she would have guaranteed to hold the floor with anyone, at
half the cost.

But there was no question of this. They lived like a pair of hermit
crabs; and, in spite of the size of the house, might just as well have
been buried in the bush. For, having talked herself hoarse in pointing
out the harm such a mode of life would do the practice, she had given
way and made the best of things; as long, that was, as Richard's
dislike of company had only to do with the forming of new
acquaintances. When he began his old grumbles at the presence of her
intimate friends and relatives, it was more than she could stand. In
the heated argument that followed her perplexed: "Not ask Lizzie? Put
off the Devines?" she discovered, to her amazement, that it was not
alone his morbid craving for solitude that actuated him: the house, if
you please, formed the stumbling-block! Because this was still
unpapered and rather scantily furnished, he had got it into his head
that it was not fit to ask people to; that he would be looked down on,
because of it. Now did ANYONE ever hear such nonsense? Why, half the
houses in Melbourne were just as bare, and nobody thought the worse of
them. People surely came to see you, not your furniture! But he had
evidently chafed so long in silence over what he called the
"poverty-stricken aspect of the place," that there was now no talking him
out of the notion. So Mary shrugged and sighed; and, silently in her turn,
took the sole way left her, which was an underground way; so contriving
matters that her friends came to the house only when Richard was out of
it . . . a little shift it was again wiser not to mention to Papa. She
also grew adept at getting rid of people to the moment. By the time the
gate clicked at Richard's return, all traces of the visit had been
cleared away.




Chapter III



Thus she bought peace.--But when the day came for putting up a guest
in the house, for making use of the unused spare room, finesse did not
avail; and a violent dispute broke out between them. To complicate
matters, the guest in question was Richard's old bugbear, Tilly.

Tilly, whose dearest wish had been fulfilled some six months back by
the birth of a child, but who since then had remained strangely silent,
now wrote, almost beside herself with grief and anxiety, that she was
bringing her infant, which would not thrive, to town, to consult the
doctors there. And Mary straightway forgot all her schemes and
contrivances, forgot everything but a friend in need, and wrote off by
return begging Tilly, with babe and nurse, to make their house her own.

Mahony was speechless when he heard of it. He just gave her one look,
then stalked out of the room and shut himself up in the surgery, where
he stayed for the rest of the evening. While Mary sat bent over her
needlework, with determined lips and stubborn eyes.

Later on, in the bedroom, his wrath exploded in bitter abuse of Purdy,
ending with: "No one belonging to that fellow shall ever darken MY
doors again!"

At this she, too, flared up. "Oh . . . put all the blame for what
happened on somebody else. It never occurs to you to blame yourself,
and your own rashness and impatience. Who but you would ever have
trusted a man like Wilding?--But Tilly being Purdy's wife is nothing
but an excuse. It's not only her. You won't let a soul inside the
doors."

"Why should my wishes alone be disregarded? The very children's likes
and dislikes are taken more account of. You consider every one . . .
only not me!" "And you consider no one but yourself!"

"Well, this is my house, and I have the right to say who shall come
into it."

"It's no more yours than mine. And Tilly's my oldest friend,
and I'm not going to desert her now she's in trouble. I've asked her to
come here, and come she shall!"

"Very well then, if she does, I go!"--And so on, and on.

In the adjoining dressing-room, the door of which stood ajar, Cuffy sat
up in his crib and listened. The loud voices had wakened him and he
couldn't go to sleep again. He was frightened; his heart beat pit-a-pat,
pit-a-pat. And when he heard somebody begin to cry, he just
couldn't help it, he had to cry, too. Till a door went and quick steps
came running; and then there were Papa's hands to hold to, and Papa's
arms round him; and quite a lot of Hambelin Town and Handover City to
make him go to sleep.

The knot was cut by Tilly choosing, with many, many thanks, to stay at
an hotel in town. There Mary sought her out one late autumn afternoon,
when the white dust was swirling house-high through the white streets,
and the south wind had come up so cold that she regretted not having
worn her sealskin. Alighting from the train at Prince's Bridge, she
turned a deaf ear to the shouts of: "Keb, Keb!" and leaving the region
of warehouses--poor John's among them--made her way on foot up the
rise to Collins Street. This was her invariable habit nowadays, if she
hadn't the children with her: was one of the numerous little economies
she felt justified in practising. . . and holding her tongue about.
Richard, of course, would have snorted with disapproval. HIS wife to be
tramping the streets! But latterly she had found her tolerance of his
grandee notions about what she might and might not do, wearing a little
thin. In the present state of affairs they seemed, to say the least of
it, out of place. She had legs of her own, and was every bit as well
able to walk as he was. If people looked down on her for it . . . well,
they would just have to, and that was all about it!

These brave thoughts notwithstanding, she could not but wish--as she
sat waiting in a public coffee-room, the door of which opened and shut
a dozen times to the minute, every one who entered fixing her with a
hard and curious stare--wish that Tilly had picked on a quieter hotel,
one more suitable to a lady travelling alone. She was glad when the
waiter ushered her up the red-carpeted stairs to her friend's private
sitting-room.

Tilly was so changed that she hardly knew her. Last seen in the
first flush of wifehood, high-bosomed, high-coloured, high-spirited,
she seemed to have shrunk together, fallen in. Her pale face was puffy;
her eyes deeply ringed.

"You poor thing! What you must have suffered!"

Mary said this more than once as she listened to Tilly's tale. It was
that of a child born strong and healthy--"As fine a boy as ever you
saw, Mary!"--with whom all had gone well until, owing to an
unfortunate accident, they had been forced to change the wet-nurse.
Since then they had tried one nurse after another; had tried
handfeeding, goat's milk, patent mixtures; but to no purpose. The child
had just wasted away. Till he was now little more than a skeleton. Nor
had he ever sat up or taken notice. The whole day long he lay and
wailed, till it nearly broke your heart to hear it.

"And me . . . who'd give my life's blood to help 'im!"

"Have you seen MacMullen? What does he say?"

Tilly answered with a hopeless lift of her shoulders. "'E calls it by a
fine name, Mary--they all do. And 'as given us a new food to try. But
the long and short of it is, if the wasting isn't stopped, Baby will
die." And, the ominous word spoken, Tilly's composure gave way: the
tears came with a gush and streamed down her cheeks, dropping even into
her lap, before she managed to fish a handkerchief from her petticoat
pocket.

"There, there, you old fool!" she rebuked herself. "Sorry, love. It
comes of seeing your dear old face again. For weeping and wailing
doesn't help either, does it?"

"Poor old girl, it IS hard on you . . . and when you've so wanted
children."

"Yes, and'm never likely to 'ave another. Other people can get 'em by
the dozen--as 'ealthy as can be."

"Well, I shouldn't give up hope of pulling him through--no matter what
the doctors say. You know, Tilly . . . it may seem an odd thing to come
from me . . . but I really haven't VERY much faith in them. I mean--
well, you know, they're all right if you break your leg or have
something definite the matter with you, like mumps or scarlet fever--
or if you want a tumour cut out. But otherwise, well, they never seem
to allow enough . . . I mean, for COMMON-SENSE things. Now what I think
is, as the child has held out so long, there must be a kind of
toughness in him. And there's always just a chance you may still find
the right thing."

But when, leaning over the cot, she saw the tiny, wizened creature that
lay among its lace and ribbons: ("Hardly bigger than a rabbit, Richard
. . . with the face of an old, old man--no, more like a poor starved
little monkey!") when, too, the feather-weight burden was laid on her
lap, proving hardly more substantial than a child's doll: then, Mary's
own heart fell.

Sitting looking down at the little wrinkled face, her mother eyes full
of pity, she asked: "What does Purdy say?"

"'IM.?" Again Tilly raised her shoulders, but this time the gesture
bespoke neither resignation nor despair. "Oh, Purd's sorry, of course."

"I should think so, indeed."

"SORRY! Does being sorry HELP?" And now her words came flying, her
aitches scattering to the winds. "The plain truth is, Mary, there's not
a man living who can go on 'earing a child cry, cry, cry, day and night
and night and day, and keep 'is patience and 'is temper. And Purd's no
different to the rest. When it gets too bad, 'e just claps on 'is 'at
and flies out of the 'ouse--to get away from it. Men are like that.
Only the rosy side of things for them! And, Purd, 'e must be free. The
smallest jerk of the reins and it's all up. As for a sick child . . .
and even though it's 'is own--oh, I've learnt SOMETHING about men
since I married 'im, Mary! Purd's no good to lean on, not an 'apporth o
good. 'E's like an air-cushion--goes in where you lean and puffs out
somewhere else. And 'ow can 'e 'elp it?--when there isn't anything BUT
air in 'im. No, 'e's nothing in the world but fizzle and talk . . . a
bag of chaff--an 'ollow drum."

Mary heard her sadly and in silence. This, too. Oh, the gilt was off
poor Tilly's gingerbread in earnest.

But, in listening, she had also cocked an attentive ear, and now she
said: "Tilly, there's something about that child's cry . . . there's a
tone in it--a . . ."

"'Ungry . . .!" said Tilly fiercely. "'E's starving--that's what it
is."

"Of course, hungry, too. But I must say it sounds to me more ANGRY. And
then look how he beats the air with his little fists. He's not
trying to suck them or even get them near his mouth. What I'm wondering
is . . . Richard can't, of course, touch the case, now it's in
MacMullen's hands. But I'm going home to tell him all about it. He used
to have great luck with children in the old days. There's no saying. He
MIGHT be able to suggest something. In the meantime, my dear, keep a
good heart. Nothing is gained by despairing."

"Bless you, Mary! If any one can put spunk into a mortal it's you."

"Starving?" said Mahony on hearing the tale. "I shouldn't wonder if
starving itself was not nearer the mark."

"But Richard, such a YOUNG child . . . do you really think. . . Though
--I must say when I heard that EXASPERATED sort of cry . . ."

"Exactly. Who's to say where consciousness begins? . . . or ends. For
all we know, the child in the womb may have its own dim sentience. Now
I don't need to give YOU my opinion of the wet-nurse system. None the
less, if the case were mine, I should urge the mother to leave no stone
unturned to find the person who first had it at the breast. A woman of
her class will still be nursing."

"Mary! I'll give 'er the 'alf of what I 'ave. I'll make a spectacle of
myself--go on me knees down Sturt Street if need be; but back she
comes!" were Tilly's parting words as she stepped into the train.

And sure enough, not a week later a letter arrived to say that, by dint
of fierce appeals to her motherhood and unlimited promises ("What it's
going to cost me, Purd will NEVER know!"), the woman had been induced
to return. A further week brought a second communication to the
breakfast-table, scrawled in a shaky hand and scrappily put together,
but containing the glad news that the child had actually gained a few
ounces in weight, and, better still, had ceased its heartrending wail.
Tilly's joy and gratitude were of such a nature that Mary did not dare
to deliver the message she sent Richard, as it stood. She just
translated the gist of it into sober English.

And a good job, too, that she had watered it down. For Richard proved
to be in one of his worst, early-morning moods; and was loud in scorn
of even the little she passed on.

He ended by thoroughly vexing her. "Never did I know such a
man! Things have come to such a pass that people can't even feel
grateful to you, without offending you. Your one desire is to hold them
at arm's length. You ought to have been born a mole."

In speaking she had hastily reinserted Tilly's letter in its envelope.
A second letter was lying by her plate. This she read with wrinkled
brows, an occasional surreptitious glance at Richard, and more than one
smothered: "Tch!" She also hesitated for some time before deciding to
hand it, past three pairs of inquisitive young eyes, over the table.

"Here! I wonder what you'll say to this? It's not my fault this time,
remember."

Mahony incuriously laid aside his newspaper, took the sheet, frowned at
the writing, and tilted it to the correct angle for his eyes, which
were "not what they used to be."

