Australia Felix

by

Henry Handel Richardson

PROEM

In a shaft on the Gravel Pits, a man had been buried alive. At work ina deep wet hole, he had recklessly omitted to slab the walls of adrive; uprights and tailors yielded under the lateral pressure, and therotten earth collapsed, bringing down the roof in its train. The diggerfell forward on his face, his ribs jammed across his pick, his armspinned to his sides, nose and mouth pressed into the sticky mud as intoa mask; and over his defenceless body, with a roar that burst hisear-drums, broke stupendous masses of earth. 

His mates at the windlass went staggering back from the belch ofviolently discharged air: it tore the wind-sail to strips, sent stonesand gravel flying, loosened planks and props. Their shouts drawing noresponse, the younger and nimbler of the two--he was a mere boy, forall his amazing growth of beard--put his foot in the bucket and wentdown on the rope, kicking off the sides of the shaft with his freefoot. A group of diggers, gathering round the pit-head, waited for thetug at the rope. It was quick in coming; and the lad was hauled to thesurface. No hope: both drives had fallen in; the bottom of the shaftwas blocked. The crowd melted with a "Poor Bill--God rest his soul!" orwith a silent shrug. Such accidents were not infrequent; each man mightthank his stars it was not he who lay cooling down below. And so, sinceno more washdirt would be raised from this hole, the party that workedit made off for the nearest grog-shop, to wet their throats to thememory of the dead, and to discuss future plans. 

All but one: a lean and haggard-looking man of some five and forty, whowas known to his comrades as Long Jim. On hearing his mate's report hehad sunk heavily down on a log, and there he sat, a pannikin of rawspirit in his hand, the tears coursing ruts down cheeks scabby withyellow mud, his eyes glassy as marbles with those that had still tofall. 

He wept, not for the dead man, but for himself. This accident was thelast link in a chain of ill-luck that had been forging ever since hefirst followed the diggings. He only needed to put his hand to a thing, and luck deserted it. In all the sinkings he had been connected with, he had not once caught his pick in a nugget or got the run of thegutter; the "bottoms" had always proved barren, drives been exhaustedwithout his raising the colour. At the present claim he and his mateshad toiled for months, overcoming one difficulty after another. Theslabbing, for instance, had cost them infinite trouble; it was roughlydone, too, and, even after the pins were in, great flakes of earthwould come tumbling down from between the joints, on one occasionnearly knocking silly the man who was below. Then, before they hadslabbed a depth of three times nine, they had got into water, and inthis they worked for the next sixty feet. They were barely rid of it, when the two adjoining claims were abandoned, and in came the floodagain--this time they had to fly for their lives before it, so rapidwas its rise. Not the strongest man could stand in this ice-cold waterfor more than three days on end--the bark slabs stank in it, too, likethe skins in a tanner's yard--and they had been forced to quit worktill it subsided. He and another man had gone to the hills, to hewtrees for more slabs; the rest to the grog-shop. From there, when itwas feasible to make a fresh start, they had to be dragged, some blinddrunk, the rest blind stupid from their booze. That had been thehardest job of any: keeping the party together. They had only beeneight in all--a hand-to-mouth number for a deep wet hole. Then, one haddied of dysentery, contracted from working constantly in water up tohis middle; another had been nabbed in a manhunt and clapped into the"logs. " And finally, but a day or two back, the three men who completedthe nightshift had deserted for a new "rush" to the Avoca. Now, his palhad gone, too. There was nothing left for him, Long Jim, to do, but totake his dish and turn fossicker; or even to aim no higher than washingover the tailings rejected by the fossicker. 

At the thought his tears flowed anew. He cursed the day on which he hadfirst set foot on Ballarat. 

"It's 'ell for white men--'ell, that's what it is!"

"'Ere, 'ave another drink, matey, and fergit yer bloody troubles. "

His re-filled pannikin drained, he grew warmer round the heart; andsang the praises of his former life. He had been a lamplighter in theold country, and for many years had known no more arduous task thanthat of tramping round certain streets three times daily, ladder onshoulder, bitch at heel, to attend the little flames that helped todispel the London dark. And he might have jogged on at this up to threescore years and ten, had he never lent an ear to the tales that werebeing told of a wonderful country, where, for the mere act of stooping, and with your naked hand, you could pick up a fortune from the ground. Might the rogues who had spread these lies be damned to all eternity!Then, he had swallowed them only too willingly; and, leaving the oldwoman wringing her hands, had taken every farthing of his savings andset sail for Australia. That was close on three years ago. For all heknew, his wife might be dead and buried by this time; or sitting in thealmshouse. She could not write, and only in the early days had anoccasional newspaper reached him, on which, alongside the Queen's head, she had put the mark they had agreed on, to show that she was stillalive. He would probably never see her again, but would end his dayswhere he was. Well, they wouldn't be many; this was not a place thatmade old bones. And, as he sat, worked on by grief and liquor, he wasseized by a desperate homesickness for the old country. Why had he everbeen fool enough to leave it? He shut his eyes, and all the well-knownsights and sounds of the familiar streets came back to him. He sawhimself on his rounds of a winter's afternoon, when each lamp had ahalo in the foggy air; heard the pit-pat of his four-footer behind him, the bump of the ladder against the prong of the lamp-post. His friendthe policeman's glazed stovepipe shone out at the corner; from thedistance came the tinkle of the muffin-man's bell, the cries of thebuy-a-brooms. He remembered the glowing charcoal in the stoves of thechestnut and potato sellers; the appetising smell of the cooked-fishshops; the fragrant steam of the hot, dark coffee at the twopennystall, when he had turned shivering out of bed; he sighed for thelights and jollity of the "Hare and Hounds" on a Saturday night. Hewould never see anything of the kind again. No; here, under bare blueskies, out of which the sun frizzled you alive; here, where it couldn'train without at once being a flood; where the very winds blewcontrarily, hot from the north and bitter-chill from the south; where, no matter how great the heat by day, the night would as likely as notbe nipping cold: here he was doomed to end his life, and to end it, forall the yellow sunshine, more hopelessly knotted and gnarled withrheumatism than if, dawn after dawn, he had gone out in a cuttingnorth-easter, or groped his way through the grey fog-mists sent up bygrey Thames. 

Thus he sat and brooded, all the hatred of the unwilling exile for theland that gives him house-room burning in his breast. 

Who the man was, who now lay deep in a grave that fitted him as a glovefits the hand, careless of the pass to which he had brought his mate;who this really was, Long Jim knew no more than the rest. Young Billhad never spoken out. They had chummed together on the seventy-odd-miletramp from Melbourne; had boiled a common billy and slept side by sidein rain-soaked blankets, under the scanty hair of a she-oak. That wasin the days of the first great stampede to the goldfields, when theembryo seaports were as empty as though they were plague-ridden, andevery man who had the use of his legs was on the wide bush-track, boundfor the north. It was better to be two than one in this medley ofbullock-teams, lorries, carts and pack-horses, of dog-teams, wheelbarrows and swagmen, where the air rang with oaths, shouts andhammering hoofs, with whip-cracking and bullock-prodding; in thishurly-burly of thieves, bushrangers and foreigners, of drunken convictsand deserting sailors, of slit-eyed Chinese and apt-handed Lascars, ofexpirees and ticket-of-leave men, of Jews, Turks and other infidels. Long Jim, himself stunned by it all: by the pother of landing and offinding a roof to cover him; by the ruinous price of bare necessaries;by the length of this unheard-of walk that lay before his town-bredfeet: Long Jim had gladly accepted the young man's company on the road. Originally, for no more than this; at heart he distrusted Young Bill, because of his fine-gentleman airs, and intended shaking the lad off assoon as they reached the diggings. There, a man must, for safety'ssake, be alone, when he stooped to pick up his fortune. But at firstsight of the strange, wild scene that met his eyes he hastily changedhis mind. And so the two of them had stuck together; and he had neverhad cause to regret it. For all his lily-white hands and finical speechYoung Bill had worked like a nigger, standing by his mate through thelatter's disasters; had worked till the ladyish hands were horny withwarts and corns, and this, though he was doubled up with dysentery inthe hot season, and racked by winter cramps. But the life had provedtoo hard for him, all the same. During the previous summer he had begunto drink--steadily, with the dogged persistence that was in him--andsince then his work had gone downhill. His sudden death had only been ahastening-on of the inevitable. Staggering home to the tent afternightfall he would have been sure, sooner or later, to fall into a dryshicer and break his neck, or into a wet one and be drowned. 

On the surface of the Gravel Pit his fate was already forgotten. Therude activity of a gold-diggings in full swing had closed over theincident, swallowed it up. 

Under a sky so pure and luminous that it seemed like a thinly drawnveil of blueness, which ought to have been transparent, stretched what, from a short way off, resembled a desert of pale clay. No patch ofgreen offered rest to the eye; not a tree, hardly a stunted bush hadbeen left standing, either on the bottom of the vast shallow basinitself, or on the several hillocks that dotted it and formed its sides. Even the most prominent of these, the Black Hill, which jutted out onthe Flat like a gigantic tumulus, had been stripped of its densetimber, feverishly disembowelled, and was now become a baldprotuberance strewn with gravel and clay. The whole scene had thatstrange, repellent ugliness that goes with breaking up and throwinginto disorder what has been sanctified as final, and belongs, inparticular, to the wanton disturbing of earth's gracious, green-spreadcrust. In the pre-golden era this wide valley, lying open to sun andwind, had been a lovely grassland, ringed by a circlet of wooded hills;beyond these, by a belt of virgin forest. A limpid river and more thanone creek had meandered across its face; water was to be found thereeven in the driest summer. She-oaks and peppermint had given shade tothe flocks of the early settlers; wattles had bloomed their briefdelirious yellow passion against the grey-green foliage of the gums. Now, all that was left of the original "pleasant resting-place" and itspristine beauty were the ancient volcanic cones of Warrenheip andBuninyong. These, too far off to supply wood for firing or slabbing, still stood green and timbered, and looked down upon the havoc that hadbeen made of the fair, pastoral lands. 

Seen nearer at hand, the dun-coloured desert resolved itself intouncountable pimpling clay and mud-heaps, of divers shade and varyingsizes: some consisted of but a few bucketfuls of mullock, others weretaller than the tallest man. There were also hundreds of rain-soaked, mud-bespattered tents, sheds and awnings; wind-sails, which fell, funnel-like, from a kind of gallows into the shafts they ventilated;flags fluttering on high posts in front of stores. The many humanfigures that went to and fro were hardly to be distinguished from theground they trod. They were coated with earth, clay-clad in ochre andgamboge. Their faces were daubed with clauber; it matted great beards, and entangled the coarse hairs on chests and brawny arms. Where, hereand there, a blue jumper had kept a tinge of blueness, it was sobesmeared with yellow that it might have been expected to turn green. The gauze neck-veils that hung from the brims of wide-awakes orcabbage-trees were become stiff little lattices of caked clay. 

There was water everywhere. From the spurs and gullies round about, theautumn rains had poured freely down on the Flat; river and creeks hadbeen over their banks; and such narrow ground-space as remained betweenthe thick-sown tents, the myriads of holes that abutted one on another, jealous of every inch of space, had become a trough of mud. Watermeandered over this mud, or carved its soft way in channels; it layabout in puddles, thick and dark as coffee-grounds; it filled abandonedshallow holes to the brim. 

From this scene rose a blurred hum of sound; rose and as it wereremained stationary above it--like a smoke-cloud, which no wind comesto drive away. Gradually, though, the ear made out, in the conglomerateof noise, a host of separate noises infinitely multiplied: the sharptick-tick of surface-picks, the dull thud of shovels, their muffledechoes from the depths below. There was also the continuous squeak andgroan of windlasses; the bump of the mullock emptied from the bucket;the trundle of wheelbarrows, pushed along a plank from the shaft'smouth to the nearest pool; the dump of the dart on the heap forwashing. Along the banks of a creek, hundreds of cradles rattled andgrated; the noise of the spades, chopping the gravel into thepuddling-tubs or the Long Toms, was like the scrunch of shingle underwaves. The fierce yelping of the dogs chained to the flag-posts ofstores, mongrels which yapped at friend and foe alike, supplied a noteof earsplitting discord. 

But except for this it was a wholly mechanical din. Human brainsdirected operations, human hands carried them out, but the sound of thehuman voice was, for the most part, lacking. The diggers were a sombre, preoccupied race, little given to lip-work. Even the "shepherds, " who, in waiting to see if their neighbours struck the lead, beguiled thetime with euchre and "lambskinnet, " played moodily, their mouths gluedto their pipe-stems; they were tail-on-end to fling down the cards forpick and shovel. The great majority, ant-like in their indefatigablebusyness, neither turned a head nor looked up: backs were bent, eyesfixed, in a hard scrutiny of cradle or tin-dish: it was the earth thatheld them, the familiar, homely earth, whose common fate it is to betrodden heedlessly underfoot. Here, it was the loadstone that drew allmen's thoughts. And it took toll of their bodies in odd, exhaustingforms of labour, which were swift to weed out the unfit. 

The men at the windlasses spat into their horny palms and bent to thecrank: they paused only to pass the back of a hand over a sweatyforehead, or to drain a nose between two fingers. The barrow-driversshoved their loads, the bones of their forearms standing out like ribs. Beside the pools, the puddlers chopped with their shovels; some evenstood in the tubs, and worked the earth with their feet, aswine-pressers trample grapes. The cradlers, eternally rocking with onehand, held a long stick in the other with which to break up any clods acareless puddler might have deposited in the hopper. Behind these camethe great army of fossickers, washers of surface-dirt, equipped withknives and tin-dishes, and content if they could wash outhalf-a-pennyweight to the dish. At their heels still others, whotreated the tailings they threw away. And among these last was asprinkling of women, more than one with an infant sucking at herbreast. Withdrawn into a group for themselves worked a body of Chinese, in loose blue blouses, flappy blue leg-bags and huge conical strawhats. They, too, fossicked and re-washed, using extravagant quantitiesof water. 

Thus the pale-eyed multitude worried the surface, and, at the risk andcost of their lives, probed the depths. Now that deep sinking was invogue, gold-digging no longer served as a play-game for the gentlemanand the amateur; the greater number of those who toiled at it werework-tried, seasoned men. And yet, although it had now sunk to thelevel of any other arduous and uncertain occupation, and the magicprizes of the early days were seldom found, something of the old, romantic glamour still clung to this most famous gold-field, dazzlingthe eyes and confounding the judgment. Elsewhere, the horse was in useat the puddling-trough, and machines for crushing quartz were underdiscussion. But the Ballarat digger resisted the introduction ofmachinery, fearing the capitalist machinery would bring in its train. He remained the dreamer, the jealous individualist; he hovered for everon the brink of a stupendous discovery. 

This dream it was, of vast wealth got without exertion, which haddecoyed the strange, motley crowd, in which peers and churchmen rubbedshoulders with the scum of Norfolk Island, to exile in this outlandishregion. And the intention of all alike had been: to snatch a goldenfortune from the earth and then, hey, presto! for the old world again. But they were reckoning without their host: only too many of those whoentered the country went out no more. They became prisoners to thesoil. The fabulous riches of which they had heard tell amounted, atbest, to a few thousands of pounds: what folly to depart with solittle, when mother earth still teemed! Those who drew blanks nursed anunquenchable hope, and laboured all their days like navvies, for anavvy's wage. Others again, broken in health or disheartened, couldonly turn to an easier handiwork. There were also men who, as soon asfortune smiled on them, dropped their tools and ran to squander thework of months in a wild debauch; and they invariably returned, taildown, to prove their luck anew. And, yet again, there were those who, having once seen the metal in the raw: in dust, fine as that brushedfrom a butterfly's wing; in heavy, chubby nuggets; or, more exquisitestill, as the daffodil-yellow veining of bluish-white quartz: thesewere gripped in the subtlest way of all. A passion for the gold itselfawoke in them an almost sensual craving to touch and possess; and theglitter of a few specks at the bottom of pan or cradle came, in time, to mean more to them than "home, " or wife, or child. 

Such were the fates of those who succumbed to the "unholy hunger. " Itwas like a form of revenge taken on them, for their loveless schemes ofrobbing and fleeing; a revenge contrived by the ancient, barbariccountry they had so lightly invaded. Now, she held themcaptive--without chains; ensorcelled--without witchcraft; and, lyingstretched like some primeval monster in the sun, her breasts freelybared, she watched, with a malignant eye, the efforts made by thesepuny mortals to tear their lips away. 

Part I

Chapter I

On the summit of one of the clay heaps, a woman shot into silhouetteagainst the sky. An odd figure, clad in a skimpy green petticoat, witha scarlet shawl held about her shoulders, wisps of frowsy red hairstanding out round her head, she balanced herself on the slipperyearth, spinning her arm like the vane of a windmill, and crying at thetop of her voice: "Joe, boys!--Joe, Joe, Joey!"

It was as if, with these words, she had dropped a live shell in thediggers' midst. A general stampede ensued; in which the cry was caughtup, echoed and re-echoed, till the whole Flat rang with the name of"Joe. " Tools were dropped, cradles and tubs abandoned, windlasses leftto kick their cranks backwards. Many of the workers took to theirheels; others, in affright, scuttled aimlessly hither and thither, likebarnyard fowls in a panic. Summoned by shouts of: "Up with you, boys!--the traps are here!" numbers ascended from below to see the fun, while as many went hurriedly down to hiding in drive or chamber. Eventhose diggers who could pat the pocket in which their licence layceased work, and stood about with sullen faces to view the course ofevents. Only the group of Chinamen washing tail-heaps remained unmoved. One of them, to whom the warning woman belonged, raised his head andcalled a Chinese word at her; she obeyed it instantly, vanished intothin air; the rest went impassively on with their fossicking. They werenot such fools as to try to cheat the Government of its righteous dues. None but had his licence safely folded in his nosecloth, and thrustinside the bosom of his blouse. 

Through the labyrinth of tents and mounds, a gold-laced cap could beseen approaching; then a gold-tressed jacket came into view, the whitestar on the forehead of a mare. Behind the Commissioner, who rode downthus from the Camp, came the members of his staff; these again werefollowed by a body of mounted troopers. They drew rein on the slope, and simultaneously a line of foot police, backed by a detachment oflight infantry, shot out like an arm, and walled in the Flat to thesouth. 

On the appearance of the enemy the babel redoubled. There were groansand cat-calls. Along with the derisive "Joeys!" the rebel diggershurled any term of abuse that came to their lips. 

"The dolly mops! The skunks! The bushrangers!--Oh, damn 'em, damn 'em!. .. Damn their bloody eyes!"

"It's Rooshia--that's what it is!" said an oldish man darkly. 

The Commissioner, a horse-faced, solemn man with brown side whiskers, let the reins droop on his mare's neck and sat unwinking in the tumult. His mien was copied by his staff. Only one of them, a very young boywho was new to the colony and his post, changed colour under his gaudycap, went from white to pink and from pink to white again; while ateach fresh insult he gave a perceptible start, and gazed dumbfounded athis chief's insensitive back. 