The letter ran:

MY DEAR MRS. MAHONY,

MY DEAR WIFE HAS BEEN ORDERED A SEA-VOYAGE FOR THE BENEFIT OF HER
HEALTH, AND BEFORE SAILING, WISHES, AS LADIES WILL, TO VISIT THE
MELBOURNE EMPORIUMS AND MAKE SOME ADDITIONS TO HER WARDROBE. IT IS
IMPOSSIBLE FOR ME TO ACCOMPANY HER, THOUGH I SHALL HOPE TO BID HER "AU
REVOIR" BEFORE SHE SAILS, A FORTNIGHT HENCE. MAY I TRESPASS UPON YOUR
GOODNESS, AND REQUEST YOU TO BE AGNES'S CICERONE AND ESCORT, WHILE IN
MELBOURNE FOR THE ABOVE OBJECT? I NEED NOT DWELL ON HER PREFERENCE FOR
YOU IN THIS ROLE, OVER EVERY ONE ELSE.

GIVE MY DUE REGARDS TO YOUR HUSBAND,

AND, BELIEVE ME,

VERY TRULY YOURS,

HENRY OCOCK.

"In plain English, I presume, it's to be your duty to keep her off the
bottle."

"RICHARD! . . . ssh! How CAN you?" expostulated Mary, with a warning
headshake; which was justified by Cuffy at once chiming in: "Do ladies
have bottles too, Mamma, as well as babies?" (Cuffy had been deeply
interested in the sad story of Aunt Tilly's little one and its struggle
for life.) "Now, you chicks, Lallie untie Lucie's bib and all
three run out and play.--NOT before the children, Richard! That boy
drinks in every word. You'll have him repeating what you say in front
of Agnes. For I suppose what Mr. Henry really means is that we are to
invite her here?"

"The hint is as plain as the nose on your face."

"Yes, I'm afraid it is," and Mary sighed. "I wonder what we should do.
I'm very fond of Agnes; but I've got the children to think of. I
shouldn't like THEM to get an inkling . . . On the other hand, we can't
afford to offend an influential person like Mr. Henry."

"I know what I can't afford--and that's to have this house turned into
a dumping-ground for all the halt and maimed of your acquaintance. The
news of its size is rapidly spreading. And if people once get the idea
they can use it as they used 'Ultima Thule,' God help us! There'll be
nothing for it but to move . . . into a four-roomed hut."

"Oh, Richard, if you would only tell me how we really stand, instead of
making such a mystery of it. For we can't go on living without a soul
ever entering our doors."

"We may be glad if we manage to live at all."

"There you go! One exaggeration after the other."

"Well, well! I suppose if Ocock has set his mind on us dry-nursing his
wife again, we've got to truckle to him. Only don't ask me to meet HIM
over the head of it. I've no intention of being patronised by men of
his type, now that I've come down in the world."

"PATRONISED? When I think how ready people were to take us up again
when we first came out! But you can't expect them to go on asking and
inviting for ever, and always being snubbed by a refusal."

Agnes. Sitting opposite her old friend in the wagonette that bore them
from the station, watching the ugly tic that convulsed one side of her
face, Mary thought sorrowfully of a day, many a year ago, when,
standing at the door of her little house, she had seen approach a
radiant vision in riding-habit, curls and feathers. What a lovely
creature Agnes had been! . . . how full of kindliness and charm . . .
and all to end in this: a poor little corpulent, shapeless,
red-faced woman, close on fifty now, but with the timid uncertain
bearing of a cowed child. Never should she have married Mr. Henry. With
another man for a husband, everything might have turned out
differently.

The first of a series of painful incidents occurred when, the cab
having drawn up at the gate, the question of paying the driver's fare
arose. Formerly, the two of them would have had a playful quarrel over
it, each disputing the privilege with the other. Now, Agnes only said:
"If you will be so good, love? . . . my purse so hard to get at," in a
tone that made Mary open her eyes. It soon came out that she had been
shipped to Melbourne literally without a penny in her pocket. Wherever
they went, Mary had to be purse-bearer, Agnes following meekly and
shamelessly at her heels. An intolerable position for any man to put
his wife in! It was true she had CARTE BLANCHE at the big drapery
stores; but all she bought--down to the last handkerchief--was
entered on a bill for Mr. Henry's scrutiny. Did she wish to make a
present--and she was just as generous as of old--she had so to
contrive it (and she certainly showed a lamentable want of dignity, the
skill of a practised hand, in arranging matters with the shopman) that,
for instance, one entry on the bill should be a handsome mantle, which
she never bought. The result was a sweet little ivory-handled parasol
for "darling Mary;" a box of magnificent toys and books for the
children, of whom she made much.

From her own she was completely divorced, both boy and girl having been
put to boarding-school at a tender age. But Agnes was fond of children;
and, of a morning, while Mary was shaking up the beds or baking pastry,
she would sit on the balcony watching the three at play; occasionally
running her fingers through the twins' fair curls, which were so like
the goldilocks of the child she had lost.

She never referred to her own family; had evidently long ceased to have
any motherly feelings for them. She just lived on dully and stupidly,
without pride, without shame--so long, that was, as she was not
startled or made afraid. The company of the children held no alarms for
her; but early in the visit Mary found it necessary to warn Richard:
"Now whatever you do, dear, don't be short and snappy before her. It
throws her into a perfect twitter."

And Richard, who, for all his violence of expression, would not have
harmed a fly, was thereafter gentleness itself in Mrs. Henry's
presence, attending to her wants at table, listening courteously to her
few diffident opinions, till the little woman's eyes filled with tears
and she ceased to spill her tea or mess her front with her egg. "The
doctor . . . so nice, love . . . so very, very kind!"

"She has evidently been bullied half out of her wits."

Throughout the fortnight she stayed with them, Mary was the
faithfullest of guardians, putting her own concerns entirely on one
side to dog her friend's footsteps. And yet, for all her vigilance, she
could sometimes have sworn that Agnes's breath was tainted; while on
the only two occasions on which she let her out of her sight . . .
well! what then happened made her look with more lenience on Mr.
Henry's precautions. Once, Lucie had a touch of croup in the night and
could not be left, so that Agnes must needs go alone to her dressmaker;
and once came an invitation to a luncheon-party in which Mary was not
included. Each time a wagonette was provided for Mrs. Henry from door
to door, and paid to wait and bring her home; while Richard even
condescended to give the driver a gentle hint and a substantial tip.
And yet, both times, when she returned and tried to get out of the cab
. . . oh dear! there was nothing for it but to say in a loud voice, for
the servants' benefit: "I'm so sorry you don't feel well, dear. Lean on
me!" to get the door of the spare room shut on her and whip her into
bed.

"Jus' like a REAL baby!" thought Cuffy, who had not forgotten the
remark about the bottle. Running into the spare room in search of his
mother, he had found Aunt Agnes sitting on the side of the bed, with
only her chemise on and a very red face, while Mamma, looking funny,
rummaged in a trunk. Going to bed in the daytime? Why? Had she been
naughty? And was Mamma cross with her, too? She was with him. She said:
"Go away at once!" and "Naughty boy!" before he was hardly inside. But
Aunt Agnes was funny altogether. Cook and Eliza thought so, too. They
laughed and whispered things he didn't ought to hear. But he did once.
And that night at the supper-table curiosity got the better of him, and
he asked out loud: "Where's Auntie Agnes too tight, Mamma?"

"Too tight? Now whatever do you mean by that?"

Mary's tone was jocosely belittling. But Cuffy was not deceived by it.
Instinctively he recognised the fond pride that lurked beneath the
depreciation--the amused interest in "what in all the world the child
would say next." He was also spurred on by the attention of the
Dumplings, who, remembering sad affairs of too much cake and tight
pinny-bands, sat eager and expectant, turning their eyes from Mamma to
him and back again.

"Why, Eliza said . . . she said Auntie Agnes was tight--too tight."

Above his head the eyes of husband and wife met; and Mahony threw out
his hands as if to imply: "There you have it!"

But Mamma was DREFULLY angry. "How dare you repeat such a nasty, vulgar
thing! I'm ASHAMED of you--you naughty boy!"

Besides really "wanting to know," Cuffy had thought his question a
funny one, which would call forth laughter and applause. He was
dumbfounded, and went red to the roots of his hair. What had he said?
Why was Mamma so cross? Why was it more wrong for Auntie Agnes to be
tight than Lallie or Lucie?--And now he had made Mamma and Papa cross
with each other again, too.

"It's not REPEATING kitchen talk that matters, Mary; but that the child
should be in the way of hearing it at all."

"Pray, how can I help it? I do my best; but it's quite impossible for
me never to let the children out of my sight. I've told you over and
over again they need a governess."

As the time approached for Mr. Henry's arrival, Agnes grew more and
more ill at ease: her tic redoubled in violence; she could settle to
nothing, and wandered aimlessly from room to room; while, on receipt of
the letter fixing the day, she began openly to shake and tremble. "You
won't mention to Henry, Mary . . . I mean . . . oh, love, you
understand?" and all Mary's tactful assurances did not quieten her. Her
fear of her husband was painful to see; almost equally painful her
barefaced relief when, at the eleventh hour, important business cropped
up which made it impossible for Mr. Henry to get away.

"Of course, if things have come to this pass between them, then
it's much better they should be separated for a while. But that he can
let ANY business interfere with seeing her off on so long a journey--
well, all I can say is . . ." said Mary; and left the rest of her wrath
to the imagination.

"Tut, tut! . . . when he's got some one here to do his dirty work for
him. He probably never had any intention of coming."

So the two women drove to Sandridge and boarded a sailing-vessel bound
for the Cape. The best cabin amidships had been engaged for Agnes, and
tastefully furnished. There were flowers in it, and several boxes of
biscuits and oranges for the voyage. But Agnes did not so much as look
round; she only cried and cried; and, when the time for parting came,
threw her arms about Mary and clung to her as if she would never let
go. It was, said Mary afterwards, just like seeing a doomed creature
off for perdition.

"I don't believe she'll ever come back. Oh, it's a burning shame! Why
couldn't he have put her in a Home?"

"My dear, that would publish his disgrace to the world. He has chosen
the one polite and irreproachable way of getting rid of her . . .
without a scandal."

"You mean . . .? But surely she won't be able to get it on board ship?"

"If you think that, Mary, you still know next to nothing of the tricks
a tippler is up to!"--And how right he was, was shewn when the cook,
in turning out the spare room, came upon a regular nest of bottles--
empty medicine bottles, the dregs of which bespoke their contents--
tucked away inside the first bend of the chimney.

Mary wrote to Mr. Henry informing him of Agnes's departure, also that
the visit had passed off WITHOUT CONTRETEMPS: and shortly after, she
received the gift of a photograph-album, bound in vellum and stamped in
gold with her initials. It was a handsome and costly present. But
Mahony waxed bitterly sarcastic over the head of it.

"An album! . . . a photograph-album! . . . as sole return for the
expense we've been put to--why, cab-hire alone must have run into
pounds--over HIS wife, whom we did not invite and had no wish
to see. Not to speak of the strain the visit has been on you, my dear."

"But Richard, you wouldn't have had him send us money?--ask for our
BILL?" Mary spoke heatedly to hide her own feelings, which were much
the same as his. Richard singled out cab-fares; but these were but one
item of many. In the course of a long day's shopping Agnes and she had
needed lunch and refreshment--manlike he no doubt imagined them living
on air!--and not infrequently Agnes had fancied some article in a shop
where no account was run: none of which extras had been mentioned to
him. The truth was, what with this, that and the other thing, Mary had
been forced to make a sad hole in her savings.

"We certainly don't need Ocock's assistance in going down-hill," was
Richard's parting shot.

It was true, a very hearty note accompanied the album; the pith of
which was: IF AT ANY TIME, MY DEAR MRS. MAHONY, AN OPPORTUNITY TO
RETURN YOUR GREAT KINDNESS TO MY DEAR WIFE SHOULD ARISE, I TRUST YOU
WILL LET ME HEAR OF IT.




Chapter IV



To-morrow was the Dumplings' birthday, and they were having a big
party. But it was his, Cuffy's, party, too; for when he had first got
six, they didn't have a house yet, and there was no room for a party.
It was really MOST his, 'cos he was the oldest: his cake would be six
storeys high, and have six lighted candles round it, and his chair be
trimmed with most green leaves. Mamma said he might cut the cake his
very own self, and make the pieces big or little just as he liked. She
stopped in the kitchen all day, baking jam tarts and sausage-rolls, and
men had taken the drawing-room carpet off and sprinkled the floor with
white dust, so's you could slide on it. All his cousins were coming,
and Cousin Emmy, and lots and lots of other children. But it was not of
these grandeurs Cuffy thought, as he sat on the edge of the verandah,
and, for sheer agitation, rocked himself to and fro. The truth was, in
spite of the glorious preparations he felt anything but happy. Guiltily
and surreptitiously he had paid at least a dozen visits to the outhouse
at the bottom of the yard, to steal a peep inside. First, Mamma had
said "soon" for the pony, and then "someday," and then his birthday: so
to-morrow was his last hope. And this hope was growing littler and
littler. If ONLY he hadn't told! But he had, had whispered it in a
secret to the Dumplings, and to that horrid tease, Cousin Josey, as
well. And promised them rides, and let the twins draw lots who should
be first; and they'd guessed and guessed what colour it would be; all
in a whisper so's Mamma shouldn't hear.

"I fink it'll be black," said Lallie; and Lucie nodded: "Me, too! An'
wiv a white tail."

"But I KNOW it'll be brown!"

"He knows it'll be bwown!" buzzed one Fatty to the other.

"Huh! I wouldn't HAVE a pony with a white tail."

But peep as he might, no little horse appeared in the shed; and Cuffy
went about with a strange, empty, sinking feeling inside him--
a sense of having been tricked. Nor did the several handsome presents
he found beside his bed make up to him for this disappointment. He
early kicked over a giraffe belonging to the giant Noah's Ark and broke
its neck; flew into a tantrum when rebuked; was obstreperous about
being dressed, and snarly to his sisters; till Mary said, if he didn't
behave he'd go to bed instead. How he dreaded the display of the
presents! Cousin Josey with her sneery laugh would be sure to blurt out
in front of everybody: "He said he was going to get a pony! Ho! Where's
your pony now?" The Dumplings were easier to deal with. In answer to
their round-eyed wonder he just said, in airy fashion: "He says he
can't come quite to-day. He didn't get born yet."

"Have you seed him?"

"Course I have!" Which left the twins more dazzled than would have done
the animal's arrival.

But it proved as lovely a party as they had ever had--lasted till past
eleven, and the whole house, with the exception of the surgery, was
turned upside down for it. Quite twenty children came, and nearly as
many grown-ups. The drawing-room was stripped bare of its furniture but
for a line of chairs placed round the walls. Verandah and balcony were
hung with Chinese lanterns and dozens of coloured balloons. In the
dining-room a long table, made up of several smaller tables put
together, was laden with cakes and creams and jellies; and even the big
people found the good things "simply delicious." And though, of course,
Mary could not attempt to compete with some of the lavish
entertainments here given for children--the Archie Whites had actually
had a champagne supper for their five-year-old, the Boppins had hired a
CHEF from a caterer's--yet she had spared no pains to make her
children's party unique in its way. And never for an instant did she
allow the fun to flag. Even the quite little tots, who soon tired of
games and dancing, were kept amused. For their benefit a padded see-saw
had been set up on the verandah, as well as a safe nursery swing. On
the stair-landings stood a bran pie and a lucky bag; while Emmy
superintended the fishing for presents that went on, with rod and line,
over the back of the drawing-room sofa.

In a pause between the games Mary walked through the drawing-room,
her black silk skirts trailing after her, the hands of two of the
smallest children in hers; one of them John's baby-boy, a bandy-legged
mite, still hardly able to toddle. Mary was enjoying herself almost as
much as the children; her cheeks were rose-pink with satisfaction, her
eyes a-sparkle. At this moment, however, her objective was Cuffy, who,
his black eyes not a whit less glittery than her own, his topknot all
askew--he was really getting too big for a topknot; but she found it
hard to forgo the morning pleasure of winding the silky curl about her
finger--Cuffy was utilising the pause to skate up and down the
slippery floor. He was in wild spirits: Cousin Josey had contented
herself with making a hidjus face at him and pinching him on the sly:
the titbit of the evening, the cutting of the cake, was still to come;
and he had played his piece--"Home Sweet Home" "with runs"--which had
earned him the usual crop of praise and applause. Now there was no
holding him.

"Cuffy! Cuffy DEAR, don't romp like that! You MUST behave, and set a
good example to your visitors. Listen! I think I heard Papa. Run and
tell him to slip on another coat, and come in and see the fun."

But Cuffy jerked his arm away: Mamma was not so easily forgiven.
"Shan't! . . . don't want to!" and was off again like a flash.

"Tch! He's so excited.--Emmy, you go to your uncle; you can usually
get round him. He really ought to put in an appearance. It will do him
good, too . . . and amuse him."

Emmy hesitated. "Do you think so, Aunt Mary?"

"Why, of course."

"I'll take Baby, then. Perhaps Uncle will let me lay him down on his
sofa. It's time he had a nap; he screams so at night if he gets
over-tired."

"You're wonderful with that child, Emmy," said Mary, watching the girl
cuddle her little stepbrother in her arms, where he curled up and shut
his eyes, one little hand dangling limp and sleepy over her shoulder.
"I'm sure Lizzie ought to be very grateful to you."

"I don't know what I'd do without him."

Emmy tapped at the surgery door. "May I come in?"

The blind was down; she could just make her uncle out, sitting
hunched and relaxed in his armchair. He gave a violent start at her
entrance, exclaiming: "Yes, yes? What is it?--Oh, you, Emmy! Come in,
my dear, come in. I think I must have dropped off." And passing a
fumbly hand over his forehead, he crossed to the window and drew up the
blind.

What! with all that noise? thought Emmy wonderingly. Aloud she said:
"May I stay here a little with Jacky? I want him to have a nap."

"Surely." And Mahony cleared the end of the sofa that she might find a
place with her burden. "And how is the little man to-day?"

"Oh, doing finely! He has hardly been afraid of anything this
afternoon."

"We must examine him again," said Mahony kindly, laying a finger on the
child's sweat-damp hair, and noting the nervous pucker of the little
brows.

There was a pause, Emmy gazing at her nursling, Mahony at her. Then:
"How vividly you do remind me of your mother, my dear! The first time I
ever saw her--she could have been little older than you are now--she
held you on her lap . . . just as you hold Jacky."

"Did she?" Emmy played meditatively with a tassel on the child's shoe.
"People are always saying that . . . that I'm like her. And sometimes,
Uncle, I think it would be nicer just to be like oneself. Instead of a
kind of copy."

To no one else would she have confided so heretical a sentiment. But
Uncle Richard always understood.

And sure enough: "I can see your point, Emmy," said he. "You think: to
a new soul why not a brand-new covering? All the same, child, do not
begrudge a poor wraith its sole chance of cheating oblivion."

"I only mean--"

"I can assure you, you've nothing to fear from the comparison, nothing
at all!" And Mahony patted his niece's hand, looking fondly at her in
her white, flounced tarlatan, a narrow blue ribbon round her narrow
waist, a wreath of forget-me-nots in her ripe-corn hair. There was no
danger to Emmy in letting her know what you thought of her, so free
from vanity was she. Just a good, sweet, simple creature.

But here the girl bethought herself of her errand. "Oh yes, Aunt Mary
sent me to tell you . . . I mean she thought, Uncle, you might like to
come and see what fun the children are having."

On the instant Mahony lost his warmth. "No, no. I'm not in the mood."

"Uncle, the Murdochs and the Archie Whites are here . . . people who'd
very much like to see you," Emmy gently transposed Mary's words.

"Entirely your aunt's imagination, child! In reality she knows as well
as I do that it's not so. In the course of a fairly long life, my dear,
I have always been able to count on the fingers of one hand, those
people--my patients excepted, of course--who have cared a straw
whether I was alive or dead. No, Emmy. The plain truth is: my fellow-men
have little use for me--or I for them."

"Oh, Uncle . . ." Emmy was confused, and showed it. Talk of this kind
made her feel very shy. She could not think of anything to say in
response: how to refute ideas which she was sure were not true.
Positively sure. For they opened up abysses into which, young girl-like,
she was afraid to peer. An awkward pause ensued before she asked
timidly: "Do you feel very tired to-night?"

"To the depths of my soul, child!" Then, fearing lest he had startled
her with his violence, he added: "I've had--and still have--great
worries, my dear . . . business worries."

"Is it the practice, Uncle? Doesn't it do well?"

"That, too. But I have made a sad fool of myself, Emmy--a sad fool.
And now here I sit, puzzling how to repair the mischief."

Alone again, he let himself fall back into the limp attitude in which
she had surprised him. It was well-being just to lie back, every muscle
relaxed. He came home from tramping the streets dog-tired, and all of a
sweat: as drained of strength as a squeezed lemon.

No one else appeared to disturb him. Emmy, bless her! had done her work
well, and Mary might now reasonably be expected to leave him in peace.
Let them jig and dance to the top of their bent, provided he
was not asked to join in. He washed his hands of the whole affair. From
the outset, the elaborate preparations for this party had put his back
up. It was not that he wanted to act the wet-blanket on his children's
enjoyment. But the way Mary went about things stood in absolutely no
relation to his shrunken income. She was striving to keep pace with
people who could reckon theirs by the thousand. It was absurd. Of
course she had grown so used, in the latter years, to spending royally,
that it was hard for her now to trim her sails. Just, too, when the
bairns were coming to an age to appreciate the good things of life.
Again, his reason nudged him with the reminder that any ultra-extravagance
on her part was due, in the first place, to her ignorance
of his embarrassments. He had not enlightened her . . . he never would.
He felt more and more incapable of standing up to her incredulous
dismay. In cold blood, it seemed impossible to face her with the
tidings: "The house we live in is not our own. I have run myself--run
you and the children--into debt to the tune of hundreds of pounds!" At
the mere thought of it he might have been a boy once more, standing
before his mother and shaking in his shoes over the confession of some
youthful peccadillo. A still further incentive to silence was the queer
way his gall rose at the idea of interference. And it went beyond him
to imagine Mary NOT interfering. If he knew her, she would at once want
to take the reins: to manage him and his affairs as she managed house
and children. And to what was left of his freedom he clung as if his
life depended on it.

Excuse enough for meddling she would have; he had regularly played into
her hands. Had he only never built this accursed house! It, and it
alone, was the root of all the trouble. Had he contented himself with a
modest weatherboard, they might still have been upsides with fate. Mary
would not have been led to entertain beyond their means--for the very
good reason that she would not have had room for it--and he have
enjoyed the fruits of a quiet mind. Instead of which, for the pleasure
of sitting twirling his thumbs in a house that was far too large for
him, he had condemned himself to one of the subtlest forms of torture
invented by man: that of being under constraint to get together, by
given dates, fixed sums of money. The past three months had
been a nightmare. Twenty times a day he had asked himself: shall I be
able to do it? And when, by the skin of his teeth, he had contrived to
foot his bill and breathe more freely, behold! the next term was at the
door, and the struggle had all to begin anew. And so it would go on,
month after month; round and round in the same vicious circle. Or with,
for sole variety, a steadily growing embarrassment. As it was, he could
see the day coming when he would be able to pay no more than the bare
interest on the loan. And the humiliation this spelt for him only he
knew. For, on taking up the mortgage, he had airily intimated that he
intended, FOR A START, making quarterly repayments of fifty pounds:
while later on . . . well, only God knew what hints he had dropped for
later on: his mind had been in haste to forget them. Did he now fall
into arrears, his ignominious financial situation would be known to
every one, and he become a marked man.