The "bloodhounds" had begun to track their prey. Rounding up, with askill born of long practice, they drove the diggers before them towardsthe centre of the Flat. Here they passed from group to group and fromhole to hole, calling for the production of licences with an insolencethat made its object see red. They were nice of scent, too, and, ninetimes in ten, pounced on just those unfortunates who, throughcarelessness, or lack of means, or on political grounds, had failed totake out the month's licence to dig for gold. Every few minutes one oranother was marched off between two constables to the Government Camp, for fine or imprisonment. 

Now it was that it suddenly entered Long Jim's head to cut and run. Uptill now he had stood declaring himself a free-born Briton, who mightbe drawn and quartered if he ever again paid the blasted tax. But, asthe police came closer, a spear of fright pierced his befuddled brain, and inside a breath he was off and away. Had the abruptness of hisstart not given him a slight advantage, he would have been caught atonce. As it was, the chase would not be a long one; the clumsy, stiff-jointed man slithered here and stuck fast there, dodgingobstacles with an awkwardness that was painful to see. He could beheard sobbing and cursing as he ran. 

At this point the Commissioner, half turning, signed to the troopers inhis rear. Six or seven of them shook up their bridles and rode off, their scabbards clinking, to prevent the fugitive's escape. 

A howl of contempt went up from the crowd. The pink and white subalternmade what was almost a movement of the arm to intercept his superior'scommand. 

It was too much for Long Jim's last mate, the youthful blackbeard whohad pluckily descended the shaft after the accident. He had beenstanding on a mound with a posse of others, following the man-hunt. Athis partner's crack-brained dash for the open, his snorts ofindignation found words. "Gaw-blimy! . .. Is the old fool gone dotty?"Then he drew a whistling breath. "No, it's more than flesh and blood. .. . Stand back, boys!" And though he was as little burdened with alicence as the man under pursuit, he shouted: "Help, help! . .. ForGod's sake, don't let 'em have me!" shot down the slope, and was offlike the wind. 

His foxly object was attained. The attention of the hunters wasdiverted. Long Jim, seizing the moment, vanished underground. 

The younger man ran with the lightness of a hare. He had also thehare's address in doubling and turning. His pursuers never knew, did hepass from sight behind a covert of tents and mounds, where he would bobup next. He avoided shafts and pools as if by a miracle; ran alonggreasy planks without a slip; and, where these had been removed to balkthe police, he jumped the holes, taking risks that were not for a saneman. Once he fell, but, enslimed from head to foot, wringing wet andhatless, was up again in a twinkling. His enemies were less sure-footedthan he, and times without number measured their length on the oilyground. Still, one of them was gaining rapidly on him, a giant of afellow with long thin legs; and soon the constable's foot filled theprints left by the young man's, while these were still warm. It was afine run. The diggers trooped after in a body; the Flat rang withcheers and plaudits. Even the Commissioner and his retinue trotted inthe same direction. Eventually the runaway must land in the arms of themounted police. 

But this was not his plan. Making as though he headed for the open, hesuddenly dashed off at right angles, and, with a final sprint, broughtup dead against a log-and-canvas store which stood on rising ground. His adversary was so close behind that a collision resulted; thedigger's feet slid from under him, he fell on his face, the other ontop. In their fall they struck a huge pillar of tin-dishes, ingeniouslybuilt up to the height of the store itself. This toppled over with acrash, and the dishes went rolling down the slope between the legs ofthe police. The dog chained to the flagstaff all but strangled himselfin his rage and excitement; and the owner of the store came running out. 

"Purdy! . .. You! What in the name of . .. ?"

The digger adroitly rolled his captor over, and there they both sat, side by side on the ground, one gripping the other's collar, both tooblown to speak. A cordon of puffing constables hemmed them in. 

The storekeeper frowned. "You've no licence, you young beggar!"

And: "Your licence, you scoundrel!" demanded the leader of the troop. 

The prisoner's rejoinder was a saucy: "Now then, out with the cuffs, Joe!"

He got on his feet as bidden; but awkwardly, for it appeared that infalling he had hurt his ankle. Behind the police were massed thediggers. These opened a narrow alley for the Camp officials to ridethrough, but their attitude was hostile, and there were cries of:"Leave 'im go, yer blackguards! . .. After sich a run! None o yer bloodyquod for 'im!" along with other, more threatening expressions. Sombreand taciturn, the Commissioner waved his hand. "Take him away!"

"Well, so long, Dick!" said the culprit jauntily; and, as he offeredhis wrists to be handcuffed, he whistled an air. 

Here the storekeeper hurriedly interposed: "No, stop! I'll give bail. "And darting into the tent and out again, he counted five one-poundnotes into the constable's palm. The lad's collar was released; and amurmur of satisfaction mounted from the crowd. 

At the sound the giver made as if to retire. Then, yielding to a secondthought, he stepped forward and saluted the Commissioner. "A younghot-head, sir! He means no harm. I'll send him up in the morning, toapologise. "

("I'll be damned if you do!" muttered the digger between his teeth. )

But the Chief refused to be placated. "Good day, doctor, " he saidshortly, and with his staff at heel trotted down the slope, followedtill out of earshot by a mocking fire of "Joes. " Lingering in the rear, the youthful sympathiser turned in his saddle and waved his cap. 

The raid was over for that day. The crowd dispersed; its members becameorderly, hard-working men once more. The storekeeper hushed his franticdog, and called his assistant to rebuild the pillar of tins. 

The young digger sat down on the log that served for a bench, andexamined his foot. He pulled and pulled, causing himself great pain, but could not get his boot off. At last, looking back over his shoulderhe cried impatiently: "Dick!. .. I say, Dick Mahony! Give us a drink, old boy! . .. I'm dead-beat. "

At this the storekeeper--a tall, slenderly built man of some seven oreight and twenty--appeared, bearing a jug and a pannikin. 

"Oh, bah!" said the lad, when he found that the jug held only water. And, on his friend reminding him that he might by now have been sittingin the lock-up, he laughed and winked. "I knew you'd go bail. "

"Well! . .. Of all the confounded impudence. .. . "

"Faith, Dick, and d'ye think I didn't see how your hand itched for yourpocket?"

The man he called Mahony flushed above his fair beard. It was true: hehad made an involuntary movement of the hand--checked for the resthalfway, by the knowledge that the pocket was empty. He lookeddispleased and said nothing. 

"Don't be afraid, I'll pay you back soon's ever me ship comes home, "went on the young scapegrace, who very well knew how to play his cards. At his companion's heated disclaimer, however, he changed his tone. "Isay, Dick, have a look at my foot, will you? I can't get this damnedboot off. "

The elder man bent over the injury. He ceased to show displeasure. "Purdy, you young fool, when will you learn wisdom?"

"Well, they shouldn't hunt old women, then--the swine!" gave backPurdy; and told his tale. "Oh, lor! there go six canaries. " For, at hiswincing and shrinking, his friend had taken a penknife and ripped upthe jackboot. Now, practised hands explored the swollen, discolouredankle. 

When it had been washed and bandaged, its owner stretched himself onthe ground, his head in the shade of a barrel, and went to sleep. 

He slept till sundown, through all the traffic of a busy afternoon. 

Some half-a-hundred customers came and went. The greater number of themwere earth-stained diggers, who ran up for, it might be, a missingtool, or a hide bucket, or a coil of rope. They spat jets oftobacco-juice, were richly profane, paid, where coin was scarce, ingold-dust from a match-box, and hurried back to work. But there alsocame old harridans--as often as not, diggers themselves--whose languageoutdid that of the males, and dirty Irish mothers; besides a couple ofthe white women who inhabited the Chinese quarter. One of these was inliquor, and a great hullabaloo took place before she could be got ridof. Put out, she stood in front of the tent, her hair hanging down herback, cursing and reviling. Respectable women as well did anafternoon's shopping there. In no haste to be gone, they sat about onempty boxes or upturned barrels exchanging confidences, while wearychildren plucked at their skirts. A party of youngsters entered, thetallest of whom could just see over the counter, and called forshandygaffs. The assistant was for chasing them off, with hard words. But the storekeeper put, instead, a stick of barley-sugar into eachdirty, outstretched hand, and the imps retired well content. On theirheels came a digger and his lady-love to choose a wedding-outfit; andall the gaudy finery the store held was displayed before them. A redvelvet dress flounced with satin, a pink gauze bonnet, white satinshoes and white silk stockings met their fancy. The dewy-lipped, smutty-lashed Irish girl blushed and dimpled, in consulting with theshopman upon the stays in which to lace her ample figure; the digger, whose very pores oozed gold, planked down handfuls of dust and nuggets, and brushed aside a neat Paisley shawl for one of yellow satin, thefellow to which he swore to having seen on the back of the Governor'slady herself. He showered brandy-snaps on the children, and bought apolka-jacket for a shabby old woman. Then, producing a bottle ofchampagne from a sack he bore, he called on those present to give him, after: "'Er most Gracious little Majesty, God bless 'er!" the: "'Olyestate of materimony!" The empty bottle smashed for luck, the coupledeparted arm-in-arm, carrying their purchases in the sack; and the restof the company trooped to the door with them, to wish them joy. 

Within the narrow confines of the tent, where red-herrings trailed overmoleskin-shorts, and East India pickles and Hessian boots lay on thetop of sugar and mess-pork; where cheeses rubbed shoulders with tallowcandles, blue and red serge shirts, and captain's biscuits; whereonions, and guernseys, and sardines, fine combs, cigars andbear's-grease, Windsor soap, tinned coffee and hair oil, revolvers, shovels and Oxford shoes, lay in one grand miscellany: within thecrowded store, as the afternoon wore on, the air grew rank andoppressive. Precisely at six o'clock the bar was let down across thedoor, and the storekeeper withdrew to his living-room at the back ofthe tent. Here he changed his coat and meticulously washed his hands, to which clung a subtle blend of all the strong-smelling goods that hadpassed through them. Then, coming round to the front, he sat down onthe log and took out his pipe. He made a point, no matter how brisktrade was, of not keeping open after dark. His evenings were his own. 

He sat and puffed, tranquilly. It was a fine night. The first showysplendour of sunset had passed; but the upper sky was still aflush withcolour. And in the centre of this frail cloud, which faded as hewatched it, swam a single star. 

Chapter II

With the passing of a cooler air the sleeper wakened and rubbed hiseyes. Letting his injured leg lie undisturbed, he drew up the otherknee and buckled his hands round it. In this position he sat and talked. 

He was a dark, fresh-coloured young man, of middle height, and broadlybuilt. He had large white teeth of a kind to crack nuts with, and thefull, wide, flexible mouth that denotes the generous talker. 

"What a wind-bag it is, to be sure!" thought his companion, as hesmoked and listened, in a gently ironic silence, to abuse of theGovernment. He knew--or thought he knew--young Purdy inside out. 

But behind all the froth of the boy's talk there lurked, it seemed, apurpose. No sooner was a meal of cold chop and tea over than Purdydeclared his intention of being present at a meeting of malcontentdiggers. Nor would he even wait to wash himself clean of mud. 

His friend reluctantly agreed to lend him an arm. But he could notrefrain from taking the lad to task for getting entangled in thepolitical imbroglio. "When, as you know, it's just a kind of sport toyou. "

Purdy sulked for a few paces, then burst out: "If only you weren't sodamned detached, Dick Mahony!"

"You're restless, and want excitement, my boy--that's the root of thetrouble. "

"Well, I'm jiggered! If ever I knew a restless mortal, it's yourself. "

The two men picked their steps across the Flat and up the oppositehillside, young Purdy Smith limping and leaning heavy, his lame footthrust into an old slipper. He was at all times hail-fellow-well-metwith the world. Now, in addition, his plucky exploit of the afternoonblazed its way through the settlement; and blarney and bravos rainedupon him. "Golly for you, Purdy, old 'oss!" "Showed 'em the diggers'flag, 'e did!" "What'll you take, me buck? Come on in for a drop o' thereal strip-me-down-naked!" Even a weary old strumpet, propping herselfagainst the doorway of a dancing-saloon, waved a tipsy hand and cried:"Arrah, an' is it yerrself, Purrdy, me bhoy? Shure an' it's bussin' yeI'd be afther--if me legs would carry me!" And Purdy laughed, andrelished the honey, and had an answer pat for everybody especially thewomen. His companion on the other hand was greeted with a glibness thathad something perfunctory in it, and no touch of familiarity. 

The big canvas tent on Bakery Hill, where the meeting was to be held, was already lighted; and at the tinkle of a bell the diggers, who tillthen had stood cracking and hobnobbing outside, began to push for theentrance. The bulk of them belonged to the race that is quickest toresent injustice--were Irish. After them in number came the Germans, swaggering and voluble; and the inflammable French, English, Scotch andAmericans formed a smaller and cooler, but very dogged group. 

At the end of the tent a rough platform had been erected, on whichstood a row of cane seats. In the body of the hall, the benches wereformed of boards, laid from one upturned keg or tub to another. Thechair was taken by a local auctioneer, a cadaverous-looking man, withnever a twinkle in his eye, who, in a lengthy discourse and with thesingle monotonous gesture of beating the palm of one hand with the backof the other, strove to bring home to his audience the degradation oftheir present political status. The diggers chewed and spat, andlistened to his periods with sang-froid: the shame of their state didnot greatly move them. They followed, too, with composure, therehearsal of their general grievances. As they were aware, said thespeaker, the Legislative Council of Victoria was made up largely ofCrown nominees; in the election of members the gold-seeking populationhad no voice whatsoever. This was a scandalous thing; for the diggingconstituent outnumbered all the rest of the population put together, thus forming what he would call the backbone and mainstay of thecolony. The labour of THEIR hands had raised the colony to its presentpitch of prosperity. And yet these same bold and hardy pioneers wereheld incapable of deciding jot or tittle in the public affairs of theiradopted home. Still unmoved, the diggers listened to this recital oftheir virtues. But when one man, growing weary of the speaker'sunctuous wordiness, discharged a fierce: "Why the hell don't yer git onto the bloody licence-tax?" the audience was fire and flame in aninstant. A riotous noise ensued; rough throats rang changes on thequestion. Order restored, it was evident that the speech was over. Thrown violently out of his concept, the auctioneer struck and struckat his palm--in vain; nothing would come. So, making the best of a badjob, he irately sat down in favour of his successor on the programme. 

This speaker did not fare much better. The assemblage, roused now, jolly and merciless, was not disposed to give quarter; and hisobtuseness in dawdling over such high-flown notions as that population, not property, formed the basis of representative government, reaped hima harvest of boos and groans. This was not what the diggers had comeout to hear. And they were as direct as children in their demand forthe gist of the matter. 

"A reg-lar ol' shicer!" was the unanimous opinion, expressed withoutscruple. While from the back of the hall came the curt request to himto shut his "tater-trap. "

Next on the list was a German, a ruddy-faced man with mutton-chopwhiskers and prominent, watery eyes. He could not manage the letter"r. " In the body of a word where it was negligible, he rolled it out asthough it stood three deep. Did he tackle it as an initial, on theother hand, his tongue seemed to cleave to his palate, and to yieldonly an "l. " This quaint defect caused some merriment at the start, butwas soon eclipsed by a more striking oddity. The speaker had the habitof, as it were, creaking with his nose. After each few sentences hepaused, to give himself time to produce something between a creak and asnore--an abortive attempt to get at a mucus that was plainly out ofreach. 

The diggers were beside themselves with mirth. 

"'E's forgot 'is 'ankey!"

"'Ere, boys, look slippy!--a 'ankey for ol' sausage!"

But the German was not sensitive to ridicule. He had something to say, and he was there to say it. Fixing his fish-like eyes on a spot high upthe tent wall, he kept them pinned to it, while he mouthed outblood-and-thunder invectives. He was, it seemed, a red-hotrevolutionist; a fierce denouncer of British rule. He declared theBritish monarchy to be an effete institution; the fetish of Britishfreedom to have been "exbloded" long ago. What they needed, in thisgrand young country of theirs, was a "republic"; they must ridthemselves of those shackles that had been forged in the days when menwere slaves. It was his sound conviction that before many weeks hadpassed, the Union Jack would have been hauled down for ever, and theglorious Southern Cross would wave in its stead, over a free Australia. The day on which this happened would be a never-to-be-forgotten date inthe annals of the country. For what, he would like to know, had theBritish flag ever done for freedom, at any time in the world's history?They should read in their school-books, and there they would learn thatwherever a people had risen against their tyrants, the Union Jack hadwaved, not over them, but over the British troops sent to stamp therising out. 

This was more than Mahony could stomach. Flashing up from his seat, hestrove to assert himself above the hum of agreement that mounted fromthe foreign contingent, and the doubtful sort of grumble by which theBritisher signifies his disapproval. 

"Mr. Chairman! Gentlemen!" he cried in a loud voice. "I call upon thoseloyal subjects of her Majesty who are present here, to join with me ingiving three cheers for the British flag. Hip, hip, hurrah! And, again, hip, hip, hurrah! And, once more, hip, hip, hurrah!"

His compatriots followed him, though flabbily; and he continued to makehimself heard above the shouts of "Order!" and the bimming of thechairman's bell. 

"Mr. Chairman! I appeal to you. Are we Britons to sit still and hearour country's flag reviled?--that flag which has ensured us the veryliberty we are enjoying this evening. The gentleman who has beenpleased to slander it is not, I believe, a British citizen. Now, I putit to him: is there another country on the face of the earth, thatwould allow people of all nations to flock into a gold-bearing colonyon terms of perfect equality with its own subjects?--to flock in, takeall they can get, and then make off with it?" a point of view thatelicited forcible grunts of assent, which held their own against hootsand hisses. Unfortunately the speaker did not stop here, but went on:"Gentlemen! Do not, I implore you, allow yourselves to be led astray bya handful of ungrateful foreigners, who have received nothing butbenefits from our Crown. What you need, gentlemen, is not revolution, but reform; not strife and bloodshed, but a liberty consistent with lawand order. And this, gentlemen, ----"

("You'll never get 'em like that, Dick, " muttered Purdy. )

"Not so much gentlemening, if YOU please!" said a sinister-looking man, who might have been a Vandemonian in his day. "MEN'S what weare--that's good enough for us. "

Mahony was nettled. The foreigners, too, were pressing him. 

"Am I then to believe, sir, what I frequently hear asserted, that thereare no gentlemen left on the diggings?"

("Oh lor, Dick!" said Purdy. He was sitting with his elbows on hisknees, clutching his cheeks as though he had the toothache. )

"Oh, stow yer blatherskite!"

"Believe what yer bloody well like!" retorted the Vandemonian fiercely. "But don't come 'ere and interrupt our pleasant and h'orderly meetingswith YOUR blamed jaw. "

Mahony lost his temper. "I not interrupt?--when I see you great hulksof men--"

("Oh, lor!" groaned Purdy again. )

"--who call yourselves British subjects, letting yourselves be led bythe nose, like the sheep you are, by a pack of foreigners who arebasely accepting this country's hospital'ty?"

"Here, let me, " said Purdy. And pushing his way along the bench hehobbled to the platform, where several arms hoisted him up. 

There he stood, fronting the violent commotion that had ensued on hisfriend's last words; stood bedraggled, mud-stained, bandaged, hiscabbage-tree hat in his hand. And Mahony, still on his feet, angrilyerect, thought he understood why the boy had refused to wash himselfclean, or to change his dress: he had no doubt foreseen the possibilityof some such dramatic appearance. 