Who could have thought this place would turn out so poorly?--become a
jogtrot little suburban affair that just held together, and no more.
Such an experience was something new to him, and intolerable. In the
early days it was always he who had given up his practices, not they
him. He had abandoned them, one after the other, no matter how well
they were doing. Here, the pages of his case-book remained but scantly
filled. A preternaturally healthy neighbourhood. Or was that just a
polite fiction of his own making? More than once recently it had
flashed through his mind that, since putting up his plate, he had
treated none but the simplest cases. Only the A B C of doctoring had
been required of him. The fact was, specialists were all too easy to
get at. But no! that wouldn't hold water either. Was it not rather he
himself who, at first hint of a complication, was ready to refer a
patient? . . . to shirk undue worry and responsibility? Yes, this was
his own share in the failure; this, and the fact that his heart was not
in the work. But indeed how should it be? When he recalled the relief
with which, the moment he was able, he had forsaken medicine . . .
where COULD the joy come in over taking it up again, an older, tireder
man, and, as it were, at the point of the sword? And with the heart
went the will, the inclination. Eaten up by money-troubles, he had but
faint interest to spare for the physicking of petty ailments. Under the
crushing dread lest he should find himself unable to pay his
way, he had grown numb to all else. Numb. . . cold . . . indifferent.

What did NOT leave him cold but, on the contrary, whipped him to a fury
of impatience and aversion, was the thought of going on as he was: of
continuing to sit, day after day, as it were nailed to the spot, while
his brain, the only live part of him, burnt itself out in maddening
anxieties and regrets. Oh, fool that he had been! . . . fool and blind.
To have known himself so ill! NEVER was he the man to have got himself
into this pitiable tangle . . . with its continual menace of
humiliation . . . disgrace. What madness had possessed him? Even in his
youth, when life still seemed worth the pother, he had avoided debt
like the plague. And to ask himself now, as an old man and one grown
weary of effort, to stand the imposition of so intolerable a strain,
was nothing short of suicidal. Another half-year like the last, and he
would not be answerable for himself.

He began to toy with the idea of flight. And over the mere imagining of
a possible escape from his torments, he seemed to wake to life again,
to throw off the deadly lethargy that paralysed him. Change . . .
movement . . . action: this it was he panted after! It was the sitting
inactive, harried by murderous thoughts over which he had lost the
mastery, that was killing him. If once he was rid of these, all might
again be well. And now insidious fancies stole upon him: fancies which,
disregarding such accidents of the day as money and the lack of money,
went straight to the heart of his most urgent need. To go away--go far
away--from everything and every one he had known; so that what
happened should happen to him only--be nobody's business but his own!
Away from the crowd of familiar faces, these cunning, spying faces,
WHICH KNEW ALL, and which Mary could yet not persuade herself to forbid
the house. Somewhere where she would be out of reach of the temptations
that here beset her, and he free to exist in the decent poverty that
was now his true walk in life. Oh, for privacy!--privacy and seclusion
. . . and freedom from tongues. To be once more a stranger among
strangers, and never see a face he knew again!

He had not yet found courage, however, for the pitched battle he
foresaw, when something happened that fairly took his breath
away. As it were, overnight, he found himself the possessor of close on
two hundred and fifty pounds. Among the scrip he still held were some
shares called "Pitman's," which till now had been good for nothing but
to make calls. Now they took a sudden upward bound, and, at a timely
hint from a grateful patient who was in the swim, Mahony did a little
shuffle--selling, buying and promptly re-selling--with this result.
True, a second venture, unaided, robbed him of the odd fifty. None the
less there he stood, with his next quarter's payments in his hand. He
felt more amazed than anything else by this windfall. It certainly did
not set his mind at rest; it came too late for that. Try as he would,
he could not now face the idea of remaining at Hawthorn. He had dwelt
too much by this time on the thought of change; taken too fixed an
aversion to this room where he had spent so many black hours; to the
house, the practice, the neighbourhood. Something within him, which
would not be silenced, never ceased to urge: free yourself. . . escape
--while there is still time.

In these days Mary just sighed and went about her work. Richard had
hardly a word even for the children: on entering the house he retired
at once to the surgery and shut himself in. What he did there, goodness
only knew. But it was not possible nowadays for her to sit and worry
over him, or to take his moods as seriously as she would once have
done. And any passing suspicion of something being more than ordinarily
amiss was apt, even as it crossed her mind, to be overlaid by, say, the
size of the baker's bill, or the fact that Cuffy had again outgrown his
boots. But she had also a further reason for turning a blind eye.
Believing, as she truly did, that Richard's moroseness sprang mainly
from pique at having to take up work again, she was not going to risk
making matters worse by talking about them. Richard was as suggestible
as a child. A word from her might stir up some fresh grievance, the
existence of which he had so far not imagined.--But when the crash
came, it seemed as if a part of her had all along known and feared the
worst.

None the less it was a shattering blow: one of those that left you
feeling ten years older than the moment before. And in the scene that
followed his blunt announcement and lasted far into the night, she
strove with him as she had never yet striven, labouring to break down
his determination, to bring him back to sanity. For more, much
more than themselves and their own prosperity was now at stake. What
happened to them happened equally to the three small creatures they had
brought into the world.

"It's the children, Richard! Now they're there, you haven't the RIGHT
to throw up a fixed position, as the fancy takes you . . . as you used
to do. It didn't matter about me. But it's different now--everything's
different. ONLY have patience! Oh! I can't believe you really mean it.
It seems incredible . . . impossible."

Mahony was indignant. "And do you think no one considers the children
but you? When their welfare is more to me than anything on earth?"

"But if that's true, how can you even THINK of giving up this place?
. . . the house--our comfortable home! You know quite well you're not a
young man any more. The openings would be so few. You'd never get a
place to suit you better."

"I tell you I CANNOT stop here!"

"But why? Give me a single convincing reason.--As to the idea of going
up-country . . . that's madness pure and simple. How often did you vow
you'd never again take up a country practice, because of the distances
. . . and the work? How will you be able to stand it now? . . . when
you're getting on for fifty. You say there's nothing doing here; but,
my opinion is, there's just as much as you're able for."

This was so exactly Mahony's own belief that he grew violently angry.
"Good God, woman! is there no sympathy in you? . . . or only where your
children are concerned? I tell you, if I stop here I shall end by going
demented!"

"I never heard such talk. The practice may be slow to move--I think a
town-practice always would be--but it'll come right, I'm sure it will,
if you'll ONLY give it the chance." Here, however, another thought
struck her. "But what I don't understand is, WHY we're not able to get
on. What becomes of the money you make? There must be something very
wrong somewhere. Hand over the accounts to me; let me look into your
books. With no rent to pay, and three or four hundred coming in . . .
besides the dividends . . . oh, would any one else--any one but you--
want to throw up a certainty and drag us off up-country, just
when the children are getting big and need decent companions . . . and
schooling--what about their education?--have you thought of that? . . .
or thought of anything but your own likes and dislikes?" And as he
maintained a stony silence, she broke out: "I think men are the most
impossible creatures God ever made!" and pressing her face into the
pillow burst into tears.

Mahony set his teeth. If she could not see for herself that it was a
case, for once, of putting him and his needs first, then he could not
help her. To confide in her still went beyond him. Mary had such a
heavy hand. He could hope for no tenderness of approach; no instinctive
understanding meeting him half-way. She would pounce on his most
intimate thoughts and feelings, drag them out into daylight and
anatomise them; would put into words those phantom fears, and insidious
evasions, which he had so far managed to keep in the twilight where
they belonged. He shuddered at the thought.

But Mary had not finished. Drying her eyes she returned to the charge.
"You say this place is a failure. I deny it, and always shall. But if
it hasn't done as well as it might, there's a reason for it. It's
because you haven't the way with you any longer. You've lost your
manner--the good, doctor's manner you used to do so much with. You're
too short with people nowadays; and they resent it; and go to some one
who's pleasanter. I heard you just the other day with that lawyer's
wife who called . . . how you blew her up! SHE'LL never come again.--A
morbid hypochondriac? I daresay. But in old days you'd never have told
a patient to her face that she was either shamming or imagining."

"I'm too old to cozen and pander."

"Too old to care, you mean.--Oh, for God's sake, think what you're
doing! Try to stop on here a little longer, and if it's only for six
months. Listen! I've got an idea." She raised herself on her elbow.
"Why shouldn't we take in boarders? . . . just to tide us over till
things get easier. This house is really much too big for us. One
nursery would be enough for the children; and there's the spare room,
and the breakfast-room . . . . I could probably fill all three; and
make enough that way to cover our living expenses."

"BOARDERS? . . .YOU? Not while I'M above the sod!"

The children wilted . . . oh, it was a dreadful week! Papa never spoke,
and slammed the doors and the gate whenever he went out. Mamma sat in
the bedroom and cried, hastily blowing her nose and pretending she
wasn't, if you happened to look in. And Cook and Eliza made funny
faces, and whispered behind their hands. Cuffy, mooning about the house
pale and dejected, was--as usual when Mamma and Papa quarrelled--
harassed by the feeling that somehow or other he was the guilty person.
He tried cosseting Mamma, hanging round her: he tried talking big to
the Dumplings of what he meant to do when he was a man; he even glanced
at the idea of running away. But none of these things lightened the
weight that lay on his chest. It felt just as it had done the night
Luce had the croup and crowed like a cock.

And then one afternoon Mahony came home transfigured. His bang of the
gate, his very step, as it crunched the gravel, told its own tale. He
ran up the stairs two at a time, calling for Mary; and, the door of the
bedroom shut on them, broke into excited talk. It appeared that in a
chance meeting that day with a fellow-medico ("Pincock, that well-known
Richmond man!") he had heard of what seemed to him "an opening in a
thousand," a flourishing practice to be had for the asking, at a place
called Barambogie in the Ovens District.

"A rising township, my dear, half mining, half agricultural, and where
there has never been but one doctor. He's an old friend of Pincock's,
and is giving up--after ten years in the place--for purely personal
reasons . . . nothing to do with the practice. It arose through Pincock
asking me if I knew of any one who would like to step into a really
good thing. This Rummel wants to retire, but will wait on of course
till he hears of a successor. Nor is he selling. Whoever goes there has
only to walk in and settle down. Such a chance won't come my way again.
I should be mad to let it slip."

This news rang the knell of any hopes Mary might still have nursed of
bringing him to his senses. She eyed him sombrely as he stood before
her, pale with excitement; and such a wave of bitterness ran through
her that she quickly looked away again, unable to find any but bitter
words to say. In this glance, however, she had for once really seen him
--had not just looked, without seeing, after the habit of those
who spend their lives together--and the result was the amazed
reflection: "But he's got the eyes of a child! . . . for all his
wrinkles and grey hairs."

Mahony did not notice her silence. He continued to dilate on what HE
had said and the other had replied, till, in alarm, she burst out: "I
hope to goodness you've not committed yourself in any way? . . . all in
the dark as you are."

"Come, come now, my dear!" he half cozened, half fell foul of her.
"Give me credit for at least a ha'p'orth of sense. You surely don't
imagine I showed Pincock my cards? I flatter myself I was thoroughly
off-hand with him . . . so much so, indeed, that before night he'll no
doubt have cracked the place up to half a dozen others.--Come, Mary,
come! I'm not quite the fool you imagine. Nor do I mean to be
unreasonable. But I confess my inclination is, just to slip off and see
the place, and make a few confidential inquiries. There can surely be
nothing against that--can there?"

There could not. Two days later, he took the early morning train to the
north.




Chapter V



1


THE SUN HOTEL,

BARAMBOGIE.

MY OWN DEAR WIFE,

I HOPE YOU GOT MY NOTE ANNOUNCING MY SAFE ARRIVAL. I COULD NOT WRITE
MORE; THE TRAIN WAS LATE AND I TIRED OUT. THE JOURNEY TOOK EIGHT HOURS
AND WAS MOST FATIGUING. ABOUT NOON A NORTH WIND CAME UP, WITH ITS USUAL
EFFECT ON ME OF HEADACHE AND LASSITUDE. THE CARRIAGE WAS LIKE A
BAKING-OVEN. AS FOR THE DUST, I'VE NEVER SEEN ITS EQUAL. BALLARAT IN
SUMMER WAS NOTHING TO IT. IT ROSE IN WHIRLWINDS TO THE TOPS OF THE GUMS.
WE WERE SIMPLY SMOTHERED. BUT WHAT A COUNTRY THIS OF OURS IS FOR SIZE! YOU
HAVE ONLY TO GET AWAY FROM THE SEA-BOARD AND TRAVEL ACROSS IT, TO BE
STAGGERED BY ITS VASTNESS.--AND EMPTINESS. MILE AFTER MILE OF BUSH,
WITHOUT THE TRACE OF A SETTLEMENT. AND ANY TOWNSHIPS WE COULD SEE FOR
DUST, VERY SMALL AND MEAN. OF COURSE EVERYTHING LOOKS ITS WORST JUST
NOW. THERE HAVE BEEN NO RAINS HERE YET, AND THEY ARE SADLY NEEDED.
GRASS BURNT TO A CINDER, CREEKS BONE-DRY AND SO ON. HOWEVER AS IT WAS
ALL QUITE NEW TO ME, I FOUND PLENTY TO INTEREST ME. THE LANDSCAPE
IMPROVED AS WE GOT FURTHER NORTH, GREW HILLIER AND MORE WOODED: AND
BEYOND BENALLA WE HAD A FINE VIEW OF THE HIGH RANGES.

SO MUCH FOR THE JOURNEY. AS I MENTIONED, RUMMEL MET ME AT THE STATION,
WALKED TO THE HOTEL WITH ME AND STOPPED FOR A CHAT. HE IS A MOST
AFFABLE FELLOW, WELL UNDER FORTY I SHOULD SAY, TALL AND HANDSOME AND
QUITE THE GENTLEMAN--I SHALL FIND CONSIDERABLE DIFFICULTY IN COMING
AFTER HIM. I WAS TOO TIRED THAT NIGHT TO GET MUCH IDEA OF THE PLACE,
BUT NOW THAT I HAVE HAD A COUPLE OF DAYS TO LOOK ABOUT ME, I CAN
HONESTLY SAY I AM DELIGHTED WITH IT. TO BEGIN WITH, I AM MOST
COMFORTABLY LODGED; MY BED IS GOOD, THE TABLE PLENTIFUL, LANDLADY VERY
ATTENTIVE. IT IS A LARGER AND MORE SUBSTANTIAL TOWNSHIP THAN THOSE WE
PASSED ON THE WAY UP; THE HOUSES ARE MOSTLY OF BRICK--FOR COOLNESS IN
SUMMER--AND ALL HAVE LUXURIANT GARDENS. THERE IS A VERY PRETTY LITTLE
LAKE, OR LAGOON AS THEY CALL IT HERE, SKIRTED BY TREES AND
PLEASANT PATHS; AND WE ARE SURROUNDED BY WOODED RANGES. VINEYARDS COVER
THE PLAINS.

AS TO THE INFORMATION I HAD FROM PINCOCK, IT WAS RATHER UNDER THAN
ABOVE THE MARK. BARAMBOGIE IS UNDOUBTEDLY A RISING PLACE. FOR ONE
THING, THERE'S A GREAT MINE IN THE NEIGHBOURHOOD, THAT HAS ONLY BEEN
PARTIALLY WORKED. THIS IS NOW ABOUT TO BE REORGANISED: AND WHEN STARTED
WILL EMPLOY NO FEWER THAN A HUNDRED AND FIFTY MEN. EVERY ONE IS
SANGUINE OF IT PAYING.--I WAS OUT AND ABOUT ALL YESTERDAY AND AGAIN
THIS MORNING, INTRODUCING MYSELF TO PEOPLE. I HAVE MET WITH THE
GREATEST COURTESY AND CIVILITY--THE BANK MANAGER WENT SO FAR AS TO SAY
I SHOULD BE A REAL ACQUISITION. I THINK I CAN READ BETWEEN THE LINES
THAT SOME WILL NOT BE DISPLEASED TO SEE THE LAST OF RUMMEL. HE IS BY NO
MEANS THE UNIVERSAL FAVOURITE I SHOULD HAVE IMAGINED. BETWEEN
OURSELVES, I FANCY HE TAKES A DROP TOO MUCH. HE IS STILL SEEING
PATIENTS, BUT INTENDS LEAVING IN A COUPLE OF DAYS. THE CHEMIST SAYS I
SHOULD EASILY DO EIGHT HUNDRED TO A THOUSAND PER ANNUM. AND RUMMEL
HIMSELF TOLD ME HE HAS HAD AS MANY AS A HUNDRED MIDWIFERY EASES IN A
YEAR. THERE ARE THREE OR FOUR NICE FAMILIES, SO YOU, MY DEAR, WILL NOT
BE ENTIRELY CUT OFF FROM SOCIETY. IT IS SAID TO BE A SPLENDID WINTER
CLIMATE. EVEN NOW, IN LATE AUTUMN, WE HAVE CLEAR BLUE SKIES AND BRACING
WINDS FROM THE SOUTH. AND WE SHOULD CERTAINLY SAVE. NO ONE HERE KEEPS
MORE THAN ONE SERVANT, AND GRAND ENTERTAINMENTS ARE UNKNOWN. NO CLUBS
EITHER, THANK GOD! YOU KNOW WHAT A DRAWBACK THEY. . . OR RATHER THE
LACK OF THEM HAS BEEN TO ME AT HAWTHORN. THEY'RE ALL VERY WELL IF YOU
HOLD THEM YOURSELF, BUT PLAY THE DICKENS WITH A PRACTICE IF YOU DON'T.
I SHOULD ONLY BE TOO GLAD TO SETTLE SOMEWHERE WHERE THEY'RE NON-EXISTENT.

THE DIFFICULTY IS GOING TO BE TO FIND A HOUSE. THERE ARE ONLY TWO
VACANT IN ALL BARAMBOGIE. ONE OF THESE IS IN POOR REPAIR, AND THE OWNER
--THE LEADING DRAPER--DECLINES TO DO ANYTHING TO IT. BESIDES HE WANTS
A RENTAL OF EIGHTY POUNDS P.A., ON A FOUR YEARS' LEASE--WHICH OF
COURSE PUTS IT OUT OF THE QUESTION. THE OTHER IS SO SMALL THAT NONE OF
OUR FURNITURE WOULD GO INTO IT. BUT WHERE THERE'S A WILL THERE'S A WAY;
AND I HAVE AN IDEA--AND I THINK A BRILLIANT ONE. THERE'S A FINE OLD
ODDFELLOWS' HALL HERE, WHICH IS IN DISUSE AND UP FOR AUCTION. IT'S OF
BRICK--LOOKS LIKE A CHAPEL--AND IS SIXTY FEET LONG BY TWENTY BROAD.
WELL, MY PLAN IS TO BUY THIS, AND CONVERT IT INTO A DWELLING-HOUSE. THE
BODY OF THE HALL WILL GIVE US SIX SPLENDID ROOMS, WITH A PASSAGE DOWN
THE MIDDLE, AND WE CAN ADD KITCHEN, SCULLERY, OUTHOUSES, ETC. I
WOULD ALSO THROW OUT A VERANDAH. THERE'S A FAIR PIECE OF LAND WHICH WE
WOULD TURN INTO A GARDEN. THE ALTERATIONS WILL BE EASY TO MAKE AND NOT
COST MUCH; AND THERE WE ARE, WITH OUT AND AWAY THE BEST HOUSE IN THE
TOWN!--I FEAR, THOUGH, EVEN UNDER THE MOST FAVOURABLE CIRCUMSTANCES WE
SHALL NOT BE ABLE TO USE ALL OUR FURNITURE HERE. I HAVEN'T YET SEEN A
ROOM THAT WOULD HOLD YOUR WARDROBE, OR THE DINING-ROOM SIDEBOARD.

IF I DECIDE TO STAY, I SHALL LOSE NO TIME IN CONSULTING A BUILDER. YOU
FOR YOUR PART MUST AT ONCE SEE AN AGENT AND PUT THE HAWTHORN HOUSE IN
HIS HANDS. I FEEL SURE WE SHALL HAVE NO DIFFICULTY IN LETTING IT.

AND NOW I MUST BRING THIS LONG SCRAWL--IT HAS BEEN WRITTEN AT VARIOUS
ODD MOMENTS--TO A CLOSE. I HAVE APPOINTED TO SEE RUMMEL AGAIN THIS
AFTERNOON, TO HAVE ANOTHER PARLEY WITH HIM. NOT THAT I SHALL DEFINITELY
FIX ON ANYTHING TILL I HEAR FROM YOU. FROM NOW ON I INTEND TO TAKE YOUR
ADVICE. BUT I DO TRUST THAT WHAT I HAVE TOLD YOU WILL PROVE TO YOU THAT
THIS IS NO WILDGOOSE CHASE, BUT THE VERY OPENING OF WHICH I AM IN
SEARCH. IT DISTRESSES ME MORE THAN I CAN SAY, WHEN YOU AND I DO NOT SEE
EYE TO EYE WITH EACH OTHER. NOW TAKE GOOD CARE OF YOUR DEAR SELF, AND
KISS THE CHICKS FOR ME. FORGIVE ME, TOO, ALL MY IRRITABILITY AND BAD
TEMPER OF THE PAST SIX MONTHS. I HAVE HAD A VERY GREAT DEAL TO WORRY ME
--FAR MORE THAN YOU KNEW, OR THAN I WANTED YOU TO KNOW. IT IS ENOUGH
FOR ONE OF US TO BEAR THE BURDEN. BUT THIS WILL PASS AND EVERYTHING BE
AS OF OLD, IF I CAN ONCE SEE THE PROSPECT OF EARNING A DECENT INCOME
AGAIN. WHICH I AM PERFECTLY SURE I SHALL DO HERE.

YOUR OWN

R.T.M.



2


THE SUN HOTEL,

BARAMBOGIE.

MY DEAR MARY,

I MUST SAY YOU ARE THE REVERSE OF ENCOURAGING. YOUR LETTER THREW ME
INTO SUCH A FIT OF LOW SPIRITS THAT I COULD NOT BRING MYSELF TO ANSWER
IT TILL TO-DAY. IT'S BAD ENOUGH BEING ALL ALONE, WITH NEVER A SOUL TO
SPEAK TO, WITHOUT YOU POURING COLD WATER ON EVERYTHING I SUGGEST. OF
COURSE, AS YOU ARE SO DOWN ON MY SCHEME OF REBUILDING THE ODDFELLOWS'
HALL, I WILL LET THIS UNIQUE OPPORTUNITY FOR A BARGAIN SLIP,
AND DISMISS THE IDEA FROM MY MIND. PERHAPS, THOUGH, YOU WILL TELL ME
WHAT WE ARE TO DO--WITB NOT ANOTHER HOUSE IN THE PLACE VACANT--OR AT
LEAST NOTHING BIG ENOUGH TO SWING A CAT IN. AS YOU ARE SO SCATHING
ABOUT MY POOR PLANS, YOU HAD BETTER EVOLVE SOME OF YOUR OWN.

I HAD THE NEWS ABOUT THE MINE ON RELIABLE AUTHORITY; IT WAS NOT, AS YOU
TRY TO MAKE OUT, A MERE WILD RUMOUR. NOR IS WHAT I SAID ABOUT PEOPLE
BEING GLAD TO GET RID OF RUMMEL A PRODUCT OF MY OWN IMAGINATION. I
RECEIVED MORE THAN ONE PLAIN HINT TO THAT EFFECT, IN THE COURSE OF MY
VISITS.