Purdy waited for the hubbub to die down. As if by chance he had restedhis hand on the bell; its provoking tinkle ceased. Now he broke intoone of the frank and hearty smiles that never fail to conciliate. 

"Brother diggers!"

The strongly spoken words induced an abrupt lull. The audience turnedto him, still thorny and sulky it was true, but yet they turned; andone among them demanded a hearing for the youngster. 

"Brother diggers! We are met here to-night with a single purpose inview. Brother diggers! We are not met here to throw mud at our dear oldcountry's flag! Nor will we have a word said against her most graciousMajesty, the Queen. Not us! We're men first, whose business it is tostand up for a gallant little woman, and diggers with a grievanceafterwards. Are you with me, boys?--Very well, then. -- Now we didn'tcome here to-night to confab about getting votes, or having a hand inpublic affairs--much as we want 'em both and mean to have 'em, when thetime comes. No, to-night there's only one thing that matters to us, andthat's the repeal of the accursed tax!" Here, such a tempest ofapplause broke out that he was unable to proceed. "Yes, I say itagain, " he went on, when they would let him speak; "the instant repeal!When that's been done, this curse taken off us, then it'll be timeenough to parlez-vous about the colour of the flag we mean to have, andabout going shares in the Government. But let me make one thing clearto you. We're neither traitors to the Crown, nor common rebels. We'retrue-blue Britons, who have been goaded to rebellion by one of thevilest pieces of tyranny that ever saw the light. Spies and informersare everywhere about us. Mr. Commissioner Sleuth and his hounds may crytally-ho every day, if 'tis their pleasure to! To put it shortly, boys, we're living under semi-martial law. To such a state have we free-bornmen, men who came out but to see the elephant, been reduced, by theasinine stupidity of the Government, by the impudence and knavishnessof its officials. Brother diggers! When you leave the hall thisevening, look over at the hill on which the Camp stands! What will yousee? You will see a blaze of light, and hear the sounds of revelry bynight. There, boys, hidden from our mortal view, but visible to ourmind's eye, sit Charley Joe's minions, carousing at our expense, washing down each mouthful with good fizz bought with our hard-earnedgold. Licence-pickings, boys, and tips from new grog-shops, and theblasted farce of the Commissariat! We're supposed--"

But here Mahony gave a loud click of the tongue--in the general howl ofexecration it passed unheard--and, pushing his way out of the tent, letthe flap-door fall to behind him. 

Chapter III

He retraced his steps by the safe-conduct of a full moon, which showedup the gaping black mouths of circular shafts and silvered the waterthat flooded abandoned oblong holes to their brim. Tents and huts stoodwhite and forsaken in the moonlight: their owners were either gatheredon Bakery Hill, or had repaired to one of the gambling and dancingsaloons that lined the main street. Arrived at the store he set hisfrantic dog free, and putting a match to his pipe, began to stroll upand down. 

He felt annoyed with himself for having helped to swell the crowd ofmalcontents; and still more for his foolishness in giving the rein to amomentary irritation. As if it mattered a doit what trash theseforeigners talked! No thinking person took their bombast seriously; theauthorities, with great good sense, let it pass for what it was--anoisy blowing-off of steam. At heart, the diggers were as sound as goodpippins. 

A graver consideration was Purdy's growing fellowship with the rebelfaction. The boy was too young and still too much of a fly-by-night tohave a black mark set against his name. It would be the more absurd, considering that his sincerity in espousing the diggers' cause was farfrom proved. He was of a nature to ride tantivy into anything thatpromised excitement or adventure. With, it must regretfully beadmitted, an increasing relish for the limelight, for theatricaleffect--see the cunning with which he had made capital out of abandaged ankle and dirty dress! At this rate, and with his engagingways, he would soon stand for a little god to the rough, artless crowd. No, he must leave the diggings--and Mahony rolled various schemes inhis mind. He had it! In the course of the next week or two businesswould make a journey to Melbourne imperative. Well, he would damn theextra expense and take the boy along with him! Purdy was at a looseend, and would no doubt rise like a fish to a fly at the chance ofgetting to town free of cost. After all, why be hard on him? He was notmuch over twenty, and, at that age, it was natural enough--especiallyin a place like this--for a lad to flit like a butterfly from every cupthat took his restless fancy. 

Restless? . .. H'm! It was the word Purdy had flung back at him, earlierin the evening. At the time, he had rebutted the charge, with a glanceat fifteen months spent behind the counter of a store. But there was amodicum of truth in it, none the less. The life one led out here wasnot calculated to tone down any innate restlessness of temperament: onthe contrary, it directly hindered one from becoming fixed and settled. It was on a par with the houses you lived in--these flimsy tents anddraught-riddled cabins you put up with, "for the time being"--was justas much of a makeshift affair as they. Its keynote was change. Fortuneswere made, and lost, and made again, before you could say JackRobinson; whole townships shot up over-night, to be deserted the momentthe soil ceased to yield; the people you knew were here to-day, andgone--sold up, burnt out, or dead and buried--to-morrow. And so, whether you would or not, your whole outlook became attuned to thegeneral unrest; you lived in a constant anticipation of what was comingnext. Well, he could own to the weakness with more justification thanmost. If trade continued to prosper with him as it did at present, itwould be no time before he could sell out and joyfully depart for theold country. 

In the meantime, why complain? He had much to be thankful for. To takeonly a small point: was this not Saturday night? To-morrow the storewas closed, and a string of congenial occupations offered: fromchopping the week's wood--a clean and wholesome task, which he gladlyperformed--through the pages of an engrossing book to a botanicalramble round old Buninyong. The thought of it cheered him. He stoopedto caress his two cats, which had come out to bear him the mute andpleasant company of their kind. 

What a night! The great round silver moon floated serenely throughspace, dimming the stars as it made them, and bathing the earth insplendour. It was so light that straight black lines of smoke could beseen mounting from chimneys and open-air fires. The grass-trees whichsupplied the fuel for these fires spread a pleasant balsamic odour, andthe live red patches contrasted oddly with the pale ardour of the moon. Lights twinkled over all the township, but were brightest in MainStreet, the course of which they followed like a rope of fireflies, andat the Government Camp on the steep western slope, where no doubt, asyoung Purdy had impudently averred, the officials still sat over thedinner-table. It was very quiet--no grog-shops orsaloons-of-entertainment in this neighbourhood, thank goodness!--andthe hour was still too early for drunken roisterers to come reelinghome. The only sound to be heard was that of a man's voice singing OFTIN THE STILLY NIGHT, to the yetching accompaniment of a concertina. Mahony hummed the tune. 

But it was growing cold, as the nights were apt to do on this tablelandonce summer was past. He whistled his dog, and Pompey hurried out witha guilty air from the back of the house, where the old shaft stood thatserved to hold refuse. Mahony put him on the chain, and was just aboutto turn in when two figures rounded the corner of a tent and cametowards him, pushing their shadows before them on the milk-white ground. 

"'D evenin', doc, " said the shorter of the two, a nuggetty little manwho carried his arms curved out from his sides, gorilla-fashion. 

"Oh, good evening, Mr. Ocock, " said Mahony, recognising a neighbour. --"Why, Tom, that you? Back already, my boy?"--this to a loutish, loose-limbed lad who followed behind. --"You don't of course come fromthe meeting?"

"Not me, indeed!" gave back his visitor with gall, and turned his headto spit the juice from a plug. "I've got suthin' better to do as tolisten to a pack o' jabberin' furriners settin' one another by th'ears. "

"Nor you, Tom?" Mahony asked the lad, who stood sheepishly shifting hisweight from one leg to the other. 

"Nay, nor 'im eether, " jumped in his father, before he could speak. "I'll 'ave none o' my boys playin' the fool up there. And that remindsme, doc, young Smith'll git 'imself inter the devil of a mess one o'these days, if you don't look after 'im a bit better'n you do. I 'eard'im spoutin' away as I come past--usin' language about the Gover'mentfit to turn you sick. "

Mahony coughed. "He's but young yet, " he said drily. "After all, youth's youth, sir, and comes but once in a lifetime. And you can'tmake lads into wiseacres between sundown and sunrise. "

"No, by Gawd, you can't!" affirmed his companion. "But I think youth'sjust a fine name for a sort o' piggish mess What's the good, one 'udlike to know, of gettin' old, and learnin' wisdom, and knowin' the goodfrom the bad, when ev'ry lousy young fathead that's born inter theworld starts out again to muddle through it for 'imself, in 'is ownway. And that things 'as got to go on like this, just the same, forever and ever--why, it makes me fair tired to think of it. My fatherdidn't 'old with youth: 'e knocked it out of us by thrashin', just likelyin' and thievin'. And it's the best way, too. -- Wot's that you say?"he flounced round on the unoffending Tom. "Nothin'? You was onlysnifflin', was you? You keep your fly-trap shut, my fine fellow, andmake no mousy sounds to me, or it'll be the worse for you, I can tellyou!"

"Come, Mr. Ocock, don't be too hard on the boy. "

"Not be 'ard on 'im? When I've got the nasty galoon on me 'ands againlike this?--Chucks up the good post I git 'im in Kilmore, without withyour leave or by your leave. Too lonely for 'is lordship it was. Missedthe sound o' wimmin's petticoats, 'e did. " He turned fiercely on hisson. "'Ere, don't you stand starin' there! You get 'ome, and fix up forthe night. Now then, wot are you dawdlin' for, pig-'ead?"

The boy slunk away. When he had disappeared, his father again took upthe challenge of Mahony's silent disapproval. "I can't 'ardly bear thesight of 'im, doc. --disgracin' me as 'e 'as done. 'Im a father, and noteighteen till June! A son o' mine, who can't see a wench with 'erbodice open, but wot 'e must be arter 'er. .. . No, sir, no son o' mine!I'm a respectable man, I am!"

"Of course, of course. "

"Oh! but they're a sore trial to me, these boys, doc. 'Enry's the onlyone . .. If it weren't for 'Enry--Johnny, 'e can't pass the drink, andnow 'ere's this young swine started to nose arter the wimmin. "

"There's good stuff in the lads, I'm sure of it. They're just sowingtheir wild oats. "

"They'll sow no h'oats with me. "

"I tell you what it is, Mr. Ocock, you need a woman about your place, to make it a bit more homelike, " said Mahony, calling to mind thepigstye in which Ocock and his sons housed. 

"Course I do!" agreed Ocock. "And Melia, she'll come out to 'er daddysoon as ever th'ol' woman kicks the bucket. -- Drat 'er! It's 'er I'vegot to thank for all the mischief. "

"Well, well!" said Mahony, and rising knocked out his pipe on the log. Did his old neighbour once get launched on the subject of his wife'sfailings, there was no stopping him. "We all have our crosses. "

"That I 'ave. And I'm keepin' you outer your bed, doc. , with meblather. --By gum! and that reminds me I come 'ere special to see youto-night. Bin gettin' a bit moonstruck, I reckon, "--and he clapped onhis hat. 

Drawing a sheaf of papers from an inner pocket, he selected one andoffered it to Mahony. Mahony led the way indoors, and lighting akerosene-lamp stooped to decipher the letter. 

For some weeks now he had been awaiting the delivery of a load ofgoods, the invoice for which had long since reached him. From thiscommunication, carried by hand, he learnt that the drayman, having gotbogged just beyond Bacchus's marsh, had decamped to the Ovens, takingwith him all he could cram into a spring-cart, and disposing of theremainder for what he could get. The agent in Melbourne refused to beheld responsible for the loss, and threatened to prosecute, if paymentfor the goods were not immediately forthcoming. Mahony, who here heardthe first of the affair, was highly indignant at the tone of theletter; and before he had read to the end resolved to let everythingelse slide, and to leave for Melbourne early next morning. 

Ocock backed him up in this decision, and with the aid of a great quillpen stiffly traced the address of his eldest son, who practised as asolicitor in the capital. 

"Go you straight to 'Enry, doc. 'Enry'll see you through. "

Brushing aside his dreams of a peaceful Sabbath Mahony madepreparations for his journey. Waking his assistant, he gave the man--astupid clodhopper, but honest and attached--instructions how to manageduring his absence, then sent him to the township to order horses. Himself, he put on his hat and went out to look for Purdy. 

His search led him through all the drunken revelry of a Saturday night. And it was close on twelve before, having followed the trace frombowling-alley to Chinese cook-shop, from the "Adelphi" to MotherFlannigan's and haunts still less reputable, he finally succeeded incatching his bird. 

Chapter IV

The two young men took to the road betimes: it still wanted someminutes to six on the new clock in the tower of Bath's Hotel, when theythrew their legs over their saddles and rode down the steep slope bythe Camp Reserve. The hoofs of the horses pounded the plank bridge thatspanned the Yarrowee, and striking loose stones, and smacking andsucking in the mud, made a rude clatter in the Sunday quiet. 

Having followed for a few hundred yards the wide, rut-riddledthoroughfare of Main Street, the riders branched off to cross risingground. They proceeded in single file and at a footpace, for thehighway had been honeycombed and rendered unsafe; it also ascendedsteadily. Just before they entered the bush, which was alive with therich, strong whistling of magpies, Purdy halted to look back and wavehis hat in farewell. Mahony also half-turned in the saddle. There itlay--the scattered, yet congested, unlovely wood and canvas settlementthat was Ballarat. At this distance, and from this height, it resemblednothing so much as a collection of child's bricks, tossed out at randomover the ground, the low, square huts and cabins that composed it beingall of a shape and size. Some threads of smoke began to mount towardsthe immense pale dome of the sky. The sun was catching here the panesof a window, there the tin that encased a primitive chimney. 

They rode on, leaving the warmth of the early sun-rays for the coldblue shadows of the bush. Neither broke the silence. Mahony's day hadnot come to an end with the finding of Purdy. Barely stretched on hispalliasse he had been routed out to attend to Long Jim, who had missedhis footing and pitched into a shaft. The poor old tipsy idiot hauledup--luckily for him it was a dry, shallow hole--there was a brokencollar-bone to set. Mahony had installed him in his own bed, and hadspent the remainder of the night dozing in a chair. 

So now he was heavy-eyed, uncommunicative. As they climbed the shoulderand came to the rich, black soil that surrounded the ancient cone ofWarrenheip, he mused on his personal relation to the place he had justleft. And not for the first time he asked himself: what am I doinghere? When he was absent from Ballarat, and could dispassionatelyconsider the life he led there, he was so struck by the incongruity ofthe thing that, like the beldame in the nursery-tale, he could havepinched himself to see whether he waked or slept. Had anyone told him, three years previously, that the day was coming when he would weigh outsoap and sugar, and hand them over a counter in exchange for money, hewould have held the prophet ripe for Bedlam. Yet here he was, afull-blown tradesman, and as greedy of gain as any tallow-chandler. Extraordinary, aye, and distressing, too, the ease with which the humanorganism adapted itself; it was just a case of the green caterpillar onthe green leaf. Well, he could console himself with the knowledge thathis apparent submission was only an affair of the surface. He hadstruck no roots; and it would mean as little to his half-dozenacquaintances on Ballarat when he silently vanished from their midst, as it would to him if he never saw one of them again. Or the countryeither--and he let his eye roam unlovingly over the wild, sad-colouredlandscape, with its skimpy, sad-coloured trees. 

Meanwhile they were advancing: their nags' hoofs, beating in unison, devoured mile after mile of the road. It was a typical colonial road;it went up hill and down dale, turned aside for no obstacles. At onetime it ran down a gully that was almost a ravine, to mount straight upthe opposite side among boulders that reached to the belly-bands. Atothers, it led through a reedy swamp, or a stony watercourse; or itbecame a bog; or dived through a creek. Where the ground was flat andtreeless, it was a rutty, well-worn track between two seas of pale, scant grass. 

More than once, complaining of a mouth like sawdust, Purdy alighted andlimped across the verandah of a house-of-accommodation; but they didnot actually draw rein till, towards midday, they reached a knot ofweatherboard verandahed stores, smithies and public-houses, arranged atthe four Corners of two cross-roads. Here they made a substantialluncheon; and the odour of fried onions carried far and wide. Mahonypaid his three shillings for a bottle of ale; but Purdy washed down thesteak with cup after cup of richly sugared tea. 

In the early afternoon they set off again, revived and refreshed. Purdycaught at a bunch of aromatic leaves and burst into a song; and Mahony. . .. Good God! With a cloudless sky overhead, a decent bit of horsefleshbetween his knees, and the prospect of a three days' holiday fromstorekeeping, his name would not have been what it was if he had forlong remained captious, downhearted. Insufficient sleep, and an emptystomach--nothing on earth besides! A fig for his black thoughts! Thefact of his being obliged to spend a few years in the colony would, inthe end, profit him, by widening his experience of the world and hisfellow-men. It was possible to lead a sober, Godfearing life, no matterin what rude corner of the globe you were pitchforked. -- And in thismood he was even willing to grant the landscape a certain charm. Sinceleaving Ballan the road had dipped up and down a succession of swellingrises, grass-grown and untimbered. From the top of these ridges theview was a far one: you looked straight across undulating waves ofcountry and intervening forest-land, to where, on the horizon, a long, low sprawling range of hills lay blue--cobalt-blue, and painted in witha sure brush--against the porcelain-blue of the sky. What did thewashed-out tints of the foliage matter, when, wherever you turned, youcould count on getting these marvellous soft distances, on alwaysfinding a range of blue-veiled hills, lovely and intangible as a dream?

There was not much traffic to the diggings on a Sunday. And having cometo a level bit of ground, the riders followed a joint impulse and brokeinto a canter. As they began to climb again they fell naturally intoone of those familiar talks, full of allusion and reminiscence, thatare only possible between two of a sex who have lived through part oftheir green days together. 

It began by Purdy referring to the satisfactory fashion in which he haddisposed of his tools, his stretcher-bed, and other effects: he was nottravelling to Melbourne empty-handed. 

Mahony rallied him. "You were always a good one at striking a bargain, my boy! What about: 'Four mivvies for an alley!'--eh, Dickybird?"

This related to their earliest meeting, and was a standing joke betweenthem. Mahony could recall the incident as clearly as though it hadhappened yesterday: how the sturdy little apple-cheeked English boy, with the comical English accent, had suddenly bobbed up at his side onthe way home from school, and in that laughable sing-song of his, without modulation or emphasis, had offered to "swop" him, as above. 

Purdy laughed and paid him back in kind. "Yes, and the funk you were infor fear Spiny Tatlow 'ud see us, and peach to the rest!"

"Yes. What young idiots boys are!"

In thought he added: "And what snobs!" For the breach of convention--hewas an upper-form boy at the time--had not been his sole reason forwishing to shake off his junior. Behind him, Mahony, when he reachedhome, closed the door of one of the largest houses in the mostexclusive square in Dublin. Whereas Purdy lived in a small, commonhouse in a side street. Visits there had to be paid surreptitiously. 