HOWEVER, SINCE I WROTE LAST, I HAVE BEGUN TO DOUBT THE WISDOM OF
SETTLING HERE. IT'S NOT THE HOUSE-QUESTION ALONE. I'VE SEEN GREATOREX
THE DRAPER AGAIN, AND HE HAS SO FAR COME ROUND AS TO AGREE TO RE-FLOOR
THE VERANDAH AND WHITEWASH THE ROOMS, IF I TAKE THE HOUSE ON HIS TERMS.
I REPEAT ONCE MORE, IT IS THE BEST HOUSE IN BARAMBOGIE. SIX LARGE
ROOMS, ALL NECESSARY OUTHOUSES, A SHED FITTED WITH A SHOWER-BATH, AND
A FINE GARDEN--WE MIGHT INDEED CONSIDER OURSELVES LUCKY TO GET IT.
RUMMEL LIVES IN A REGULAR HOVEL; THE PARSON IN A FOUR-ROOMED HUT WITH
NOT A FOOT OF GROUND TO IT, NOR ANY VERANDAH TO KEEP OFF THE SUN.
GREATOREX'S IS A PALACE IN COMPARISON. OF COURSE THOUGH, AS YOU EXPRESS
YOURSELF SO STRONGLY AGAINST THE FOUR--YEARS' LEASE, I SHALL GIVE UP
ALL IDEA OF COMING TO AN AGREEMENT WITH HIM.

BESIDES, AS I SAID ABOVE, I HAVE PRACTICALLY DECIDED NOT TO REMAIN.
YOUR LETTER IS CHIEFLY RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS. I CAN SEE YOU HAVE MADE UP
YOUR MIND BEFOREHAND NOT TO LIKE THE PLACE. AND IF YOU WERE UNHAPPY I
SHOULD BE WRETCHED, TOO, AND REPROACH MYSELF FOR HAVING DRAGGED YOU AND
THE CHILDREN INTO SO OUTLANDISH AN EXILE. I QUITE AGREE IT WOULD BE
HARD WORK FOR YOU WITH BUT A SINGLE SERVANT--BUT I CAN ASSURE YOU, WE
SHOULD BE EYED ASKANCE IF WE TRIED TO KEEP MORE. IN A PLACE LIKE THIS,
WHERE THERE IS ONLY ONE STANDARD OF LIVING, IT WOULD RENDER US MOST
UNPOPULAR. BUT EVEN SHOULD YOU CHANGE YOUR MIND, MY ADVICE WOULD BE,
NOT TO COME FOR AT LEAST THREE MONTHS. BY THAT TIME I SHOULD KNOW
BETTER HOW THE PRACTICE WAS SHAPING. OF COURSE THINGS MAY LOOK BRIGHTER
FOR ME WHEN RUMMEL GOES, AND I BEGIN TO GET SOMETHING TO DO. I'VE BEEN
HERE NEARLY A FORTNIGHT NOW, AND HE SHOWS NO MORE SIGNS OF LEAVING THAN
AT FIRST. HE IS STILL ATTENDING PATIENTS; THE PEOPLE RUN AFTER HIM IN
THE STREETS. HE HAS BEEN EXTRAORDINARILY POPULAR; WHICH IS NOT TO BE
WONDERED AT, WITH HIS GOOD LOOKS AND INGRATIATING MANNERS. ONLY A FEW
TRIFLING CASES HAVE COME MY WAY. IT IS VERY DISHEARTENING. TO
ADD TO THIS, I HAVE BEEN FEELING ANYTHING BUT WELL. THE CHANGE OF WATER
HAS UPSET ME. THEN MY BEDROOM IS DARK AND AIRLESS; AND THE NOISE IN THE
HOTEL ENOUGH TO DRIVE ONE CRAZY. IT GOES ON TILL LONG PAST MIDNIGHT AND
BEGINS AGAIN BEFORE SIX.

ANOTHER THING THAT WORRIES ME IS THE FACT THAT I SHOULD BE ALONE OF THE
PROFESSION HERE, IF I STAYED. I DARESAY I SHOULD GET USED TO IT IN
TIME; BUT JUST NOW, IN MY POOR STATE, IT WOULD BE AN ADDITIONAL STRAIN,
NEVER TO HAVE A SECOND OPINION TO FALL BACK ON.--I DON'T NEED YOU TO
TELL ME, MY DEAR, THAT A HUNDRED CONFINEMENTS IN THE YEAR WOULD BE
STIFF WORK. BUT THEY WOULD ALSO MEAN A PRINCELY INCOME. HOWEVER, I HAVE
NO INTENTION OF DRAGGING YOU HERE AGAINST YOUR WILL: AND SHALL NOW CAST
ABOUT FOR SOMETHING ELSE. I HEARD TO-DAY OF A PLACE CALLED TURRAMUNGI,
WHERE THERE IS ONLY ONE DOCTOR AND HE A BIT OF A DUFFER. I WILL GO OVER
BY COACH ONE MORNING AND SEE HOW THE LAND LIES.

BUT DO TRY AND WRITE MORE CHEERFULLY. I AM SURE YOU HAVE NO NEED TO BE
SO DEPRESSED--IN OUR PLEASANT HOME, AND WITH THE CHILDREN TO BEAR YOU
COMPANY. I AM SORRY TO HEAR YOU HAVE HEARD OF NO LIKELY TENANTS. WE
OUGHT TO GET A RENT OF AT LEAST TWO HUNDRED, WITHOUT TAXES. AS I SAID
BEFORE, YOUR WARDROBE AND THE SIDEBOARD WILL HAVE TO BE SOLD. PERHAPS
THE INCOMING TENANT WILL TAKE THEM.

THE FLIES ARE VERY TROUBLESOME TO-DAY. I HAVE CONSTANTLY TO FLAP MY
HANDKERCHIEF WHILE I WRITE.

SHALL HOPE TO SEND YOU BETTER NEWS OF MYSELF NEXT TIME.

R.T.M.



3


THE SUN HOTEL,

BARAMBOGIE.

MY DEAR WIFE,

A LINE IN GREAT HASTE. I HAVE JUST SEEN AN ADVERTISEMENT IN THE "ARGUS"
CALLING FOR APPLICATIONS FOR MEDICAL OFFICER TO THE BOORANDOORA LODGE,
AND HAVE MADE UP MY MIND TO APPLY. I HAVE WRITTEN OFF POSTHASTE FOR
FURTHER PARTICULARS, IN ORDER TO GET MY APPLICATION IN BEFORE FRIDAY.
AFTER SPENDING CLOSE ON THREE WEEKS HERE, I HAVE DECIDED ONCE AND FOR
ALL THAT IT WOULD BE INFINITELY MORE SATISFACTORY TO MAKE AN EXTRA
COUPLE OF HUNDRED A YEAR AT HAWTHORN, WITH A DECENT HOUSE BEHIND US,
THAN TO BURY OURSELVES IN THIS WILD BUSH. A THIRD LODGE WOULD
GIVE A TREMENDOUS FILLIP TO THE PRACTICE. AND THE MORE I SEE OF THIS
PLACE, THE LESS I LIKE IT.

OF COURSE, MY APPLICATION MAY NOT BE CONSIDERED. LAMBERT, WHO HAD THE
BOORANDOORA LAST, HELD IT AT TWENTY-ONE SHILLINGS A HEAD, AND FOUND
MEDICINE. I MEAN TO TENDER SEVENTEEN-AND-SIX, WITHOUT PHYSIC. GRAVES, I
KNOW, WON'T LOOK AT THEM UNDER TWENTY. SO I THINK I OUGHT TO STAND A
VERY GOOD CHANCE. DON'T TAKE ANY FURTHER STEPS ABOUT THE HOUSE IN THE
MEANWHILE.

SINCE I WROTE LAST I HAVE HAD A LITTLE MORE TO DO. I WAS CALLED OUT
SEVERAL MILES YESTERDAY. AND THE PEOPLE I WENT TO TOLD ME THAT IF I HAD
NOT BEEN HERE, THEY WOULD HAVE SENT FOR THE MAN AT TURRAMUNGI. SO YOU
SEE RUMMEL IS NOT PERSONA GRATA EVERYWHERE. HE IS STILL ABOUT, AND AS
MUCH IN MY WAY AS EVER; FOR AS LONG AS HE IS ON THE SPOT, PEOPLE WON'T
CONSULT ANY ONE ELSE. I WISH TO GOD I HAD NOT BEEN IN SUCH A HURRY TO
COME. HOWEVER, ONE THING MAKES ME MORE HOPEFUL: THE DATE OF HIS AUCTION
IS FIXED AT LAST, FOR MONDAY NEXT.

IN HASTE

YOUR OWN

R.T.M.



4


THE SUN HOTEL,

BARAMBOGIE.

MY DARLING MARY,

SO YOU APPROVE, DO YOU, OF MY IDEA OF PUTTING IN FOR THE BOORANDOORA? I
GOT THE INFORMATION I WANTED FROM THE SECRETARY OF THE LODGE; AND IF I
RESOLVE TO OFFER MY SERVICES, SHALL DO SO FOR THE SUM I NAMED. IT IS
ALL VERY WELL, MY DEAR, TO TALK ABOUT IT BEING BENEATH MY DIGNITY TO
UNDERBID OTHERS, AND TO ASK HOW I MYSELF SHOULD ONCE HAVE CHARACTERISED
SUCH A PROCEEDING. (PERSONALLY, I THINK YOU MIGHT KEEP REMARKS OF THIS
KIND TO YOURSELF.) WHAT I DO IS DONE FOR YOUR SAKE. IF I COULD GET THIS
THIRD LODGE, IT MIGHT SAVE YOU HAVING TO TURN OUT AND PART WITH YOUR
FURNITURE; AND TO MAKE THAT POSSIBLE I AM READY TO SACRIFICE MY
PROFESSIONAL PRIDE. THERE ARE SO MANY OTHERS, YOUNGER MEN THAN I, WHO
ARE ONLY TOO READY TO STEP IN. AND I LOOK ON IT AS MY SOLE REMAINING
CHANCE TO EARN A DECENT LIVELIHOOD WITHIN REACH OF CIVILISATION.

HOWEVER, I MUST CONFESS, I HAVE AGAIN BECOME SOMEWHAT UNDECIDED. THE
FACT IS, RUMMEL HAS GONE AT LAST: AND HE GAVE ME HIS WORD, ON
LEAVING, THAT HE WOULD NEVER COME BACK. THE AUCTION TOOK PLACE AS
ARRANGED; HOUSE AND GROUND SELLING FOR A HUNDRED AND NINETY POUNDS.
SINCE HE WENT, I HAVE BEEN GENUINELY BUSY. THE PARSON IS ILL WITH
INFLAMMATION OF THE LIVER; AND I WAS CALLED OUT YESTERDAY A DISTANCE OF
FIVE MILES. THE HIRE OF A BUGGY COSTS SEVEN-AND-SIX--LESS THAN HALF
WHAT I HAD TO PAY IN HAWTHORN. THIS AFTERNOON I GO BY TRAIN TO
MIRRAWARRA, AND SHALL WALK BACK. IT BECOMES DAILY MORE EVIDENT TO ME
THAT THERE IS A VERY FINE PRACTICE TO BE DONE HERE. AND EVERY ONE I
MEET IMPLORES ME TO STAY. SOME, INDEED, GROW QUITE PLAINTIVE AT THE
IDEA OF LOSING ME.

I HAVE ALSO HAD A PLEASANT SURPRISE ABOUT THE HOUSE. GREATOREX NOW SAYS
HE IS WILLING TO LET FOR THREE YEARS INSTEAD OF FOUR, IF I PAY THE
FIRST YEAR'S RENT IN ADVANCE. THIS SEEMS TO ME AN EXTREMELY FAIR OFFER.
YOU SEE IT WOULD ONLY BE LIKE PAYING A SMALL SUM DOWN FOR THE PRACTICE.
I AM GOING OVER THE HOUSE WITH HIM AGAIN TO-MORROW, AND WILL THEN LET
YOU KNOW WHAT I DECIDE. THE POINT AT ISSUE IS, SHOULD I NOT DO BETTER
TO ACCEPT THIS CERTAIN OPENING, WITH ALL ITS DRAWBACKS, THAN TAKE THE
UNCERTAIN CHANCE OF HAWTHORN WITH A THIRD LODGE . . . IF I GET IT!