All the same these were frequent--and for the best of reasons. Mahonycould still see Purdy's plump, red-cheeked English mother, who was asjolly and happy as her boy, hugging the loaf to her bosom while she cutround after round of bread and butter and jam, for two cormorantthroats. And the elder boy, long-limbed and lank, all wrist and ankle, had invariably been the hungrier of the two; for, on the glossy damaskof the big house, often not enough food was set to satisfy the growingappetites of himself and his sisters. --"Dickybird, can't you see us, with our backs to the wall, in that little yard of yours, trying whocould take the biggest bite?--or going round the outside: 'Crust first, and though you burst, By the bones of Davy Jones!' till only a littleisland of jam was left?"

Purdy laughed heartily at these and other incidents fished up by hisfriend from the well of the years; but he did not take part in thesport himself. He had not Mahony's gift for recalling detail: to himpast was past. He only became alive and eager when the talk turned, asit soon did, on his immediate prospects. 

This time, to his astonishment, Mahony had had no trouble in persuadingPurdy to quit the diggings. In addition, here was the boy now declaringopenly that what he needed, and must have, was a fixed and steadilypaying job. With this decision Mahony was in warm agreement, andpromised all the help that lay in his power. 

But Purdy was not done; he hummed and hawed and fidgeted; he took offhis hat and looked inside it; he wiped his forehead and the nape of hisneck. 

Mahony knew the symptoms. "Come, Dickybird. Spit it out, my boy!"

"Yes . .. Er. .. . Well, the fact is, Dick, I begin to think it's time Isettled down. "

Mahony gave a whistle. "Whew! A lady in the case?"

"That's the chat. Just oblige yours truly by takin' a squint at this, will you?"

He handed his friend a squarely-folded sheet of thinnest blue paper, with a large purple stamp in one corner, and a red seal on the back. Opening it Mahony discovered three crossed pages, written in adelicately pointed, minute, Italian hand. 

He read the letter to the end, deliberately, and with a growing senseof relief: composition, expression and penmanship, all met with hisapproval. "This is the writing of a person of some refinement, my son. "

"Well, er . .. Yes, " said Purdy. He seemed about to add a further word, then swallowed it, and went on: "Though, somehow or other, Till'sdifferent to herself, on paper. But she's the best of girls, Dick. Notone o' your ethereal, die-away, bread-and-butter misses. There'ssomething OF Till there is, and she's always on for a lark. I never metsuch girls for larks as her and 'er sister. The very last time I wasthere, they took and hung up . .. Me and some other fellers had beenstoppin' up a bit late the night before, and kickin' up a bit of ashindy, and what did those girls do? They got the barman to come intomy room while I was asleep, and hang a bucket o' water to one of thebeams over the bed. Then I'm blamed if they didn't tie a string from itto my big toe! I gives a kick, down comes the bucket and half drownsme. -- Gosh, how those girls did laugh!"

"H'm!" said Mahony dubiously; while Purdy in his turn chewed the cud ofa pleasant memory. --"Well, I for my part should be glad to see youmarried and settled, with a good wife always beside you. "

"That's just the rub, " said Purdy, and vigorously scratched his head. 

"Till's a first-class girl as a sweetheart and all that; but when Icome to think of puttin' my head in the noose, from now tilldoomsday--why then, somehow, I can't bring myself to pop the question. "

"There's going to be no trifling with the girl's feelings, I hope, sir?"

"Bosh! But I say, Dick, I wish you'd turn your peepers on 'er and tellme what you make of 'er. She's A1 'erself, but she's got a mother. .. . By Job, Dick, if I thought Tilly 'ud ever get like that . .. And they'reexactly the same build, too. "

It would certainly be well for him to inspect Purdy's flame, thoughtMahony. Especially since the anecdote told did not bear out the goodimpression left by the letter--went far, indeed, to efface it. Still, he was loath to extend his absence by spending a night at Geelong, where, a, it came out, the lady lived; and he replied evasively that itmust depend on the speed with which he could put through his businessin Melbourne. 

Purdy was silent for a time. Then, with a side-glance at his companion, he volunteered: "I say, Dick, I know some one who'd suit you. "

"The deuce you do!" said Mahony, and burst out laughing. "Miss Tilly'ssister, no doubt?"

"No, no--not her. Jinn's all right, but she's not your sort. Butthey've got a girl living with 'em--a sort o' poor relation, orsomething--and she's a horse of quite another colour. --I say, old man, serious now, have you never thought o' gettin' spliced?"

Again Mahony laughed. At his companion's words there descended to him, once more, from some shadowy distance, some pure height, therose-tinted vision of the wife-to-be which haunts every man's youth. And, in ludicrous juxtaposition, he saw the women, the only women hehad encountered since coming to the colony: the hardworking, carewornwives of diggers; the harridans, sluts and prostitutes who made up thebalance. 

He declined to be drawn. "Is it old Moll Flannigan or one of herdarlints you'd be wishing me luck to, ye spalpeen?"

"Man, don't I say I've FOUND the wife for you?" Purdy was not jesting, and did not join in the fresh salvo of laughter with which Mahonygreeted his words. "Oh, blow it, Dick, you're too fastidious--toodamned particular! Say what you like, there's good in all of 'em--evenin old Mother Flannigan 'erself--and 'specially when she's got a dropinside 'er. Fuddle old Moll a bit, and she'd give you the very shiftoff her back. --Don't I thank the Lord, that's all, I'm not built likeyou! Why, the woman isn't born I can't get on with. All's fish thatcomes to my net. --Oh, to be young, Dick, and to love the girls! To seetheir little waists, and their shoulders, and the dimples in theircheeks! See 'em put up their hands to their bonnets, and how theirlittle feet peep out when the wind blows their petticoats against theirlegs!" and Purdy rose in his stirrups and stretched himself, in anexcess of wellbeing. 

"You young reprobate!"

"Bah!--you! You've got water in your veins. "

"Nothing of the sort! Set me among decent women and there's no companyI enjoy more, " declared Mahony. 

"Fish-blood, fish-blood!--Dick, it's my belief you were born old. "

Mahony was still young enough to be nettled by doubts cast on hisvitality. Purdy laughed in his sleeve. Aloud he said: "Well, look here, old man, I'll lay you a wager. I bet you you're not game, when you seethat tulip I've been tellin' you about, to take her in your arms andkiss her. A fiver on it!"

"Done!" cried Mahony. "And I'll have it in one note, if you please!"

"Bravo!" cried Purdy. "Bravo, Dick!" And having gained his end, andbeing on a good piece of road between post-and-rail fences, he setspurs to his horse and cantered off, singing as he went:

 SHE WHEELS A WHEELBARROW, THROUGH STREETS WIDE AND NARROW, CRYING COCKLES, AND MUSSELS, ALIVE, ALIVE-OH!

But the sun was growing large in the western sky; on the ground to theleft, their failing shadows slanted out lengthwise; those cast by thehorses' bodies were mounted on high spindle-legs. The two men ceasedtheir trifling, and nudged by the fall of day began to ride at a morebusiness-like pace, pushing forward through the deep basin of Bacchus'smarsh, and on for miles over wide, treeless plains, to where the roadwas joined by the main highway from the north, coming down from MountAlexander and the Bendigo. Another hour, and from a gentle eminence thebuildings of Melbourne were visible, the mastheads of the many vesselsriding at anchor in Hobson's Bay. Here, too, the briny scent of thesea, carrying up over grassy flats, met their nostrils, and set Mahonyhungrily sniffing. The brief twilight came and went, and it was alreadynight when they urged their weary beasts over the Moonee ponds, awinding chain of brackish waterholes. The horses shambled along thebroad, hilly tracks of North Melbourne; warily picked their stepsthrough the city itself. Dingy oil-lamps, set here and there at thecorners of roads so broad that you could hardly see across them, shedbut a meagre light, and the further the riders advanced, the moredifficult became their passage: the streets, in process of laying, wereheaped with stones and intersected by trenches. Finally, dismounting, they thrust their arms through their bridles, and laboriously coveredthe last half-mile of the journey on foot. Having lodged the horses ata livery-stable, they repaired to a hotel in Little Collins Street. Here Purdy knew the proprietor, and they were fortunate enough tosecure a small room for the use of themselves alone. 

Chapter V

Melbourne is built on two hills and the valley that lies between. 

It was over a year since Mahony or Purdy had been last in the capital, and next morning, on stepping out of the "Adam and Eve, " they walked upthe eastern slope to look about them. From the summit of the hill theirview stretched to the waters of the Bay, and its forest of masts. Thenearer foreground was made up of mud flats, through which a sluggish, coffee-coloured river wound its way to the sea. On the horizon to thenorth, the Dandenong Ranges rose storm-blue and distinct, and seemedmomently to be drawing nearer; for a cold wind was blowing, whichpromised rain. The friends caught their glimpses of the landscapebetween dense clouds of white dust, which blotted everything out forminutes at a time, and filled eyes, nose, ears with a gritty powder. 

Tiring of this they turned and descended Great Collins Street--aspacious thoroughfare that dipped into the hollow and rose again, andwas so long that on its western height pedestrians looked no biggerthan ants. In the heart of the city men were everywhere at work, layinggas and drain-pipes, macadamising, paving, kerbing: no longer would theold wives' tale be credited of the infant drowned in the deeps ofSwanston Street, or of the bullock which sank, inch by inch, before itsowner's eyes in the Elizabeth Street bog. Massive erections offreestone were going up alongside here a primitive, canvas-fronteddwelling, there one formed wholly of galvanised iron. Fashionableshops, two storeys high, stood next tiny, dilapidated weatherboards. Inthe roadway, handsome chaises, landaus, four-in-hands made room forbullock-teams, eight and ten strong; for tumbrils carrying water orrefuse--or worse; for droves of cattle, mobs of wild colts bound forauction, flocks of sheep on their way to be boiled down for tallow. Stock-riders and bull-punchers rubbed shoulders with elegants inskirted coats and shepherd's plaid trousers, who adroitly skipped heapsof stones and mortar, or crept along the narrow edging of kerb. 

The visitors from up-country paused to listen to a brass band thatplayed outside a horse-auction mart; to watch the shooting in arifle-gallery. The many decently attired females they met also calledfor notice. Not a year ago, and no reputable woman walked abroadoftener than she could help: now, even at this hour, the streets werestarred with them. Purdy, open-mouthed, his eyes a-dance, turned hishead this way and that, pointed and exclaimed. But then HE had sleptlike a log, and felt in his own words "as fit as a fiddle. " WhereasMahony had sat his horse the whole night through, had never ceased tobalance himself in an imaginary saddle. And when at daybreak he hadfallen into a deeper sleep, he was either reviewing outrageous femaleson Purdy's behalf, or accepting wagers to kiss them. 

Hence, diverting as were the sights of the city, he did not come tothem with the naive receptivity of Purdy. It was, besides, hard todetach his thoughts from the disagreeable affair that had brought himto Melbourne. And as soon as banks and offices began to take down theirshutters, he hurried off to his interview with the carrying-agent. 

The latter's place of business was behind Great Collins Street, in alane reached by a turnpike. Found with some trouble, it proved to be arude shanty wedged in between a Chinese laundry and a Chineseeating-house. The entrance was through a yard in which stood acollection of rabbit-hutches, while further back gaped a dirty closet. At the sound of their steps the man they sought emerged, and Mahonycould not repress an exclamation of surprise. When, a little over atwelvemonth ago, he had first had dealings with him, this Bolliver hadbeen an alert and respectable man of business. Now he was evidently onthe downgrade; and the cause of the deterioration was advertised in hisbloodshot eyeballs and veinous cheeks. Early as was the hour, he hadalready been indulging: his breath puffed sour. Mahony prepared tostate the object of his visit in no uncertain terms. But hispreliminaries were cut short by a volley of abuse. The man accused himpoint-blank of having been privy to the rascally drayman's fraud and ofhaving hoped, by lying low, to evade his liability. Mahony lost histemper, and vowed that he would have Bolliver up for defamation ofcharacter. To which the latter retorted that the first innings in acourt of law would be his: he had already put the matter in the handsof his attorney. This was the last straw. Purdy had to intervene andget Mahony away. They left the agent shaking his fist after them andcursing the bloody day on which he'd ever been fool enough to do a dealwith a bloody gentleman. 

At the corner of the street the friends paused for a hasty conference. Mahony was for marching off to take the best legal advice the city hadto offer. But Purdy disapproved. Why put himself to so much trouble, when he had old Ocock's recommendation to his lawyer-son in his coatpocket? What, in the name of Leary-cum-Fitz, was the sense of making anenemy for life of the old man, his next-door neighbour, and a goodcustomer to boot?

These counsels prevailed, and they turned their steps towards ChanceryLane, where was to be found every variety of legal practitioner frombarrister to scrivener. Having matched the house-number and descriedthe words: "Mr. Henry Ocock, Conveyancer and Attorney, Commissioner ofAffidavits, " painted black on two dusty windows, they climbed a woodenstair festooned with cobwebs, to a landing where an injunction to:"Push and Enter!" was, rudely inked on a sheet of paper and affixed toa door. 

Obeying, they passed into a dingy little room, the entire furnishing ofwhich consisted of a couple of deal tables, with a chair to each. Thesewere occupied by a young man and a boy, neither of whom rose at theirentrance. The lad was cutting notches in a stick and whistlingtunefully; the clerk, a young fellow in the early twenties, who had amop of flaming red hair and small-slit white-lashed eyes, looked at thestrangers, but without lifting his head: his eyes performed thenecessary motion. 

Mahony desired to know if he had the pleasure of addressing Mr. HenryOcock. In reply the red-head gave a noiseless laugh, which heimmediately quenched by clapping his hand over his mouth, and shuttingone eye at his junior said: "No--nor yet the Shar o' Persia, norAlphybetical Foster!--What can I do for you, governor?"

"You can have the goodness to inform Mr. Ocock that I wish to see him!"flashed back Mahony. 

"Singin' til-ril-i-tum-tum-dee-ay!--Now then, Mike, me child, toddle!"

With patent reluctance the boy ceased his whittling, and dawdled acrossthe room to an inner door through which he vanished, having first lethis knuckles bump, as if by chance, against the wood of the panel. Asecond later he reappeared. "Boss's engaged. " But Mahony surprised alightning sign between the pair. 

"No, sir, I decline to state my business to anyone but Mr. Ocockhimself!" he declared hotly, in response to the red-haired man'sinvitation to "get it off his chest. " "If you choose to find out whenhe will be at liberty, I will wait so long--no longer. "

As the office-boy had somehow failed to hit his seat on his passage tothe outer door, there was nothing left for the clerk to do but himselfto undertake the errand. He lounged up from his chair, and, in his casewithout even the semblance of a knock, squeezed through a foot wideaperture, in such a fashion that the two strangers should not catch aglimpse of what was going on inside. But his voice came to them throughthe thin partition. "Oh, just a couple o' stony-broke Paddylanders. "Mahony, who had seized the opportunity to dart an angry glance atPurdy, which should say: "This is what one gets by coming to yoursecond-rate pettifoggers!" now let his eyes rest on his friend andcritically detailed the latter's appearance. The description fitted toa nicety. Purdy did in truth look down on his luck. Unkempt, bearded tothe eyes, there he stood clutching his shapeless old cabbage-tree, inmud-stained jumper and threadbare smalls--the very spit of theunsuccessful digger. Well might they be suspected of not owning thenecessary to pay their way!

"All serene, mister! The boss'ull take you on. "

The sanctum was a trifle larger than the outer room, but almost equallybare; half-a-dozen deed-boxes were piled up in one corner. Stalking inwith his chin in the air, Mahony found himself in the presence of a manof his own age, who sat absorbed in the study of a document. At theirentry two beady grey eyes lifted to take a brief but thorough survey, and a hand with a pencil in it pointed to the single empty chair. Mahony declined to translate the gesture and remained standing. 

Under the best of circumstances it irked him to be kept waiting. Here, following on the clerk's saucy familiarity, the wilful delay made hisgorge rise. For a few seconds he fumed in silence; then, his patienceexhausted, he burst out: "My time, sir, is as precious as your own. With your permission, I will take my business elsewhere. "

At these words, and at the tone in which they were spoken, the lawyer'shead shot up as if he had received a blow under the chin. Again henarrowed his eyes at the couple. And this time he laid the documentfrom him and asked suavely: "What can I do for you?"

The change in his manner though slight was unmistakable. Mahony had anice ear for such refinements, and responded to the shade of differencewith the promptness of one who had been on the watch for it. Hisirritation fell; he was ready on the instant to be propitiated. Puttinghis hat aside he sat down, and having introduced himself, madereference to Ballarat and his acquaintance with the lawyer's father:"Who directed me to you, sir, for advice on a vexatious affair, inwhich I have had the misfortune to become involved. "

With a "Pray be seated!" Ocock rose and cleared a chair for Purdy. Resuming his seat he joined his hands, and wound them in and out. "Ithink you may take it from me that no case is so unpromising but whatwe shall be able to find a loophole. "

Mahony thanked him--with a touch of reserve. "I trust you will still beof that opinion when you have heard the facts. " And went on: "Myself, Ido not doubt it. I am not a rich man, but serious though the monetaryloss would be to me, I should settle the matter out of court, were Inot positive that I had right on my side. " To which Ocock returned aquick: "Oh, quite so . .. Of course. "

Like his old father, he was a short, heavily built man; but there thelikeness ended. He had a high, domed forehead, above a thin, hookednose. His skin was of an almost Jewish pallor. Fringes of straight, jet-black hair grew down the walls of his cheeks and round his chin, meeting beneath it. The shaven upper lid was long and flat, with nocentral markings, and helped to form a mouth that had not much moreshape or expression than a slit cut by a knife in a sheet of paper. Thechin was bare to the size of a crown-piece; and, both while he spokeand while he listened to others speaking, the lawyer caressed thispatch with his finger-tips; so that in the course of time it hadarrived at a state of high polish--like the shell of an egg. 

The air with which he heard his new client out was of a non-committalkind; and Mahony, having talked his first heat off, grew chilled by thewet blanket of Ocock's silence. There was nothing in this of the frankresponsiveness with which your ordinary mortal lends his ear. The brainbehind the dome was, one might be sure, adding, combining, comparing, and drawing its own conclusions. Why should lawyers, he wondered, treatthose who came to them like children, advancing only in so far as itsuited them out of the darkness where they housed among strangelyworded paragraphs and obscure formulas?--But these musings were cutshort. Having fondled his chin for a further moment, Ocock looked upand put a question. And, while he could not but admire the lawyer'sacumen, this did not lessen Mahony's discomfort. All unguided, it wentstraight for what he believed to be the one weak spot in his armour. Itrelated to the drayman. Contrary to custom Mahony had, on thisoccasion, himself recommended the driver. And, as he admitted it, hisears rang again with the plaints of his stranded fellow-countryman, awheedler from the South Country, off whose tongue the familiar broguehad dripped like honey. His recommendation, he explained, had been madeout of charity; he had not forced the agent to engage the man; and itwould surely be a gross injustice if he alone were to be heldresponsible. 

To his relief Ocock did not seem to attach importance to the fact, butwent on to ask whether any written agreement had existed between theparties. "No writing? H'm! So . .. So!" To read his thoughts was animpossibility; but as he proceeded with his catechism it was easy tosee how his interest in the case grew. He began to treat it tenderly;warmed to it, as an artist to his work; and Mahony's spirits rose inconsequence. 

Having selected a number of minor points that would tell in theirfavour, Ocock dilated upon the libellous aspersion that had been caston Mahony's good faith. "My experience has invariably been this, Mr. Mahony: people who suggest that kind of thing, and accuse others of it, are those who are accustomed to make use of such means themselves. Inthis case, there may have been no goods at all--the thing may prove tohave been a put-up job from beginning to end. "

But his hearer's start of surprise was too marked to be overlooked. "Well, let us take the existence of the goods for granted. But mightthey not, being partly of a perishable nature, have gone bad orotherwise got spoiled on the road, and not have been in a fit conditionfor you to receive at your end?"

This was credible; Mahony nodded his assent. He also added, gratuitously, that he had before now been obliged to reclaim on casksof mouldy mess-pork. At which Ocock ceased coddling his chin to point astraight forefinger at him, with a triumphant: "You see!"--But Purdywho, sick and tired of the discussion, had withdrawn to the window towatch the rain zig-zag in runlets down the dusty panes, and hiss andspatter on the sill; Purdy puckered his lips to a sly and soundlesswhistle. 

The interview at an end, Ocock mentioned, in his frigidly urbane way, that he had recently been informed there was an excellent opening for afirm of solicitors in Ballarat: could Mr. Mahony, as a resident, confirm the report? Mahony regretted his ignorance, but spoke in praiseof the Golden City and its assured future. --"This would be most welcomenews to your father, sir. I can picture his satisfaction on hearing it. "

--"Golly, Dick, that's no mopoke!" was Purdy's comment as they emergedinto the rain-swept street. "A crafty devil, if ever I see'd one. "

"Henry Ocock seems to me to be a singularly able man, " replied Mahonydrily. To his thinking, Purdy had cut a poor figure during the visit:he had said no intelligent word, but had lounged lumpishly in hischair--the very picture of the country man come up to themetropolis--and, growing tired of this, had gone like a restless childto thrum his fingers on the panes. 

"Oh, you bet! He'll slither you through. "

"What? Do you insinuate there's any need for slithering . .. As you callit?" cried Mahony. 

"Why, Dick, old man. .. . And as long as he gets you through, what doesit matter?"

"It matters to me, sir!"

The rain, a tropical deluge, was over by the time they reached thehollow. The sun shone again, hot and sticky, and people were venturingforth from their shelters to wade through beds of mud, or to cross, onplanks, the deep, swift rivers formed by the open drains. There wereseveral such cloud-bursts in the course of the afternoon; and each timethe refuse of the city was whirled past on the flood, to be left as anedging to the footpaths when the water went down. 

Mahony spent the rest of the day in getting together a fresh load ofgoods. For, whether he lost or won his suit, the store had to berestocked without delay. 

That evening towards eight o'clock the two men turned out of theLowther Arcade. The night was cold, dark and wet; and they had woundcomforters round their bare throats. They were on their way to theMechanics' Hall, to hear a lecture on Mesmerism. Mahony had lookedforward to this all through the sorry job of choosing soaps andcandles. The subject piqued his curiosity. It was the one drop ofmental stimulant he could hope to extract from his visit. The theatrewas out of the question: if none of the actors happened to be drunk, afair proportion of the audience was sure to be. 

Part of his pleasure this evening was due to Purdy having agreed toaccompany him. It was always a matter of regret to Mahony that, outsidethe hobnob of daily life, he and his friend had so few interests incommon; that Purdy should rest content with the coarse diversions ofthe ordinary digger. 

Then, from the black shadows of the Arcade, a woman's form detacheditself, and a hand was laid on Purdy's arm. 

"Shout us a drink, old pal!"

Mahony made a quick, repellent movement of the shoulder. But Purdy, some vagrom fancy quickened in him, either by the voice, which was notunrefined, or by the stealthiness of the approach, Purdy turned to look. 

"Come, come, my boy. We've no time to lose. "

Without raising her pleasant voice, the woman levelled a volley ofabuse at Mahony, then muttered a word in Purdy's ear. 

"Just half a jiff, Dick, " said Purdy. "Or go ahead. --I'll make up onyou. "

For a quarter of an hour Mahony aired his heels in front of apublic-house. Then he gave it up, and went on his way. But his pleasurewas damped: the inconsiderateness with which Purdy could shake him off, always had a disconcerting effect on him. To face the matter squarely:the friendship between them did not mean as much to Purdy as to him;the sudden impulse that had made the boy relinquish a promisingclerkship to emigrate in his wake--into this he had read more than itwould hold. -- And, as he picked his muddy steps, Mahony agreed withhimself that the net result, for him, of Purdy's coming to the colony, had been to saddle him with a new responsibility. It was his lot forever to be helping the lad out of tight places. Sometimes it made himfeel unnecessarily bearish. For Purdy had the knack, common to sunny, improvident natures, of taking everything that was done for him forgranted. His want of delicacy in this respect was distressing. Yet, inspite of it all, it was hard to bear him a grudge for long together. Awell-meaning young beggar if ever there was one! That very day howfaithfully he had stuck at his side, assisting at dull discussions andduller purchasings, without once obtruding his own concerns. --And hereMahony remembered their talk on the ride to town. Purdy had expressedthe wish to settle down and take a wife. A poor friend that would bewho did not back him up in this intention. 

As he sidled into one of the front benches of a half-empty hall--themesmerist, a corpse-like man in black, already surveyed its thinnessfrom the platform with an air of pained surprise--Mahony decided thatPurdy should have his chance. The heavy rains of the day, and theconsequent probable flooding of the Ponds and the Marsh, would serve asan excuse for a change of route. He would go and have a look at Purdy'ssweetheart; would ride back to the diggings by way of Geelong. 

Chapter VI

In a whitewashed parlour of "Beamish's Family Hotel" some few milesnorth of Geelong, three young women, in voluminous skirts and withtheir hair looped low over their ears, sat at work. Books lay open onthe table before two of them; the third was making a bookmark. Two werefair, plump, rosy, and well over twenty; the third, pale-skinned anddark, was still a very young girl. She it was who stitched magentahieroglyphics on a strip of perforated cardboard. 

"Do lemme see, Poll, " said the eldest of the trio, and laid down herpen. "You 'AVE bin quick about it, my dear. "

Polly, the brunette, freed her needle of silk and twirled the bookmarkby its ribbon ends. Spinning, the mystic characters united to form thewords: "Kiss me quick. "

Her companions tittered. "If ma didn't know for certain 'twas meant foryour brother John, she'd never 'ave let you make it, " said the secondblonde, whose name was Jinny. 

"Girls, what a lark it 'ud be to send it up to Purdy Smith, by Ned!"said the first speaker. 

Polly blushed. "Fy, Tilly! That wouldn't be ladylike. "

Tilly's big bosom rose and fell in a sigh. "What's a lark never is. "

Jinny giggled, agreeably scandalized: "What things you do say, Till!Don't let ma 'ear you, that's all. "

"Ma be blowed!--'Ow does this look now, Polly?" And across thewax-cloth Tilly pushed a copybook, in which she had laboriouslyinscribed a prim maxim the requisite number of times. 

Polly laid down her work and knitted her brows over the page. 

"Well . .. It's better than the last one, Tilly, " she said gently, averse to hurting her pupil's feelings. "But still not quite goodenough. The f's, look, should be more like this. " And taking a steelpen she made several long-tailed f's, in a tiny, pointed hand. 

Tilly yielded an ungrudging admiration. "'Ow well you do it, Poll! ButI HATE writing. If only ma weren't so set on it!"

"You'll never be able to write yourself to a certain person, 'oos nameI won't mention, if you don't 'urry up and learn, " said Jinny, lookingsage. 

"What's the odds! We've always got Poll to write for us, " gave backTilly, and lazily stretched out a large, plump hand to recover thecopybook. "A certain person'll never know--or not till it's too late. "

"Here, Polly dear, " said Jinny, and held out a book. "I know it now. "

Again Polly put down her embroidery. She took the book. "Plough!" saidshe. 

"Plough?" echoed Jinny vaguely, and turned a pair of soft, cow-likebrown eyes on the blowflies sitting sticky and sleepy round the wallsof the room. "Wait a jiff . .. Lemme think! Plough? Oh, yes, I know. P-l. .. . "

"P-l-o" prompted Polly, the speller coming to a full stop. 

"P-l-o-w!" shot out Jinny, in triumph. 

"Not QUITE right, " said Polly. "It's g-h, Jinny: p-l-o-u-g-h. "

"Oh, that's what I meant. I knew it right enough. "

"Well, now, trough!"

"Trough?" repeated Jinny, in the same slow, vacant way. 

"Trough? Wait, lemme think a minute. T-r-o. .. . "

Polly's lips all but formed the "u, " to prevent the "f" she feltimpending. "I'm afraid you'll have to take it again, Jinny dear, " shesaid reluctantly, as nothing further was forthcoming. 

"Oh, no, Poll. T-r-o-" began Jinny with fresh vigour. But before shecould add a fourth to the three letters, a heavy foot pounded down thepassage, and a stout woman, out of breath, her cap-bands flying, camebustling in and slammed the door. 

"Girls, girls, now whatever d'ye think? 'Ere's Purdy Smith come ridin'inter the yard, an' another gent with 'im. Scuttle along now, an' putthem books away!--Tilda, yer net's 'alf 'angin' off--you don't want yersweet-'eart to see you all untidy like that, do you?--'Elp 'em, Pollymy dear, and be quick about it!--H'out with yer sewin', chicks!"

Sprung up from their seats the three girls darted to and fro. Thetelltale spelling and copy-books were flung into the drawer of thechiffonier, and the key was turned on them. Polly, her immodest samplersafely hidden at the bottom of her workbox, was the most composed ofthe three; and while locks were smoothed and collars adjusted in theadjoining bedroom, she remained behind to look out thimbles, needlesand strips of plain sewing, and to lay them naturally about the table. 

The blonde sisters reappeared, all aglow with excitement. Tilly, inparticular, was in a sad flutter. 

"Girls, I simply CAN'T face 'im in 'ere!" she declared. "It was 'ere, in this very room, that 'e first--you know what!"

"Nor can I, " cried Jinny, catching the fever. 

"Feel my 'eart, 'ow it beats, " said her sister, pressing her hands, oneover the other, to her full left breast. 

"Mine's every bit as bad, " averred Jinny. 

"I believe I shall 'ave the palpitations and faint away, if I stop'ere. "

Polly was genuinely concerned. "I'll run and call mother back. "

"No, I tell you what: let's 'ide!" cried Tilly, recovering. 

Jinny wavered. "But will they find us?"

"Duffer! Of course. Ma'll give 'em the 'int. --Come on!"

Suiting the action to the word, and imitated by her sister, shescrambled over the window sill to the verandah. Polly found herselfalone. Her conscientious scrupling: "But mother may be cross!" hadpassed unheeded. Now, she, too, fell into a flurry. She could notremain there, by herself, to meet two young men, one of whom was astranger: steps and voices were already audible at the end of thepassage. And so, since there was nothing else for it, she clamberedafter her friends--though with difficulty; for she was not very tall. 

This was why, when Mrs. Beamish flourished open the door, exclaiming ina hearty tone: "An' 'ere you'll find 'em, gents--sittin' at theirneedles, busy as bees!" the most conspicuous object in the room was avery neat leg, clad in a white stocking and black prunella boot, whichwas just being drawn up over the sill. It flashed from sight; and thepatter of running feet beat the floor of the verandah. 

"Ha, ha, too late! The birds have flown, " laughed Purdy, and smackedhis thigh. 

"Well, I declare, an' so they 'ave--the NAUGHTY creatures!" exclaimedMrs. Beamish in mock dismay. "But trust you, Mr. Smith, for sayin' theright thing. Jus' exackly like birds they are--so shy an' scared-like. But I'll give you the 'int, gents. They'll not be far away. Jus' youshow 'em two can play at that game. --Mr. S. , you know the h'arbour!"

"Should say I do! Many's the time I've anchored there, " cried Purdywith a guffaw. "Come, Dick!" And crossing to the window he straddledover the frame, and disappeared. 

Reluctantly Mahony followed him. 

From the verandah they went down into the vegetable-garden, where thedrab and tangled growths that had outlived the summer were beaten flatby the recent rains. At the foot of the garden, behind a clump ofgooseberry-bushes, stood an arbour formed of a yellow buddleia. Notrace of a petticoat was visible, so thick was the leafage; but a loudwhispering and tittering betrayed the fugitives. 

At the apparition of the young men, who stooped to the low entrance, there was a cascade of shrieks. 

"Oh, lor, 'OW you frightened me! 'Owever did you know we were 'ere?"

"You wicked fellow! Get away, will you! I 'ate the very sight ofyou!"--this from Tilly, as Purdy, his hands on her hips, gave her asmacking kiss. 

The other girls feared a like greeting; there were more squeaks andsqueals, and some ineffectual dives for the doorway. Purdy spread outhis arms. "Hi, look out, stop 'em, Dick! Now then, man, here's yourchance!"

Mahony stood blinking; it was dusk inside, after the dazzle of the sun. At this reminder of the foolish bet he had taken, he hurriedly seizedthe young woman who was next him, and embraced her. It chanced to beJinny. She screamed, and made a feint of feeling mortally outraged. Mahony had to dodge a box on the ears. 

But Purdy burst into a horselaugh, and held his sides. Without knowingwhy, Tilly joined in, and Jinny, too, was infected. When Purdy couldspeak, he blurted out: "Dick, you fathead!--you jackass!--you've muggedthe wrong one. "

At this clownish mirth, Mahony felt the blood boil up over ears andtemples. For an instant he stood irresolute. Did he admit the blunder, his victim would be hurt. Did he deny it, he would save his own face atthe expense of the other young woman's feelings. So, though he couldhave throttled Purdy he put a bold front on the matter. 

"CARPE DIEM is my motto, my boy! I intend to make both young ladies paytoll. "

His words were the signal for a fresh scream and flutter: the thirdyoung person had escaped, and was flying down the path. This called forchase and capture. She was not very agile but she knew the ground, which, outside the garden, was rocky and uneven. For a time, she hadMahony at vantage; his heart was not in the game: in cuttingundignified capers among the gooseberry-bushes he felt as foolish as aperforming dog. Then, however, she caught her toe in her dress andstumbled. He could not disregard the opportunity; he advanced upon her. 

But two beseeching hands fended him off. "No . .. No. Please . .. Oh, PLEASE, don't!"

This was no catchpenny coquetry; it was a genuine dread of unduefamiliarity. A kindred trait in Mahony's own nature rose to meet it. 

"Certainly not, if it is disagreeable to you. Shall we shake handsinstead?"

Two of the blackest eyes he had ever seen were raised to his, and aflushed face dimpled. They shook hands, and he offered his arm. 

Halfway to the arbour, they met the others coming to find them. Thegirls bore diminutive parasols; and Purdy, in rollicking spirits, Tillyon one arm, Jinny on the other, held Polly's above his head. On theappearance of the laggards, Jinny, who had put her own interpretationon the misplaced kiss, prepared to free her arm; but Purdy, winking athis friend, squeezed it to his side and held her prisoner. 

Tilly buzzed a word in his ear. 

"Yes, by thunder!" he ejaculated; and letting go of his companions, hespun round like a ballet-dancer. "Ladies! Let me introduce to you myfriend, Dr. Richard Townshend-Mahony, F. R. C. S. , M. D. , Edinburgh, atpresent proprietor of the 'Diggers' Emporium, ' Dead Dog Hill, Ballarat. --Dick, my hearty, Miss Tilly Beamish, world-famed for her sauce; MissJinny, renowned for her skill in casting the eyes of sheep; and, lastbut not least, pretty little Polly Perkins, alias Miss Polly Turnham, whose good deeds put those of Dorcas to the blush. "

The Misses Beamish went into fits of laughter, and Tilly hit Purdy overthe back with her parasol. 

But the string of letters had puzzled them, roused their curiosity. 

"What'n earth do they mean?--Gracious! So clever! It makes me feelquite queer. "

"Y'ought to 'ave told us before 'and, Purd, so's we could 'ave studiedup. "

However, a walk to a cave was under discussion, and Purdy urged themon. "Phoebus is on the wane, girls. And it's going to be damn coldto-night. "

Once more with the young person called Polly as companion, Mahonyfollowed after. He walked in silence, listening to the rattle of thethree in front. At best he was but a poor hand at the kind of reparteedemanded of their swains by these young women; and to-day his slendertalent failed him altogether, crushed by the general tone of vulgarlevity. Looking over at the horizon, which swam in a kind of gold-dusthaze below the sinking sun, he smiled thinly to himself at Purdy'sideas of wiving. 

Reminded he was not alone by feeling the hand on his arm tremble, heglanced down at his companion; and his eye was arrested by a neatlyparted head, of the glossiest black imaginable. 

He pulled himself together. "Your cousins are excellent walkers. "

"Oh, yes, very. But they are not my cousins. "

Mahony pricked up his ears. "But you live here?"

"Yes. I help moth . .. Mrs. Beamish in the house. "

But as if, with this, she had said too much, she grew tongue-tiedagain; and there was nothing more to be made of her. Taking pity on hertimidity, Mahony tried to put her at ease by talking about himself. Hedescribed his life on the diggings and the straits to which he was attimes reduced: the buttons affixed to his clothing by means ofgingerbeer-bottle wire; his periodic onslaughts on sock-darning; thecelebrated pudding it had taken him over four hours to make. And Polly, listening to him, forgot her desire to run away. Instead, she could nothelp laughing at the tales of his masculine shiftlessness. But as soonas they came in view of the others, Tilly and Purdy sitting under oneparasol on a rock by the cave, Jinny standing and looking out ratheraggressively after the loiterers, she withdrew her arm. 

"Moth . .. Mrs. Beamish will need me to help her with tea. And . .. AndWOULD you please walk back with Jinny?"

Before he could reply, she had turned and was hurrying away. 

They got home from the cave at sundown, he with the ripe Jinny hanginga dead weight on his arm, to find tea spread in the private parlour. The table was all but invisible under its load; and their hostesslooked as though she had been parboiled on her own kitchen fire. Shesat and fanned herself with a sheet of newspaper while, time and again, undaunted by refusals, she pressed the good things upon her guests. There were juicy beefsteaks piled high with rings of onion, and abarracoota, and a cold leg of mutton. There were apple-pies andjam-tarts, a dish of curds-and-whey and a jug of custard. Butter andbread were fresh and new; scones and cakes had just left the oven; andthe great cups of tea were tempered by pure, thick cream. 

To the two men who came from diggers' fare: cold chop for breakfast, cold chop for dinner and cold chop for tea: the meal was little shortof a banquet; and few words were spoken in its course. But the momentarrived when they could eat no more, and when even Mrs. Beamish ceasedto urge them. Pipes and pouches were produced; Polly and Jinny rose tocollect the plates, Tilly and her beau to sit on the edge of theverandah: they could be seen in silhouette against the rising moon, Tilly's head drooping to Purdy's shoulder. 