YOUR VERY OWN

R.T.M.



5


THE SUN HOTEL,

BARAMBOGIE.

MY OWN DEAR WIFE,

WELL! THE DIE IS EAST; I HAVE FINALLY MADE UP MY MIND TO REMAIN IN
BARAMBOGIE. I DID NOT PUT IN FOR THE LODGE AFTER ALL, BUT RESOLVED TO
GIVE THIS PLACE A FURTHER TEN DAYS' TRIAL. AND WELL THAT I DID! FOR THE
PRACTICE HAS LOOKED UP WITH A VENGEANCE: IT IS NOW AS PLAIN AS A
PIKESTAFF THAT I HAVE CAPITAL PROSPECTS HERE, AND SHOULD BE A FOOL
INDEED TO LET THEM SLIDE. IF I HAD NOT POPPED IN WHEN I DID, THERE
WOULD CERTAINLY HAVE BEEN OTHERS--AND, FOR THAT MATTER, I AM STILL NOT
QUITE SURE THERE MAY NOT BE ANOTHER SETTLING. IN THE MEANTIME I AM
SEEING FRESH PATIENTS DAILY, AND HAVE NOT HAD MY CLOTHES OFF FOR THE
PAST TWO NIGHTS. THE DAY BEFORE YESTERDAY I WAS CALLED TEN MILES OUT TO
ATTEND A CASE WHICH GUTHRIE OF COORA HAS NEGLECTED: AND I HAVE BEEN
BESPOKEN FOR THREE FUTURE EVENTS. THIS MORNING I DROVE SEVEN
MILES INTO THE BUSH; FOR WHICH I SHALL CHARGE FIVE GUINEAS. IN THE
MONTH I HAVE BEEN HERE--TEN DAYS WITHOUT RUMMEL--I HAVE TAKEN FIFTEEN
POUNDS AND BOOKED CLOSE ON FIFTY. WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THAT? I FEEL
QUITE SURE I SHALL EASILY TOUCH A THOUSAND A YEAR. OF COURSE IT WILL
MEAN HARD WORK, BUT THE MERE PROSPECT OF SUCH A THING KEYS ME UP. IT
WAS THE DOING NOTHING AT HAWTHORN THAT PREYED SO ON MY MIND. IF ONLY I
CAN EARN A GOOD INCOME, AND PROVIDE FOR YOU AND THE DARLINGS IN THE
STYLE TO WHICH YOU ARE ACCUSTOMED, I SHALL BE A HAPPY MAN ONCE MORE.

THE PEOPLE HERE ARE OVERJOYED AT THE PROSPECT OF KEEPING ME. THEY
CONTINUE TO DECLARE I CANNOT FAIL TO SUCCEED. EVERYBODY IS MOST CIVIL,
AND ALL INVITE ME TO DRINK WITH THEM. I HAVE CONSIDERABLE DIFFICULTY IN
MAKING THEM UNDERSTAND THAT I DO NOT GO IN FOR THAT KIND OF THING. IT
SOMETIMES NEEDS A GOOD DEAL OF TACT TO PUT THEM OFF WITHOUT GIVING
OFFENCE: BUT SO FAR I HAVE MANAGED PRETTY WELL. FROM ALL I NOW HEAR,
RUMMEL MUST HAVE BEEN A SEASONED DRINKER--A REGULAR TOPER. I SAW THE
BANK MANAGER TO-DAY. HE WAS VERY QUEER. HAD EVIDENTLY BEEN TAKING
NOBBLERS. HE HAS BEEN IN CHARGE OF THE BANK HERE FOR OVER TWENTY-YEARS,
AND THINKS THERE IS NO PLACE LIKE BARAMBOGIE. VOWS I SHALL MAKE MY
FORTUNE.

GREATOREX PROMISES TO SET ABOUT THE REPAIRS WITHOUT DELAY. MY PRIVATE
OPINION IS, HE'S IN HIGH FEATHER AT SECURING SUCH GOOD AND CAREFUL
TENANTS. I WENT OVER THE HOUSE WITH HIM AGAIN YESTERDAY. THE ROOMS ARE
NOT QUITE AS LARGE AS I THOUGHT--I WILL SEND YOU THE EXACT
MEASUREMENTS IN A DAY OR TWO--BUT ALL HAVE FRENCH WINDOWS AND ARE
FITTED WITH VENETIAN BLINDS. THE GARDEN IS WELL STOCKED WITH FRUIT,
FLOWERS AND VEGETABLES. I SHALL KEEP A MAN TO LOOK AFTER IT. I THINK
YOU HAD BETTER TRY AND INDUCE ONE OF THE SERVANTS FROM HOME TO
ACCOMPANY YOU. PERHAPS ELIZA WOULD COME; AS THE CHILDREN ARE USED TO
HER. HERE THERE IS LITTLE OR NOTHING IN THAT LINE TO BE HAD. SLIPSHOD
DOLLOPS DEMAND TEN SHILLINGS A WEEK. THE PARSON KEEPS NONE; HAS NO ROOM
FOR ANY.

ARCHDEACON COOTE OF TARALGA CALLED YESTERDAY, AND MADE QUITE A FUSS
OVER ME. I HAVE ALSO BEEN INTRODUCED TO THE WIFE OF ONE OF THE LEADING
SQUATTERS. LIKE EVERY ONE ELSE, SHE SAYS IT WILL BE A RED-LETTER DAY
FOR THE PLACE IF WE COME, AND LOOKS EAGERLY FORWARD TO MAKING YOUR
ACQUAINTANCE.

NOW, IF ONLY WE CAN LET THE HOUSE! THE MERE POSSIBILITY OF THIS,
AND OF OUR BEING ALL TOGETHER ONCE MORE MAKES ME WILDLY HAPPY.
TELL THE CHICKS THERE IS A SPLENDID SUMMERHOUSE IN THE NEW GARDEN, AND
I WILL SEE TO IT THAT A SWING IS PUT UP FOR THEM. THEY SHALL HAVE
EVERYTHING THEY WANT HERE.

YOUR OWN OLD HUSBAND,

RICHARD TOWNSHEND MAHONY.



6


THE SUN HOTEL,

BARAMBOGIE.

MY DEAR MARY,

I AM SORRY YOU WRITE IN SUCH LOW SPIRITS. I AGREE WITH YOU, IT IS MOST
UNFORTUNATE THAT WE ARE OBLIGED TO BREAK UP OUR HOME; BUT IT WAS
BLACKEST FOLLY ON MY PART EVER TO BUILD THAT HOUSE, AND NOW I AM
PUNISHED FOR IT. I CANNOT SAY HOW DEEPLY I REGRET HAVING TO ASK YOU AND
THE LITTLE ONES TO PUT UP WITH BUSH LIFE; AND YOU MAY REST ASSURED I
SHOULD NOT DO SO, IF I SAW ANY OTHER WAY OUT. BUT IT IS THIS OR
NOTHING.

IT DOESN'T MEND MATTERS TO HAVE YOU CARPING AT THE CLASS OF PERSON WE
SHALL NEED TO ASSOCIATE WITH. FOR GOODNESS' SAKE, DON'T GO PUTTING
IDEAS OF THAT KIND INTO THE CHILDREN'S HEADS! WE ARE ALL GOD'S
CREATURES; AND THE SOONER WE SHAKE OFF THE INCUBUS OF A FALSE AND
SNOBBISH PRIDE, THE BETTER IT WILL BE FOR US. THERE ARE GOOD AND WORTHY
PEOPLE TO BE FOUND IN EVERY WALK OF LIFE.

YOU ARE UTTERLY WRONG IN YOUR SUSPICIONS THAT I AM LETTING MYSELF BE
FLATTERED AND BAMBOOZLED INTO STAYING. BUT THERE! . . . YOU NEVER DO
THINK ANYONE BUT YOURSELF HAS A PARTICLE OF JUDGMENT.

NO, THERE'S NOTHING IN THE WAY OF A SCHOOL--EXCEPT, OF COURSE, THE
STATE SCHOOL. YOU HAD BETTER FIND OUT WHAT A GOVERNESS WOULD COST.
ABOUT THE HOUSE, I AM AFRAID IT IS REALLY NOT VERY MUCH BIGGER THAN OUR
FIRST COTTAGE IN WEBSTER ST--THE WOODEN ONE--BEFORE WE MADE THOSE
ADDITIONS TO IT. I ENCLOSE THE MEASUREMENTS OF THE ROOMS. YOU WILL SEE
THAT THE DRAWING-ROOM AND CHIEF BEDROOM ARE THE SAME SIZE--12 BY 13--
THE OTHERS SOMEWHAT SMALLER. IT WILL BE AS WELL TO SELL THE PIERGLASS
AND THE DRAWING-ROOM CHIFFONIER. AND IT'S NO GOOD BRINGING THE DINING-ROOM
TABLE, OR THE BIG SOFA . . . OR THE TALL GLASS BOOKCASE. OR THE
THREE LARGE WARDROBES EITHER; THEY WOULDN'T GO IN AT THE DOORS. BUT DO
TRY AND NOT FRET TOO MUCH OVER SACRIFICING THESE THINGS. A FEW
YEARS HERE, AND YOU WILL BE ABLE TO REPLACE THEM; AND THEN WE WILL
PITCH OUR TENT SOMEWHERE MORE TO YOUR LIKING.

I RECKON THE MOVE WILL COST US ABOUT A HUNDRED POUNDS.

I AM STILL BUSY. BARAMBOGIE IS ANYTHING BUT THE DEAD-AND-ALIVE PLACE
YOU IMAGINE. NO LESS THAN SIX COACHES A DAY DRAW UP AT THIS HOTEL. THE
WEATHER CONTINUES FINE. I HAVE A GOOD APPETITE: IT SUITS ME TO BE SO
MUCH IN THE OPEN AIR, INSTEAD OF COOPED UP IN THAT DULL SURGERY. I WISH
I SLEPT BETTER THOUGH. THE NOISE IN THE HOTEL CONTINUES UNABATED. I
HAVE THE UTMOST DIFFICULTY IN GETTING TO SLEEP, OR IN REMAINING ASLEEP
WHEN I DO. THE LEAST SOUND DISTURBS ME--AND THEN I AM INSTANTLY WIDE
AWAKE. THE OTHER NIGHT, THOUGH, I HAD A VERY DIFFERENT EXPERIENCE.
SOMETHING VERY QUEER HAPPENED TO ME. I DROPPED OFF TOWARDS THREE AND
HAD BEEN ASLEEP FOR ABOUT AN HOUR--FAST ASLEEP--WHEN SOME NOISE OR
OTHER, I DON'T KNOW WHAT, WAKENED ME WITH A TERRIFIC START . . . ONE OF
THOSE FEARFUL JERKS AWAKE WHICH THE NIGHTBELL USED TO GIVE ME. EXCEPT
THAT IN THOSE DAYS, I WAS ALL THERE IN AN INSTANT. HERE, I COULDN'T FOR
THE LIFE OF ME COME BACK, AND WENT THROUGH A FEW MOST AWFUL SECONDS,
ABSOLUTELY INCAPABLE OF RECOLLECTION. THERE I SAT, BOLT UPRIGHT, MY
HEART BEATING LIKE A SLEDGEHAMMER, POWERLESS TO REMEMBER WHO I WAS,
WHERE I WAS OR WHAT I WAS DOING. MY BRAIN SEEMED LIKE AN EMPTY SHELL
. . . OR A WATCH WITH ALL THE WORKS GONE OUT OF IT. OR IF YOU CAN IMAGINE
A KIND OF MENTAL SUFFOCATION, A HORRID STRUGGLE FOR BREATH ON THE PART
OF THE BRAIN. AND WHEN, BY SHEER FORCE OF WILL, I HAD SUCCEEDED IN
FIGHTING BACK TO A CONSCIOUSNESS OF MY PERSONAL IDENTITY, I STILL COULD
NOT LOCATE MYSELF, BUT IMAGINED I WAS AT HOME, AND FUMBLED FOR THE
MATCHES ON THE WRONG SIDE OF THE BED! IT WAS MOST UNPLEASANT--A REAL
DISSOCIATION FOR THE TIME BEING--AND I DID NOT SLEEP AGAIN, DREADING A
RETURN. I THINK IT CAME FROM WORRY--I HAVE BEEN MUCH UPSET. YOUR
LETTER . . . AND ALL YOU SAID IN IT . . .YOUR GRIEF AND DISAPPOINTMENT.
ADD TO THIS THAT I HAD NO PROPER REST THE NIGHT BEFORE, HAVING BEEN UP
WITH A PATIENT TILL THREE. I SHALL BE MORE CAREFUL IN FUTURE.