Mrs. Beamish looked from them to Mahony with a knowing smile, andwhispered behind her hand: "I do wish those two 'ud 'urry up an' makeup their minds, that I do! I'd like to see my Tilda settled. No offencemeant to young Smith. 'E's the best o' good company. But sometimes . .. Well, I cud jus' knock their 'eads together when they sit so close, an'say: come, give over yer spoonin' an' get to business! Either you wantone another or you don't. --I seen you watchin' our Polly, Mr. Mahony"--she made Mahony wince by stressing the second syllable of hisname. "Bless you, no--no relation whatsoever. She just 'elps a bit inthe 'ouse, an' is company for the girls. We tuck 'er in a year ago--'erown relations 'ad played 'er a dirty trick. Mustn't let 'er catch mesayin' so, though; she won't 'ear a word against 'em, and that's as itshould be. "

Looking round, and finding Polly absent from the room, she went on totell Mahony how Polly's eldest brother, a ten years' resident inMelbourne, had sent to England for the girl on her leaving school, tocome out and assist in keeping his house. And how an elder sister, whowas governessing in Sydney, had chosen just this moment to throw up herpost and return to quarter herself upon the brother. 

"An' so when Polly gets 'ere--a little bit of a thing in short frocks, in charge of the capt'n--there was no room for 'er, an' she 'ad to lookabout 'er for somethin' else to do. We tuck 'er in, an', I will say, I've never regretted it. Indeed I don't know now, 'ow we ever got onwithout 'er. --Yes, it's you I'm talkin' about, miss, singin' yerpraises, an' you needn't get as red as if you'd bin up to mischief!Pa'll say as much for you, too. "

"That I will!" said Mr. Beamish, opening his mouth for the first timeexcept to put food in it. "That I will, " and he patted Polly's hand. "The man as gits Polly'll git a treasure. "

Polly blushed, after the helpless, touching fashion of very youngcreatures: the blood stained her cheeks, mounted to her forehead, spread in a warm wave over neck and ears. To spare her, Mahony turnedhis head and looked out of the window. He would have liked to say: Runaway, child, run away, and don't let them see your confusion. Polly, however, went conscientiously about her task, and only left the roomwhen she had picked up her full complement of plates. --But she did notappear again that night. 

Deserted even by Mrs. Beamish, the two men pushed back their chairsfrom the table and drew tranquilly at their pipes. 

The innkeeper proved an odd, misty sort of fellow, exceedingly backwardat declaring himself; it was as though each of his heavy words had tobe fetched from a distance. "No doubt about it, it's the wife thatwears the breeches, " was Mahony's inward comment. And as one afteranother of his well-meant remarks fell flat: "Become almost adeaf-mute, it would seem, under the eternal female clacking. "

But for each mortal there exists at least one theme to fire him. In thecase of Beamish this turned out to be the Land Question. Before thegold discovery he had been a bush shepherd, he told Mahony, and, if hehad called the tune, he would have lived and died one. But the wife hadhad ambitions, the children were growing up, and every one knew what itwas when women got a maggot in their heads. There had been no peace forhim till he had chucked his twelve-year-old job and joined the rush toMount Alexander. But at heart he had remained a bushman; and he was nowall on the side of the squatters in their tussle with the Crown. Heknew a bit, he'd make bold to say, about the acreage needed in certaindistricts per head of sheep; he could tell a tale of the risks andmischances squatting involved: "If t'aint fire it's flood, an' if thewater passes you by it's the scab or the rot. " To his thinking, thegovernment's attempt to restrict the areas of sheep-runs, and to giveeffect to the "fourteen-year-clause" which limited the tenure, wereacts of folly. The gold supply would give out as suddenly as it hadbegun; but sheep would graze there till the crack of doom--the land wasfit for nothing else. 

Mahony thought this point of view lopsided. No new country could hopeto develop and prosper without a steady influx of the right kind ofpopulation and this the colony would never have, so long as theauthorities, by refusing to sell them land, made it impossible forimmigrants to settle there. Why, America was but three thousand milesdistant from the old country, compared with Australia's thirteenthousand, and in America land was to be had in plenty at five shillingsper acre. As to Mr. Beamish's idea of the gold giving out, thegeological formation of the goldfields rendered that improbable. Hesympathised with the squatters, who naturally enough believed theirrights to the land inalienable; but a government worthy of the namemust legislate with an eye to the future, not for the present alone. 

Their talk was broken by long gaps. In these, the resonant voice ofMrs. Beamish could be heard rebuking and directing her two handmaidens. 

"Now then, Jinny, look alive, an' don't ack like a dyin' duck in athunderstorm, or you'll never get back to do YOUR bit o' spoonin'!--Save them bones, Polly. Never waste an atom, my chuck--remember that, when you've got an 'ouse of your own! No, girls, I always says, throughtheir stomachs, that's the shortcut to their 'earts. The rest's on'yfal-de-lal-ing. "--On the verandah, in face of the vasty, star-spanglednight, Tilly's head had found its resting-place, and an arm lay roundher waist. 

"I shall make 'im cut off 'is beard first thing, " said Jinny thatnight: she was sitting half-undressed on the side of a big bed, whichthe three girls shared with one another. 

"Um! just you wait and see if it's as easy as you think, " retortedTilly from her pillow. Again Purdy had let slip a golden chance to putthe decisive question; and Tilly's temper was short in consequence. 

"Mrs. Dr. Mahony . .. Though I do wonder 'ow 'e ever keeps people fromsaying Ma-HON-y, " said Jinny dreamily. She, too, had spent some time instar-gazing, and believed she had ground for hope. 

"Just listen to 'er, will you!" said Tilly angrily. "Upon my word, Jinny Beamish, if one didn't know you 'ad the 'abit of marryingyourself off to every fresh cove you meet, one 'ud say you wasdownright bold!"

"YOU needn't talk! Every one can see you're as mad as can be becauseyou can't bring your old dot-and-go-one to the scratch. "

"Oh, hush, Jinny" said Polly, grieved at this thrust into Tilly's openwound. 

"Well, it's true. --Oh, look 'ere now, there's not a drop o' water inthis blessed jug again. 'Oo's week is it to fill it? Tilly B. , it'syours!"

"Serves you right. You can fetch it yourself. "

"Think I see myself!"

Polly intervened. "I'll go for it, Jinny. "

"What a little duck you are, Poll! But you shan't go alone. I'll carrythe candle. "

Tying on a petticoat over her bedgown, Polly took the ewer, and withJinny as torch-bearer set forth. There was still some noise in thepublic part of the house, beside the bar; but the passage was bare andquiet. The girls crept mousily past the room occupied by the two youngmen, and after several false alarms and suppressed chirps reached theback door, and filled the jug at the tap of the galvanised-iron tank. 

The return journey was not so successful. Just as they got level withthe visitors' room, they heard feet crossing the floor. Polly started;the water splashed over the neck of the jug, and fell with a loud plop. At this Jinny lost her head and ran off with the candle. Polly, in apanic of fright, dived into the pantry with her burden, and croucheddown behind a tub of fermenting gingerbeer. --And sure enough, a minuteafter, the door of the room opposite was flung open and a pair ofjackboots landed in the passage. 

Nor was this the worst: the door was not shut again but remained ajar. Through the chink, Polly, shrunk to her smallest--what if one of themshould feel hungry, and come into the pantry and discover her?--Pollyheard Purdy say with appalling loudness: "Oh, go on, old man-don't jawso!" He then seemed to plunge his head in the basin, for it was with achoke and a splutter that he next inquired: "And what did you think ofthe little 'un? Wasn't I right?"

There was the chink of coins handled, and the other voice answered:"Here's what I think. Take your money, my boy, and be done with it!"

"Dick!--Great Snakes! Why, damn it all, man, you don't mean to tellme. .. . "

"And understand, sir, in future, that I do not make bets where a ladyis concerned. "

"Oh, I know--only on the Tilly-Jinny-sort. And yet good Lord, Dick!"--the rest was drowned in a bawl of laughter. 

Under cover of it Polly took to her heels and fled, regardless of theopen door, or the padding of her bare feet on the boards. 

Without replying to the astonished Jinny's query in respect of thewater, she climbed over Tilly to her place beside the wall, andshutting her eyes very tight, drew the sheet over her face: it felt asthough it would never be cool again. --Hence, Jinny, agreeably wakeful, was forced to keep her thoughts to herself; for if you lie between twopeople, one of whom is in a bad temper, and the other fast asleep, youmight just as well be alone in bed. 

Next morning Polly alleged a headache and did not appear at breakfast. Only Jinny and Tilly stood on the verandah of romantic memories, andruefully waved their handkerchiefs, keeping it up till even the formsof horses were blurred in the distance. 

Chapter VII

His tent-home had never seemed so comfortless. He ended his solitaryride late at night and wet to the skin; his horse had cast a shoe farfrom any smithy. Long Jim alone came to the door to greet him. Theshopman, on whose doltish honesty Mahony would have staked his head, had profited by his absence to empty the cash-box and go off on thespree. -- Even one of the cats had met its fate in an old shaft, whereits corpse still swam. 

The following day, as a result of exposure and hard riding, Mahony wasattacked by dysentery; and before he had recovered, the goods arrivedfrom Melbourne. They had to be unloaded, at some distance from thestore, conveyed there, got under cover, checked off and arranged. Thiswas carried out in sheets of cold rain, which soaked the canvas wallsand made it doubly hard to get about the clay tracks that served asstreets. As if this were not enough, the river in front of the houserose--rose, and in two twos was over its banks--and he and Long Jimspent a night in their clothes, helping neighbours less fortunatelyplaced to move their belongings into safety. 

The lion's share of this work fell on him. Long Jim still carried hisarm in a sling, and was good for nothing but to guard the store andsummon Mahony on the appearance of customers. Since his accident, too, the fellow had suffered from frequent fits of colic or cramp, and wasfor ever slipping off to the township to find the spirits in which hisemployer refused to deal. For the unloading and warehousing of thegoods, it was true, old Ocock had loaned his sons; but the strict watchMahony felt bound to keep over this pretty pair far outweighed whattheir help was worth to him. 

Now it was Sunday evening, and for the first time for more than a weekhe could call his soul his own again. He stood at the door and watchedthose of his neighbours who were not Roman Catholics making for churchand chapel, to which half a dozen tinkly bells invited them. Theweather had finally cleared up, and a goodly number of people wadedpast him through the mire. Among them, in seemly Sabbath dress, wentOcock, with his two black sheep at heel. The old man was a rigidMethodist, and at a recent prayer-meeting had been moved to bear publicwitness to his salvation. This was no doubt one reason why the youngscapegrace Tom's almost simultaneous misconduct had been so bitter apill for him to swallow: while, through God's mercy, he was become anexemplar to the weaker brethren, a son of his made his name to stink inthe nostrils of the reputable community. Mahony liked to believe thatthere was good in everybody, and thought the intolerant harshness whichthe boy was subjected would defeat its end. Yet it was open to questionif clemency would have answered better. "Bad eggs, the brace of them!"had been his own verdict, after a week's trial of the lads. One wouldnot, the other apparently could not work. Johnny, the elder, was dulland liverish from intemperance; and the round-faced adolescent, thenews of whose fatherhood had raced the wind, was so sheep-faced, socraven, in the presence of his elders, that he could not say bo to abattledore. There was something unnatural about this fiercetimidity--and the doctor in Mahony caught a quick glimpse of theprobable reverse of the picture. 

But it was cold, in face of all this rain-soaked clay; cold blue-greyclouds drove across a washed-out sky; and he still felt unwell. Returning to his living-room where a small American stove was burning, he prepared for a quiet evening. In a corner by the fire stood an oldpacking-case. He lifted the lid and thrust his hand in: it was here hekept his books. He needed no light to see by; he knew each volume bythe feel. And after fumbling for a little among the tumbled contents, he drew forth a work on natural science and sat down to read. But hedid not get far; his brain was tired, intractable. Lighting his pipe, he tilted back his chair, laid the VESTIGES face downwards, and put hisfeet on the table. 

How differently bashfulness impressed one in the case of the weakersex! There, it was altogether pleasing. Young Ocock's gaucherie hadrecalled the little maid Polly's ingenuous confusion, at findingherself the subject of conversation. He had not once consciouslythought of Polly since his return. Now, when he did so, he found to hissurprise that she had made herself quite a warm little nest in hismemory. Looked back on, she stood out in high relief against hersomewhat graceless surroundings. Small doubt she was both maidenly andrefined. He also remembered with a sensible pleasure her brisk service, her consideration for others. What a boon it would have been, duringthe past week, to have a busy, willing little woman at work, with himand for him, behind the screen! As it was, for want of a helping handthe place was like a pigsty. He had had neither time nor energy toclean up. The marks of hobnailed boots patterned the floor; loose mud, and crumbs from meals, had been swept into corners or under thestretcher-bed; while commodities that had overflowed the shop added tothe disorder. Good Lord, no! . .. No place this for a woman. 

He rose and moved restlessly about, turning things over with his foot:these old papers should be burnt, and that heap of straw-packing; thoseempty sardine and coffee-tins be thrown into the refuse-pit. Scrubbedand clean, it was by no means an uncomfortable room; and the stove drewwell. He was proud of his stove; many houses had not even a chimney. Hestood and stared at it; but his thoughts were elsewhere: he foundhimself trying to call to mind Polly's face. Except for a pair of bigblack eyes--magnificent eyes they seemed to him in retrospect--he hadcarried away with him nothing of her outward appearance. Yes, stay!--her hair: her hair was so glossy that, when the sun caught it, high lights came out on it--so much he remembered. From this he fell towondering whether her brain kept pace with her nimble hands and ways. Was she stupid or clever? He could not tolerate stupidity. And Pollyhad given him no chance to judge her; had hardly opened her lips beforehim. What a timid little thing she was to be sure! He should have madeit his business to draw her out, by being kind and encouraging. Insteadof which he had acted towards her, he felt convinced, like anill-mannered boor. 

He did not know how it was, but he couldn't detach his thoughts fromPolly this evening: to their accompaniment he paced up and down. All ofa sudden he stood still, and gave a short, hearty laugh. He had justseen, in a kind of phantom picture, the feet of the sisters Beamish asthey sat on the verandah edge: both young women wore flat sandal-shoes. And so that neatest of neat ankles had been little Polly's property!For his life he loved a well-turned ankle in a woman. 

A minute later he sat down at the table again. An idea had occurred tohim: he would write Polly a letter--a letter that called foracknowledgment--and form an opinion of the girl from her reply. Takinga sheet of thin blue paper and a magnum bonum pen he wrote:

DEAR MISS TURNHAM, I WONDER IF I MIGHT ASK YOU TO DO ME A FAVOUR? ON GETTING BACK TOBALLARAT, I FIND THAT THE RAIN HAS SPOILT MY STORE FLAG. WOULD YOU BESO KIND AS TO MAKE ME A NEW ONE? I HAVE NO LADY FRIENDS HERE TO APPLYTO FOR HELP, AND I AM SURE YOU ARE CLEVER WITH YOUR NEEDLE. IF YOUCONSENT, I WILL SEND YOU THE OLD FLAG AS A PATTERN, AND STUFF FOR THENEW ONE. MY KIND REGARDS TO ALL AT THE HOTEL. 

FAITHFULLY YOURS, RICHARD TOWNSHEND-MAHONY. 

P. S. I HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN OUR PLEASANT WALK TO THE CAVE. 

He went out to the post with it himself. In one hand he carried theletter, in the other the candle-end stuck in a bottle that was known asa "Ballarat-lantern" for it was a pitchdark night. 

Trade was slack; in consequence he found the four days that had to passbefore he could hope for an answer exceptionally long. After theirlapse, he twice spent an hour at the Post Office, in a fruitlessattempt to get near the little window. On returning from the second ofthese absences, he found the letter waiting for him; it had beendelivered by hand. 

So far good: Polly had risen to his fly! He broke the seal. 

DEAR SIR, I shall be happy to help you with your new flag if I am able. Will youkindly send the old one and the stuff down by my brother, who is comingto see me on Saturday. He is working at Rotten Gully, and his name isNed. I do not know if I sew well enough to please you, but I will do mybest. 

I REMAIN, YOURS TRULY, MARY TURNHAM. 

Mahony read, smiled and laid the letter down--only to pick it up again. It pleased him, did this prim little note: there was just the rightshade of formal reserve about it. Then he began to study particulars:grammar and spelling were correct; the penmanship was in the Italianstyle, minute, yet flowing, the letters dowered with generous loops andtails. But surely he had seen this writing before? By Jupiter, yes!This was the hand of the letter Purdy had shown him on the road toMelbourne. The little puss! So she not only wrote her own letters, butthose of her friends as well. In that case she was certainly not stupidfor she was much the youngest of the three. 

To-day was Thursday. Summoning Long Jim from his seat behind thecounter, Mahony dispatched him to Rotten Gully, with an injunction notto show himself till he had found a digger of the name of Turnham. Andhaving watched Jim set out, at a snail's pace and murmuring to himself, Mahony went into the store, and measured and cut off material for thenew flag, from two different coloured rolls of stuff. 

It was ten o'clock that night before Polly's brother presented himself. Mahony met him at the door and drew him in: the stove crackled, theroom was swept and garnished--he flattered himself that the report onhis habitat would be a favourable one. Ned's appearance gave him apleasant shock: it was just as if Polly herself, translated into maleterms, stood before him. No need, now, to cudgel his brains for herimage! In looking at Ned, he looked again at Polly. The wide-awake off, the same fine, soft, black hair came to light--here, worn rather longand curly--the same glittering black eyes, ivory-white skin, short, straight nose; and, as he gazed, an offshoot of Mahony's consciousnesswondered from what quarter this middle-class English family fetched itsdark, un-English strain. 

In the beginning he exerted himself to set the lad at ease. He soonsaw, however, that he might spare his pains. Though clearly not muchmore than eighteen years old, Ned Turnharn had the aplomb and assuranceof double that age. Lolling back in the single armchair the roomboasted, he more than once stretched out his hand and helped himselffrom the sherry bottle Mahony had placed on the table. And thedisparity in their ages notwithstanding, there was no trace ofdeference in his manner. Or the sole hint of it was: he sometimessmothered a profane word, or apologised, with a winning smile, for anoath that had slipped out unawares. Mahony could not accustom him selfto the foul language that formed the diggers' idiom. Here, in the caseof Polly's brother, he sought to overlook the offence, or to lay theblame for it on other shoulders: at his age, and alone, the boy shouldnever have been plunged into this Gehenna. 

Ned talked mainly of himself and his doings. But other facts alsotranspired, of greater interest to his hearer. Thus Mahony learnedthat, out of a family of nine, four had found their way to the colony, and a fifth was soon to follow--a mere child this, on the under side offifteen. He gathered, too, that the eldest brother, John by name, wasregarded as a kind of Napoleon by the younger fry. At thirty, this Johnwas a partner in the largest wholesale dry-goods' warehouse inMelbourne. He had also married money, and intended in due course tostand for the Legislative Council. Behind Ned's windy bragging Mahonythought he discerned tokens of a fond, brotherly pride. If this wereso, the affair had its pathetic side; for, from what the boy said, itwas evident that the successful man of business held his relatives atarm's length. And as Ned talked on, Mahony conceived John to himself asa kind of electro-magnet, which, once it had drawn these lessercreatures after it, switched off the current and left them to their owndevices. Ned, young as he was, had tried his hand at many trades. Atpresent he was working as a hired digger; but this, only till he couldstrike a softer job. Digging was not for him, thank you; what youearned at it hardly repaid you for the sweat you dripped. His everysecond word, indeed, was of how he could amass most money with theminimum of bodily exertion. 

This calculating, unyouthful outlook was repugnant to Mahony, and forall his goodwill, the longer he listened to Ned, the cooler he felthimself grow. Another disagreeable impression was left by the grudging, if-nothing-better-turns-up fashion, in which Ned accepted an impulsiveoffer on his part to take him into the store. It was made on the spurof the moment, and Mahony had qualms about it while his words werestill warm on the air, realizing that the overture was aimed, not atNed in person, but at Ned as Polly's brother. But his intuition did notreconcile him to Ned's luke-warmness; he would have preferred astraight refusal. The best trait he could discover in the lad was hisaffection for his sister. This seemed genuine: he was going to see heragain--getting a lift halfway, tramping the other twenty odd miles--atthe end of the week. Perhaps though, in the case of such a youngopportunist, the thought of Mrs. Beamish's lavish board played no smallpart; for Ned had a rather lean, underfed look. But this only occurredto Mahony afterwards. Then, his chief vexation was with himself: itwould have been kinder to set a dish of solid food before the boy, inplace of the naked sherry-bottle. But as usual, his hospitable leaningscame too late. 

One thing more. As he lighted Ned and his bundle of stuff through theshop, he was impelled to slip a coin into the boy's hand, with amurmured apology for the trouble he had put him to. And a something, the merest nuance in Ned's manner of receiving and pocketing the money, flashed the uncomfortable suspicion through the giver's mind that ithad been looked for, expected. And this was the most unpleasant touchof all. 

But, bless his soul! did not most large families include at least onepoorish specimen?--he had got thus far, by the time he came to wind uphis watch for the night. And next day he felt sure he had judged Nedover-harshly. His first impressions of people--he had had occasion todeplore the fact before now--were apt to be either dead white or blackas ink; the web of his mind took on no half tints. The boy had notbetrayed any actual vices; and time might be trusted to knock thebluster out of him. With this reflection Mahony dismissed Ned from hismind. He had more important things to think of, chief among which washis own state with regard to Ned's sister. And during the fortnightthat followed he went about making believe to weigh this matter, toview it from every coign; for it did not suit him, even in secret, toconfess to the vehemence with which, when he much desired a thing, histemperament knocked flat the hurdles of reason. The truth was, his mindwas made up--and had been, all along. At the earliest possibleopportunity, he was going to ask Polly to be his wife. 

Doubts beset him of course. How could he suppose that a girl who knewnothing of him, who had barely seen him, would either want or consentto marry him? And even if--for "if's" were cheap--she did say yes, would it be fair of him to take her out of a comfortable home, awayfrom friends--such as they were!--of her own sex, to land her in thesecrude surroundings, where he did not know a decent woman to bear hercompany? Yet there was something to be said for him, too. He was verylonely. Now that Purdy had gone he was reduced, for society, to theLong Jims and Ococks of the place. What would he not give, once more tohave a refined companion at his side? Certainly marriage might postponethe day on which he hoped to shake the dust of Australia off his feet. Life A DEUX would mean a larger outlay; saving not prove so easy. Stillit could be done; and he would gladly submit to the delay if, by doingso, he could get Polly. Besides, if this new happiness came to him, itwould help him to see the years he had spent in the colony in a truerand juster light. And then, when the hour of departure did strike, whata joy to have a wife to carry with one--a Polly to rescue, to restoreto civilisation!

He had to remind himself more than once, during this fortnight, thatshe would be able to devote only a fraction of her day to flagmaking. But he was at the end of his tether by the time a parcel and a letterwere left for him at the store--again by hand: little Polly had plainlyno sixpences to spare. The needlework as perfect, of course; he hardlyglanced at it, even when he had opened and read the letter. This was ofthe same decorous nature as the first. Polly returned a piece of stuffthat had remained over. He had really sent material enough for twoflags, she wrote; but she had not wished to keep him waiting so long. And then, in a postscript:

MR. SMITH WAS HERE LAST SUNDAY. I AM TO SAY MRS. BEAMISH WOULD BE VERYPLEASED IF YOU ALSO WOULD CALL AGAIN TO SEE US. 

He ran the flag up to the top of his forty-foot staff and wrote:--

WHAT I WANT TO KNOW, MISS POLLY, IS, WOULD YOU BE GLAD TO SEE ME?

But Polly was not to be drawn. 

WE SHOULD ALL BE VERY PLEASED. 

Some days previously Mahony had addressed a question to, Henry Ocock. With this third letter from Polly, he held the lawyer's answer in hishand. It was unsatisfactory. 

YOURSELF ATS. BOLLIVER. WE THINK THAT ACTION WILL BE SET DOWN FOR TRIALIN ABOUT SIX WEEKS' TIME. IN THESE CIRCUMSTANCES WE DO NOT THINK ANYUSEFUL PURPOSE WILL BE SERVED BY YOU CALLING TO SEE US UNTIL THIS ISDONE. WE SHOULD BE GLAD IF YOU WOULD CALL AFTER THE ACTION IS ENTERED. 

Six weeks' time? The man might as well have said a year. And meanwhilePurdy was stealing a march on him, was paying clandestine visits toGeelong. Was it conceivable that anyone in his five senses could preferTilly to Polly? It was not. In the clutch of a sudden fear Mahony wentto Bath's and ordered a horse for the following morning. 

This time he left his store in charge of a young consumptive, whoseplight had touched his heart: the poor fellow was stranded on Ballaratwithout a farthing, having proved, like many another of his physique, quite unfit for work on the diggings. A strict Baptist this Hempel, andone who believed hell-fire would be his portion if he so much asguessed at the "plant" of his employer's cash-box. He also pledged hisword to bear and forbear with Long Jim. The latter saw himselfsuperseded with an extreme bad grace, and was in no hurry to find a newjob. 

Mahony's nag was in good condition, and he covered the distance in atrifle over six hours. 

He had evidently hit on the family washing-day. The big boiler in theyard belched clouds of steam; the female inmates of the Hotel weregathered in the out-house: he saw them through the door as he rode inat the gate. All three girls stood before tubs, their sleeves rolledup, their arms in the lather. At his apparition there was acharacteristic chorus of cheeps and shrills and the door was banged to. Mrs. Beamish alone came out to greet him. She was moist and blown, andsmelt of soap. 

Not in a mood to mince matters, he announced straightway the object ofhis visit. He was prepared for some expression of surprise on the partof the good woman; but the blend of sheep-faced amazement and uncivilincredulity to which she subjected him made him hot and angry; and hevouchsafed no further word of explanation. 

Mrs. Beamish presently so far recovered as to be able to finish wipingthe suds from her fat red arms. 

Thereafter, she gave way to a very feminine weakness. 

"Well, and now I come to think of it, I'm blessed if I didn't suspecksomethin' of it, right from the first! Why, didn't I say to Beamish, with me own lips, 'ow you couldn't 'ardly take your eyes off 'er? Well, well, I'm sure I wish you every 'appiness--though 'ow we're h'evergoin' to get on without Polly, I reelly don't know. Don't I wish it 'adbin one o' my two as 'ad tuck your fancy--that's all! Between you an'me, I don't believe a blessed thing's goin' to come of all youngSmith's danglin' round. An' Polly's still a bit young--only just turnedsixteen. Not as she's any the worse o' that though; you'll get 'erh'all the easier into your ways. An' now I mus' look smart, an' get youa bite o' somethin' after your ride. "

In vain did Mahony assure her that he had lunched on the road. He didnot know Mrs. Beamish. He was forced not only to sit down to the mealshe spread, but also, under her argus eye, to eat of it. 

When after a considerable delay Polly at length appeared, she hadremoved all traces of the tub. The hand was cold that he took in his, as he asked her if she would walk with him to the cave. 

This time, she trembled openly. Like a lamb led to the slaughter, hethought, looking down at her with tender eyes. Small doubt that vulgarcreature within-doors had betrayed him to Polly, and exaggerated theordeal that lay before her. When once she was his wife he would notconsent to her remaining intimate with people of the Beamishes' kidney:what a joy to get her out of their clutches! Nor should she spoil herpretty shape by stooping over a wash-tub. 

In his annoyance he forgot to moderate his pace. Polly had to trip manysmall steps to keep up with him. When they reached the entrance to thecave, she was flushed and out of breath. 

Mahony stood and looked down at her. How young she was . .. How youngand innocent! Every feature of her dear little face still waited, as itwere, for the strokes of time's chisel. It should be the care of hislife that none but the happiest lines were graved upon its precioussurface. 

"Polly, " he said, fresh from his scrutiny. "Polly, I'm not going tobeat about the bush with you. I think you know I came here to-day onlyto see you. "

Polly's head drooped further forward; now, the rim of her bonnet hidher face. 

"You aren't afraid of me, are you, Polly?"

Oh, no, she was not afraid. 

"Nor have you forgotten me?"

Polly choked a little, in her attempt to answer. She could not tell himthat she had carried his letters about with her by day, and slept withthem under her pillow; that she knew every word in them by heart, andhad copied and practised the bold flourish of the Dickens-likesignature; that she had never let his name cross her lips; that shethought him the kindest, handsomest, cleverest man in the world, andwould willingly have humbled herself to the dust before him: all thisboiled and bubbled in her, as she brought forth her poor little "no. "

"Indeed, I hope not, " went on Mahony. "Because, Polly, I've come to askyou if you will be my wife. "

Rocks, trees, hills, suddenly grown tipsy, went see-sawing round Polly, when she heard these words said. She shut her eyes, and hid her face inher hands. Such happiness seemed improbable--was not to be grasped. "Me? . .. Your wife?" she stammered through her fingers. 

"Yes, Polly. Do you think you could learn to care for me a little, mydear? No, don't be in a hurry to answer. Take your own time. "

But she needed none. With what she felt to be a most unmaidenlyeagerness, yet could not subdue, she blurted out: "I know I could. I. .. I do. "

"Thank God!" said Mahony. "Thank God for that!"

He let his arms fall to his sides; he found he had been holding themstiffly out from him. He sat down. "And now take away your hands, Polly, and let me see your face. Don't be ashamed of showing me whatyou feel. This is a sacred moment for us. We are promising to take eachother, you know, for richer for poorer, for better for worse--as thegood old words have it. And I must warn you, my dear, you are notmarrying a rich man. I live in a poor, rough place, and have only apoor home to offer you. Oh, I have had many scruples about asking youto leave your friends to come and share it with me, Polly my love!"

"I'm not afraid. I am strong. I can work. "

"And I shall take every care of you. Please God, you will never regretyour choice. "

They were within sight of the house where they sat; and Mahony imaginedrude, curious eyes. So he did not kiss her. Instead, he drew her armthough his, and together they paced up and down the path they had comeby, while he laid his plans before her, and confessed to the dreams hehad dreamt of their wedded life. It was a radiant afternoon in thedistance the sea lay deep blue, with turquoise shallows; a great whitebird of a ship, her canvas spread to the breeze, was making for . .. Why, to-day he did not care whether for port or for "home"; the sunwent down in a blaze behind a bank of emerald green. And little Pollyagreed with everything he said--was all one lovely glow ofacquiescence. He thought no happier mortal than himself trod the earth. 

Chapter VIII

Mahony remained at the Hotel till the following afternoon, then walkedto Geelong and took the steam-packet to Melbourne. The object of hisjourney was to ask Mr. John Turnham's formal sanction to his marriage. Polly accompanied him a little way on his walk. And whenever he lookedback he saw her standing fluttering her handkerchief--a small, solitaryfigure on the bare, red road. 

He parted from her with a sense of leaving his most precious possessionbehind, so close had words made the tie. On the other hand, he was notsorry to be out of range for a while of the Beamish family's banter. This had set in, the evening before, as soon as he and Polly returnedto the house--pacing the deck of the little steamer, he writhed anew atthe remembrance. Jokes at their expense had been cracked all throughsupper: his want of appetite, for instance, was the subject of a dozencrude insinuations; and this, though everyone present knew that he hadeaten a hearty meal not two hours previously; had been kept up till hegrew stony and savage, and Polly, trying hard not to mind but red tothe rims of her ears, slipped out of the room. Supper over, Mrs. Bearnish announced in a loud voice that the verandah was at thedisposal of the "turtle-doves. " She no doubt expected them to bill andcoo in public, as Purdy and Matilda had done. On edge at the thought, he drew Polly into the comparative seclusion of the garden. Here theystrolled up and down, their promenade bounded at the lower end by thedense-leaved arbour under which they had first met. In its screeningshadow he took the kiss he had then been generous enough to forgo. 

"I think I loved you, Polly, directly I saw you. "

In the distance a clump of hills rose steep and bare from the wasteland by the sea's edge--he could see them at this moment as he leantover the taffrail: with the sun going down behind them they were thecolour of smoked glass. Last night they had been white with moonlight, which lay spilled out upon them like milk. Strange old hills! Standingthere unchanged, unshaken, from time immemorial, they made the troththat had been plighted under their shield seem pitifully frail. Andyet. .. . The vows which Polly and he had found so new, so wonderful;were not these, in truth, as ancient as the hills themselves, and asundying? Countless generations of human lovers had uttered them. Thelovers passed, but the pledges remained: had put on immortality. 

In the course of their talk it leaked out that Polly would not feelcomfortable till her choice was ratified by brother John. 

"I'm sure you will like John; he is so clever. "

"I shall like everyone belonging to you, my Polly!"

As she lost her shyness Mahony made the discovery that she laughedeasily, and was fond of a jest. Thus, when he admitted to her that hefound it difficult to distinguish one fair, plump, sister Beamish fromthe other; that they seemed to him as much alike as two firm, pink-ribbed mushrooms, the little woman was hugely tickled by his hismasculine want of perception. "Why, Jinny has brown eyes and Tillyblue!"

What he did not know, and what Polly did not confess to him, was thatmuch of her merriment arose from sheer lightness of heart. --She, sillygoose that she was! who had once believed Jinny to be the picked objectof his attentions. 

But she grew serious again: could he tell her, please, why Mr. Smithwrote so seldom to Tilly? Poor Tilly was unhappy at his longsilences--fretted over them in bed at night. 

Mahony made excuses for Purdy, urging his unsettled mode of life. Butit pleased him to see that Polly took sides with her friend, andloyally espoused her cause. 

No, there had not been a single jarring note in all their intercourse;each moment had made the dear girl dearer to him. Now, worse luck, forty odd miles were between them again. 

It had been agreed that he should call at her brother's private house, towards five o'clock in the afternoon. He had thus to kill time for thebetter part of the next day. His first visit was to a jeweller's inGreat Collins Street. Here, he pushed aside a tray of showy diamonds--asuccessful digger was covering the fat, red hands of his bride withthem--and chose a slender, discreetly chased setting, containing threesmall stones. No matter what household duties fell to Polly's share, this little ring would not be out of place on her finger. 

From there he went to the last address Purdy had given him; only tofind that the boy had again disappeared. Before parting from Purdy, thetime before, he had lent him half the purchase-money for a horse anddray, thus enabling him to carry out an old scheme of plying for hireat the city wharf. According to the landlord of the "Hotel Vendome, " towhom Mahony was referred for fuller information, Purdy had soon tiredof this job, and selling dray and beast for what he could get had goneoff on a new rush to "Simson's Diggings" or the "White Hills. " Smallwonder Miss Tilly was left languishing for news of him. 

Pricked by the nervous disquietude of those who have to do with thelaw, Mahony next repaired to his solicitor's office. But Henry Ocockwas closeted with a more important client. This, Grindle the clerk, whom he met on the stairs, informed him, with an evident relish, andwith some hidden, hinted meaning in the corners of his shifty littleeyes. It was lost on Mahony, who was not the man to accept hints from astranger. 

The hour was on lunch-time; Grindle proposed that they should gotogether to a legal chop-house, which offered prime value for yourmoney, and where, over the meal, he would give Mahony the latest newsof his suit. At a loss how to get through the day, the latter followedhim--he was resolved, too, to practise economy from now on. But when hesat down to a dirty cloth and fly-spotted cruet he regretted hiscompliance. Besides, the news Grindle was able to give him amounted tonothing; the case had not budged since last he heard of it. Worse stillwas the clerk's behaviour. For after lauding the cheapness of theestablishment, Grindle disputed the price of each item on the "meenew, "and, when he came to pay his bill, chuckled over having been able todiddle the waiter of a penny. 

He was plainly one of those who feel the constant need of an audience. And since there was no office-boy present, for him to dazzle with hiswit, he applied himself to demonstrating to his table-companion what asad, sad dog he was. 

"Women are the deuce, sir, " he asserted, lying back in his chair andsending two trails of smoke from his nostrils. "The very deuce! Youshould hear my governor on the subject! He'd tickle your ears for you. Look here, I'll give you the tip: this move, you know, to Ballarat, that he's drivin' at: what'ull you bet me there isn't a woman in thecase? Fact! 'Pon my word there is. And a devilish fine woman, too!" Heshut one eye and laid a finger along his nose. "You won't blow thegab?--that's why you couldn't have your parleyvoo this morning. Whenmilady comes to town H. O. 's NON EST as long as she's here. And shewith a hubby of her own, too! What 'ud our old pa say to that, eh?"

Mahony, who could draw in his feelers no further than he had done, touched the limit of his patience. "My connexion with Mr. Ocock is apurely business one. I have no intention of trespassing on his privateaffairs, or of having them thrust upon me. Carver, my bill!"

Bowing distantly he stalked out of the eating-house and back to the"Criterion, " where he dined. "So much for a maiden attempt at economy!"

Towards five o'clock he took his seat in an omnibus that plied betweenthe city and the seaside suburb of St. Kilda, three miles off. A coolbreeze went; the hoofs of the horses beat a rataplan on the hardsurface; the great road, broad enough to make three of, was alive withsmart gigs and trotters. 

St. Kilda was a group of white houses facing the Bay. Most were o'weatherboard with brick chimneys; but there were also a few of a moresolid construction. Mahony's goal was one of these: a low, stone villasurrounded by verandahs, in the midst of tasteful grounds. The drive upto the door led through a shrubbery, artfully contrived of the nativeti-tree; behind the house stretched kitchen and fruit-gardens. Manyrare plants grew in the beds. There was a hedge of geraniums close onfifteen feet high. 

His knock was answered by a groom, who made a saucy face: Mr. Turnhamand his lady were attending the Governor's ball this evening and didnot receive. Mahony insisted on the delivery of his visiting-card. Andsince the servant still blocked the entrance he added: "Inform yourmaster, my man, that I am the bearer of a message from his sister, MissMary Turnham. "

The man shut him out, left him standing on the verandah. After alengthy absence, he returned, and with a "Well, come along in then!"opened the door of a parlour. This was a large room, well furnished inhorsehair and rep. Wax-lights stood on the mantelpiece before agilt-framed pierglass; coloured prints hung on the walls. 

While Mahony was admiring the genteel comfort to which he had long beena stranger, John Turnham entered the room. He had a quiet tread, buttook determined strides at the floor. In his hand he held Mahony'scard, and he looked from Mahony to it and back again. 