MY LOVE TO THE DARLINGS,

YOUR OWN

R.T.M.




Chapter VI



It was nearing eleven, and a chilly, cloudy night, when the little
party, flanked by Eliza, alighted on the platform at Barambogie where
for nearly an hour Mahony had paced to and fro. They were the only
passengers to leave the train; which straightway puffed off again; and
since the man hired by Mahony to transport the baggage was late in
arriving, there was nothing for it but to wait till he came. The
stationmaster, having lingered for a time, turned out the solitary lamp
and departed; and there they stood, a forlorn little group, round a
tumulus of luggage. It was pitch dark; not a single homely light shone
out, to tell of a human settlement; not the faintest sound broke the
silence. To Mary it seemed as if they had been dumped down in the very
heart of nowhere.

But now came the man wheeling a truck; and straightway a wordy dispute
broke out between him and Richard, in which she had to act as
peacemaker. Boxes and portmanteaux were loaded up; carpet-bags,
baskets, bundles counted and arranged: all by the light of a lantern.
Richard, agog with excitement, had to be kept from waking the twins,
who had dropped asleep again on top of the trunks. And all the while an
overtired and captious Cuffy plucked at her sleeve. "Is this the bush,
Mamma? . . . is THIS the bush? WHERE? I don't see it!"

The little procession started, headed by the man with truck and
lantern, the Dumplings riding one in Richard's arms, one in Eliza's,
she and Cuffy bringing up the rear. Leaving the station behind them,
they walked on till they came to a broad road, flour-soft to the feet,
Cuffy kicking and shuffling up the dust to the peevish whine of: "What
SORT of a bush, Mamma?" and passed in single file down a long narrow
right-of-way, between two paling fences.

On emerging, they faced something flat and black and mysterious. Mary
started. "Whatever's that?"

"The Lagoon, my dear, the Lagoon! The house fronts it, you
know. Has the best outlook of any in the town."

(For the children to fall into! . . . AND mosquitoes.)

Long after every one else was asleep Mary lay and listened . . . and
listened. It was years since she had lived anywhere but in a town; and
this house seemed so lonely, so open to intruders. The leaves rustling
in the garden, each fresh flap of the venetians startled her afresh;
and in spite of the long, tiring journey, and the arduous days that had
preceded it, she could not compose herself to sleep. And when at last
she did fall into an uneasy doze, she was jerked back to consciousness
in what seemed the minute after, by a shrill and piercing scream--a
kind of prolonged shriek, that rent and tore at the air.

"Richard! . . . oh, Richard, what in the world is that?"

"Don't be alarmed, my dear. It's only the mill whistle."

"A mill? So close?"

"It's all right, Mary; you'll soon get used to it. Myself I hardly
notice it now. And it doesn't last long. There! you see, it has stopped
already."

His attempt to make light of the appalling din had something pathetic
about it. Mary bit back her dismay.

And it was the same in the morning, when he led her round house and
garden: he skimmed airily over the drawbacks--the distance of the
kitchen from the house; the poor water-supply; the wretched little box
of a surgery; the great heat of even this late autumn day--to belaud
the house's privacy, separated as it was from the rest of the township
by the width of the Lagoon; the thickness of the brick walls; the shade
and coolness ensured by an all-round verandah. And though daylight, and
what it shewed up, only served to render Mary more and more dubious,
she had not the heart on this first morning to damp him by saying what
she really thought. Instead, her tour of inspection over, she buckled
to her mammoth job of bringing comfort out of chaos: putting up beds
and dressers; unpacking the crockery; cutting down curtains and
carpets, and laying oilcloth; working dusty and dishevelled, by the
light of a candle, till long past midnight for many a night. While
Richard, his professional visits over, undertook to mind and amuse the
children, who were sadly in her way, dashing about helter-skelter, pale
with the excitement of the new.

For, oh what a lovely house this was!--Long before any one
else was astir, Cuffy had pattered out barefoot to explore; and, all
his life after, he loved an empty house for its sake. It had nothing
but doors, which spelt freedom: even the windows were doors. There were
no stairs. A passage went right down the middle, with a door at each
end which always stood open, and three room-doors on each side. You
could run out of any of the windows and tear round the verandah, to
play Hide-and-Seek or Hi-spy-hi. And not even Eliza was there to say:
"Don't!" or "You mustn't!" She was in the far-away kitchen, scrubbing
or washing up. They had breakfast off a packing-case, which was great
fun; and Papa was so nice, too. The very first morning he explained
what the bush meant; and took them all out walking to find it; and then
Cuffy learnt that it was not ONE bush he had come to see but lots of
bushes; with trees so high that, even if you almost broke your neck
bending back, you couldn't see the end of them.

Dancing ahead of Papa, who held hands with the Dumplings, and sometimes
walking backwards to hear better, Cuffy fired question after question.
How did the bush get there? Why did nobody live in it? What were all
the holes full of water? Why were they abandoned? Why did people dig
for gold? How did they do it? Why was money?--a fusillade of
questions, to which on this day he got full and patient answers. Papa
gave them each a threepenny bit, too, to spend as they liked. The twins
carried theirs squeezed tight to show Mamma; but he put his in his
pocket.

On the way home they went along a street where there were lots of
little shops. Men were leaning against the verandah posts, smoking and
spitting; and other men came to the doors and stared. Papa was very
polite to them, and said "Good morning!" to everybody with a little
bow, and whether they did or not. And sometimes he said as well: "Yes,
these are my youngsters! Don't you think I've reason to be proud of
them?" . . . and as often as this happened, Cuffy felt uncomfortable.
For these weren't the sort of men you stopped and talked to: you just
said good morning and went home. Besides, they didn't seem as if they
WANTED to speak to you. They didn't take their pipes out; and some of
them looked as if they thought Papa was funny . . . or silly.
Two winked at each other when they thought he wasn't looking--made
eyes like Cook and Eliza used to do.

Then at a hotel they met a fat, red-faced man--the landlord, Papa said
--who seemed at first to be going to be nicer. When Papa pushed them
forward and said: "My young fry arrived at last, you see!" he smiled
back and said: "And a very jolly little set of nippers, too! Pleased to
know you, missies! How do, sir, how do! Now what will yours be?"

"Cuthbert Hamilton Townshend-Mahony," replied Cuffy, lightning-quick
and politely. He was dumbfounded by the roar of laughter that went up
at his words; not only the landlord laughed, but lots of larrikins, who
stood round the bar. Even Papa laughed a little, in a funny, tight way.

Mamma didn't though. Cuffy heard them talking, and she sounded cross.
"Surely, Richard, you needn't drag the children in as well?"

Papa was snappy. "I don't think, Mary, you quite realise how necessary
it is for me to leave no stone unturned."

"I can't help it. I'm not going to have my children mixed up in the
affair." When Mamma was cross she always said "MY children."

Cuffy didn't wait to hear more. He ran down the garden, where he mooned
about till dinner-time. He wouldn't ever--no, he wouldn't!--go down
the street where those horrid men were again. And if he saw them, he'd
stamp his feet at them and call them nasty names. And he'd tell Papa
not to--he wouldn't let him; he'd hold on to his coat. For they didn't
like Papa either.

"Ooo . . . tum on! Us'll dance, too," cried the twins. And taking hands
they hopped and capered about the drawing-room, their little starched
white petticoats flaring as they swung. For Papa was dancing with
Mamma. He had seized her by the waist and polked her up the passage,
and now was whirling her round, she trying to get loose and crying:
"Stop, Richard, stop! You'll make me sick." But Papa just laughed and
twirled on, the Dumplings faithfully imitating him, till, crash, bang!
a vase of Parian marble on the big centre table lost its
balance, toppled over and was smashed to atoms.

"There! . . . that's just what I expected. There's no room here for
such goings-on," said Mary as she stooped to pick up the fragments.

It came of her having called Richard in to view the drawing-room, where
for over a week she had stitched and hammered, or sat perched on the
top rung of a step-ladder. Herself she was not displeased with her
work; though she mourned the absence of the inlaid secretaire, the
card-table, the ottoman. These things were still in the outhouse, in
their travelling-cases; and there they would have to remain. The
Collard and Collard took up nearly the whole of one wall; the round
rosewood table devoured the floor-space; everything was much too large.
And the best bits, the Parisian gilt-legged tables and gilt-framed
mirrors, made absolutely no show, huddled together as they were.

But Richard went into ecstasies. "They'll never have seen a room like
it!--the people here. We'll show them what's what, wife, eh? . . .
make 'em open their eyes. Mary! I prophesy you'll have the whole
township come trooping over the Lagoon to call. We shall need to charge
'em admission."--and therewith he had seized and swung her round. So
undignified. . . before Eliza. Besides egging the children on to do
likewise.

But there was no damping Richard just now. Though a fortnight had
passed, he was still in the simmer of excitement into which their
coming had thrown him. While she stitched, even while she turned the
handle of the sewing-machine, he would stand at her side and talk, and
talk, in a voice that was either pitched just a shade too high, or was
husky and tremulous. The separation had plainly been too much for him.
His joy at getting them again was not to be kept within bounds.

"You're absolutely all I've got, you know . . . you and the children."

Which was quite literally true: so true that, at times, Mary would find
herself haunted by the unpleasant vision of a funeral at which it was
not possible to fill a single coach with mourners. Richard--to be
followed to his grave by the doctor who had-attended him, the parson
who was to bury him . . . and not a soul besides. Her heart contracted
at the disgrace of the thing: the shame of letting the world know how
little he had cared for anyone, or been cared for in return.

Impatiently she shook her head and turned to listen to voices in the
passage. They were those of Richard and a patient; but chiefly
Richard's. For he had carried his talkative fit over to strangers as
well . . . and Mary sometimes wondered what they thought of him: these
small shopkeepers and farmers and vinegrowers and licensed publicans.
Well, at any rate, they wouldn't be able to bring the usual accusation
against him, of stiff-necked reserve. The truth was, they just came in
for their share of his all-pervading good humour. The children, too.
Had he always made so much of the children, they would have felt more
at home with him, and he have had less cause for jealous grumbles. He
even unearthed his old flute, screwed the parts together, and to
Cuffy's enchantment played them his one-time show-piece, THE MINSTREL
BOY. And it was the same with everything. He vowed the Barambogie bread
to be the best, the butter the sweetest he had ever tasted: going so
far as to compliment the astonished tradespeople on their achievements.
And Mary, watching in silence, thought how pleasant all this was . . .
and how unnatural . . . and waited for the moment to come when he would
drop headlong from the skies.

In waiting, her head with its high Spanish comb bent low over her work,
she gave the rein to various private worries of her own. For instance
she saw quite clearly that Eliza's stay with them would not be a long
one. Forgetful of past favours, of the expense they had been at in
bringing her there, Eliza was already darkly hinting her opinion of the
place; of the detached kitchen; the dust, the solitude. Again, the want
of a proper waiting-room for patients was proving a great trial. The
dining-room seemed never their own. More serious was the risk the
children thereby ran of catching some infectious illness. Then, she
sometimes felt very uneasy about Richard. In spite of