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr. .. . Er . .. Mahony?" he asked, refreshing his memory with a glance at the pasteboard. He spoke in thebrusque tone of one accustomed to run through many applicants in thecourse of an hour. "I understand that you make use of my sister Mary'sname. " And, as Mahony did not instantly respond, he snapped out: "Mytime is short, sir!"

A tinge of colour mounted to Mahony's cheeks. He answered with equalstiffness: "That is so. I come from Mr. William Beamish's 'FamilyHotel, ' and am commissioned to bring you your sister's warm love andregards. "

John Turnham bowed; and waited. 

"I have also to acquaint you with the fact, " continued Mahony, gathering hauteur as he went, "that the day before yesterday I proposedmarriage to your sister, and that she did me the honour of acceptingme. "

"Ah, indeed!" said John Turnham, with a kind of ironic snort. "And mayI ask on what ground you--"

"On the ground, sir, that I have a sincere affection for Miss Turnham, and believe it lies in my power to make her happy. "

"Of that, kindly allow me to judge. My sister is a mere child--tooyoung to know her own mind. Be seated. "

To a constraining, restraining vision of little Polly, Mahony obeyed, stifling the near retort that she was not too young to earn her livingamong strangers. The two men faced each other on opposite sides of thetable. John Turnham had the same dark eyes and hair, the same short, straight nose as his brother and sister, but not their exotic pallor. His skin was bronzed; and his large, scarlet mouth supplied a vividdash of colour. He wore bushy side-whiskers. 

"And now, Mr. Mahony, I will ask you a blunt question. I receiveletters regularly from my sister, but I cannot recall her ever havingmentioned your name. Who and what are you?"

"Who am I?" flared up Mahony. "A gentleman like yourself, sir!--thougha poor one. As for Miss Turnham not mentioning me in her letters, thatis easily explained. I only had the pleasure of making her acquaintancefive or six weeks ago. "

"You are candid, " said Polly's brother, and smiled without unclosinghis lips. "But your reply to my question tells me nothing. May I askwhat . .. Er . .. Under what . .. Er . .. Circumstances you came out to thecolony, in the first instance?"

"No, sir, you may not!" cried Mahony, and flung up from his seat; hescented a deadly insult in the question. 

"Come, come, Mr. Mahony, " said Turnham in a more conciliatory tone. "Nothing is gained by being techy. And my inquiry is not unreasonable. You are an entire stranger to me; my sister has known you but for a fewweeks, and is a young and inexperienced girl into the bargain. You tellme you are a gentleman. Sir! I had as lief you said you were ablacksmith. In this grand country of ours, where progress is thewatchword, effete standards and dogging traditions must go by theboard. Grit is of more use to us than gentility. Each single bricklayerwho unships serves the colony better than a score of gentlemen. "

"In that I am absolutely not at one with you, Mr. Turnham, " said Mahonycoldly. He had sat down again, feeling rather ashamed of his violence. "Without a leaven of refinement, the very raw material of which theexisting population is composed--"

But Turnham interrupted him. "Give 'em time, sir, give 'em time. Godbless my soul! Rome wasn't built in a day. But to resume. I haverepeatedly had occasion to remark in what small stead the training thatfits a man for a career in the old country stands him here. And that iswhy I am dissatisfied with your reply. Show me your muscles, sir, giveme a clean bill of health, tell me if you have learnt a trade and canpay your way. See, I will be frank with you. The position I occupyto-day I owe entirely to my own efforts. I landed in the colony tenyears ago, when this marvellous city of ours was little more than avillage settlement. I had but five pounds in my pocket. To-day I am apartner in my firm, and intend, if all goes well, to enter parliament. Hence I think I may, without presumption, judge what makes for successhere, and of the type of man to attain it. Work, hard work, is the keyto all doors. So convinced am I of this, that I have insisted on theyounger members of my family learning betimes to put their shoulders tothe wheel. Now, Mr. Mahony, I have been open with you. Be equally frankwith me. You are an Irishman?"

Candour invariably disarmed Mahony--even lay a little heavy on him, with the weight of an obligation. He retaliated with a light touch ofself-depreciation. "An Irishman, sir, in a country where the Irish havefallen, and not without reason, into general disrepute. "

Over a biscuit and a glass of sherry he gave a rough outline of thecircumstances that had led to his leaving England, two yearspreviously, and of his dismayed arrival in what he called "the cesspoolof 1852". 

"Thanks to the rose-water romance of the English press, many a youngman of my day was enticed away from a modest competency, to seek hisfortune here, where it was pretended that nuggets could be gatheredlike cabbages--I myself threw up a tidy little country practice. .. . Imight mention that medicine was my profession. It would have given meintense satisfaction, Mr. Turnham, to see one of those glib journalistsin my shoes, or the shoes of some of my messmates on the OCEAN QUEEN. There were men aboard that ship, sir, who were reduced to beggarybefore they could even set foot on the road to the north. Granted it isthe duty of the press to encourage emigration--"

"Let the press be, Mahony, " said Turnham: he had sat back, crossed hislegs, and put his thumbs in his armholes. "Let it be. What we need hereis colonists--small matter how we get 'em. "

Having had his say, Mahony scamped the recital of his own sufferings:the discomforts of the month he had been forced to spend in Melbournegetting his slender outfit together; the miseries of the tramp toBallarat on delicate unused feet, among the riff-raff of nations, undera wan December sky, against which the trunks of the gum-trees rosewhiter still, and out of which blazed a copper sun with a misty rim. Hescamped, too, his six-months' attempt at digging--he had been no morefit for the work than a child. Worn to skin and bone, his smallremaining strength sucked out by dysentery, he had in the end barteredhis last pinch of gold-dust for a barrow-load of useful odds and ends;and this had formed the nucleus of his store. Here, fortune had smiledon him; his flag hardly set a-flying custom had poured in, businessgone up by leaps and bounds--"Although I have never sold so much as apint of spirits, sir!" His profits for the past six months equalled aclear three hundred, and he had most of this to the good. With a wifeto keep, expenses would naturally be heavier; but he should continue tolay by every spare penny, with a view to getting back to England. 

"You have not the intention, then, of remaining permanently in thecolony?"

"Not the least in the world. "

"H'm, " said John: he was standing on the hearthrug now, his legs apart. "That, of course, puts a different complexion on the matter. Still, Imay say I am entirely reassured by what you have told me--entirely so. Indeed, you must allow me to congratulate you on the good sense youdisplayed in striking while the iron was hot. Many a one of yourmedical brethren, sir, would have thought it beneath his dignity toturn shopkeeper. And now, Mr. Mahony, I will wish you good day; weshall doubtless meet again before very long. Nay, one moment! There arecases, you will admit, in which a female opinion is not without value. Besides, I should be pleased for you to see my wife. "

He crossed the hall, tapped at a door and cried: "Emma, my love, willyou give us the pleasure of your company?"

In response to this a lady entered, whom Mahony thought one of the mostbeautiful women he had ever seen. She carried a yearling infant in herarms, and with one hand pressed its pale flaxen poll against the rich, ripe corn of her own hair, as if to dare comparison. Her cheeks were ofa delicate rose pink. 

"My love, " said Turnham--and one felt that the word was no mere flowerof speech. "My love, here is someone who wishes to marry our Polly. "

"To marry our Polly?" echoed the lady, and smiled a faint, amusedsmile--it was as though she said: to marry this infant that I bear onmy arm. "But Polly is only a little girl!"

"My very words, dearest. And too young to know her own mind. "

"But you will decide for her, John. "

John hung over his beautiful wife, wheeled up an easy chair, arrangedher in it, placed a footstool. "Pray, pray, do not overfatigueyourself, Emma! That child is too heavy for you, " he objected, as thebabe made strenuous efforts to kick itself to its feet. "You know I donot approve of you carrying it yourself. "

"Nurse is drinking tea. "

"But why do I keep a houseful of domestics if one of the others cannotoccasionally take her place?"

He made an impetuous step towards the bell. Before he could reach itthere came a thumping at the door, and a fluty voice cried: "Lemme in, puppa, lemme in!"

Turnham threw the door open, and admitted a sturdy two-year-old, whomhe led forward by the hand. "My son, " he said, not without pride. Mahony would have coaxed the child to him; but it ran to its mother, hid its face in her lap. 

Forgetting the bell John struck an attitude. "What a picture!" heexclaimed. "What a picture! My love, I positively must carry out myintention of having you painted in oils, with the children round you. --Mr. Mahony, sir, have you ever seen anything to equal it?"

Though his mental attitude might have been expressed by a note ofexclamation, set ironically, Mahony felt constrained to secondTurnham's enthusiasm. And it was indeed a lovely picture: the gracious, golden-haired woman, whose figure had the amplitude, her gestures thealmost sensual languor of the young nursing mother; the two childrenfawning at her knee, both ash-blond, with vivid scarlet lips. --"Ithelps one, " thought Mahony, "to understand the mother-worship ofprimitive peoples. "

The nursemaid summoned and the children borne off, Mrs. Emma exchangeda few amiable words with the visitor, then obeyed with an equally goodgrace her husband's command to rest for an hour, before dressing forthe ball. 

Having escorted her to another room, Turnham came back rubbing hishands. "I am pleased to be able to tell you, Mr. Mahony, that your suithas my wife's approval. You are highly favoured! Emma is not free withher liking. " Then, in a sudden burst of effusion: "I could have wishedyou the pleasure, sir, of seeing my wife in evening attire. She willmake a furore again; no other woman can hold a candle to her in aballroom. To-night is the first time since the birth of our secondchild that she will grace a public entertainment with her presence; andunfortunately her appearance will be a brief one, for the infant is notyet wholly weaned. " He shut the door and lowered his voice. "You havehad some experience of doctoring, you say; I should like a word withyou in your medical capacity. The thing is this. My wife has persisted, contrary to my wishes, in suckling both children herself. "

"Quite right, too, " said Mahony. "In a climate like this their naturalfood is invaluable to babes. "

"Exactly, quite so, " said Turnham, with a hint of impatience. "And inthe case of the first child, I made due allowance: a young mother. .. The novelty of the thing. .. You understand. But with regard to thesecond, I must confess I--How long, sir, in your opinion, can a mothercontinue to nurse her babe without injury to herself? It is surelyharmful if unduly protracted? I have observed dark lines about mywife's eyes, and she is losing her fine complexion. --Then you confirmmy fears. I shall assert my authority without delay, and insist onseparation from the child. --Ah! women are strange beings, Mr. Mahony, strange beings, as you are on the high road to discovering foryourself. "

Mahony returned to town on foot, the omnibus having ceased to run. Ashe walked--at a quick pace, and keeping a sharp look-out; for the roadwas notoriously unsafe after dark--he revolved his impressions of theinterview. He was glad it was over, and, for Polly's sake, that it hadpassed off satisfactorily. It had made a poor enough start: at onemoment he had been within an ace of picking up his hat and stalkingout. But he found it difficult at the present happy crisis to bear agrudge--even if it had not been a proved idiosyncrasy of his, always tolet a successful finish erase a bad beginning. None the less, he wouldnot have belonged to the nation he did, had he not indulged in acaustic chuckle and a pair of good-humoured pishes and pshaws, atTurnham's expense. "Like a showman in front of his booth!"

Then he thought again of the domestic scene he had been privileged towitness, and grew grave. The beautiful young woman and her childrenmight have served as model for a Holy Family--some old painter's dreamof a sweet benign Madonna; the trampling babe as the infant Christ; theupturned face of the little John adoring. No place this for thescoffer. Apart from the mere pleasure of the eye, there was amplejustification for Turnham's transports. Were they not in the presenceof one of life's sublimest mysteries--that of motherhood? Not alone thelovely Emma: no; every woman who endured the rigours of childbirth, tobring forth an immortal soul, was a holy figure. 

And now for him, too, as he had been reminded, this wonder was to beworked. Little Polly as the mother of his children--what visions thewords conjured up! But he was glad Polly was just Polly, and not thepeerless creature he had seen. John Turnham's fears would never behis--this jealous care of a transient bodily beauty. Polly was neithertoo rare nor too fair for her woman's lot; and, please God, the daywould come when he would see her with a whole cluster of little onesround her--little dark-eyed replicas of herself. She, bless her, shoulddandle and cosset them to her heart's content. Her joy in them wouldalso be his. 

Chapter IX

He sawed, planed, hammered; curly shavings dropped and there was apleasant smell of sawdust. Much had to be done to make the place fit toreceive Polly. A second outhouse was necessary, to hold the surplusgoods and do duty as a sleeping-room for Long Jim and Hempel: thelean-to the pair had occupied till now was being converted into akitchen. At great cost and trouble, Mahony had some trees felled andbrought in from Warrenheip. With them he put up a rude fence round hisbackyard, interlacing the lopped boughs from post to post, so that theyformed a thick and leafy screen. He also filled in the disused shaftthat had served as a rubbish-hole, and chose another, farther off, which would be less malodorous in the summer heat. Finally, asubstantial load of firewood carted in, and two snakes that had madethe journey in hollow logs dispatched, Long Jim was set down to chopand split the wood into a neat pile. Polly would need but to walk toand from the woodstack for her firing. 

Indoors he made equal revolution. That her ears should not be pollutedby the language of the customers, he ran up a partition betweenliving-room and store, thus cutting off the slab-walled portion of thehouse, with its roof of stringy-bark, from the log-and-canvas front. Healso stopped with putty the worst gaps between the slabs. At Ocock'sAuction Rooms he bought a horsehair sofa to match his armchair, a stripof carpet, a bed, a washhand-stand and a looking-glass, and tacked up acalico curtain before the window. His books, fetched out of the woodencase, were arranged on a brand-new set of shelves; and, when all wasdone and he stood back to admire his work, it was borne in on himafresh with how few creature-comforts he had hitherto existed. Plain tosee now, why he had preferred to sit out-of-doors rather than within!Now, no one on the Flat had a trimmer little place than he. 

In his labours he had the help of a friendly digger--a carpenter bytrade--who one evening, pipe in mouth, had stood to watch hisamateurish efforts with the jack-plane. Otherwise, the Lord alone knewhow the house would ever have been made shipshape. Long Jim was equalto none but the simplest jobs; and Hempel, the assistant, had his handsfull with the store. Well, it was a blessing at this juncture thatbusiness could be left to him. Hempel was as straight as a die; was areal treasure--or would have been, were it not for his eternal littlebark of a cough. This was proof against all remedies, and the heck-heckof it at night was quite enough to spoil a light sleeper's rest. Inbuilding the new shed, Mahony had been careful to choose a corner farfrom the house. 

Marriages were still uncommon enough on Ballarat to make him an objectof considerable curiosity. People took to dropping in of anevening--old Ocock; the postmaster; a fellow storekeeper, ex-steward tothe Duke of Newcastle--to comment on his alterations and improvements. And over a pipe and a glass of sherry, he had to put up with a gooddeal of banter about his approaching "change of state. "

Still, it was kindly meant. "We'll 'ave to git up a bit o' company o'nights for yer lady when she comes, " said old Ocock, and spat under thetable. 

Purdy wrote from Tarrangower, where he had drifted:

HOORAY, OLD DICK, GOLLY FOR YOU! OLD MAN DIDN'T I KICK UP A BOBBERYWHEN I HEARD THE NEWS. NEVER WAS SO WELL PLEASED IN MY LIFE. THAT'S ALLYOU NEEDED, DICK--NOW YOU'LL TURN INTO A FIRST-RATE COLONIAL. HOW ABOUTTHAT FIVER NOW I'D LIKE TO KNOW. YOU CAN TELL POLLY FROM ME I SHALL PAYIT BACK WITH INTEREST ON THE FATAL DAY. OF COURSE I'LL COME AND SEE YOUSPLICED, TOGS OR NO TOGS--TO TELL THE TRUTH MY KICKSIES ARE ON THEIRVERY LAST LEGS--AND THERE'S NOTHING DOING HERE--ALL THE LOOSE STUFF'SBEEN TURNED OVER. THERE'S OCEANS OF QUARTZ, OF COURSE, AND THEY'RETRYING TO POUND IT UP IN DOLLIES, BUT YOU COULD PUT ME TO BED WITH APICK-AXE AND A SHOVEL BEFORE I'D GO IN FOR SUCH TOMFOOLERY AS THAT. --DAMN IT ALL, DICK, TO THINK OF YOU BEING COTCHED AT LAST. I CAN'T GETOVER IT, AND IT'S A BIT OF A RISK, TOO, BY DAD IT IS, FOR A GIRL OFTHAT AGE IS A DARK HORSE IF EVER THERE WAS ONE. 

Mahony's answer to this was a couple of pound-notes: SO THAT MY BESTMAN SHALL NOT DISGRACE ME! His heart went out to the writer. Dear oldDickybird! pleased as Punch at the turn of events, yet quaking for fearof imaginary risks. With all Purdy's respect for his friend's opinions, he had yet an odd distrust of that friend's ability to look afterhimself. And now he was presuming to doubt Polly, too. Like hisimperence! What the dickens did HE know of Polly? Keenly relishing thesense of his own intimate knowledge, Mahony touched the breast-pocketin which Polly's letters lay--he often carried them out with him to alittle hill, on which a single old blue-gum had been left standing; itsscraggy top-knot of leaves drooped and swayed in the wind, like the fewlong straggling hairs on an old man's head. 

The letters formed a goodly bundle; for Polly and he wrote regularly toeach other, she once a week, he twice. His bore the Queen's head; hers, as befitted a needy little governess, were oftenest delivered by hand. Mahony untied the packet, drew a chance letter from it and mused as heread. Polly had still not ceded much of her early reserve--and it hadtaken him weeks to persuade her even to call him by his first name. Shewas, he thanked goodness, not of the kind who throw maidenly modesty tothe winds, directly the binding word is spoken. He loved her all thebetter for her wariness of emotion; it tallied with a like streak inhis own nature. And this, though at the moment he was going through avery debauch of frankness. To the little black-eyed girl who pored overhis letters at "Beamish's Family Hotel, " he unbosomed himself as neverin his life before. He enlarged on his tastes and preferences, hislikes and dislikes; he gave vent to his real feelings for the countryof his exile, and his longings for "home"; told how he had come to thecolony, in the first instance, with the fantastic notion of redeemingthe fortunes of his family; described his collections of butterfliesand plants to her, using their Latin names. And Polly drank in hiswords, and humbly agreed with all he wrote, or at least did notdisagree; and, from this, as have done lovers from the beginning oftime, he inferred a perfect harmony of mind. On one point only did hepress her for a reply. Was she fond of books? If so, what evenings theywould spend together, he reading aloud from some entertaining volume, she at her fancy work. And poetry? For himself he could truly say hedid not care for poetry . .. Except on a Saturday night or a quietSunday morning; and that was, because he liked it too well to approachit with any but a tranquil mind. 

I THINK IF I KNOW YOU ARIGHT, AS I BELIEVE I DO, MY POLLY, YOU TOO HAVEPOETRY IN YOUR SOUL. 

He smiled at her reply; then kissed it. 

I CANNOT WRITE POETRY MYSELF, said Polly, BUT I AM VERY FOND OF IT ANDSHALL INDEED LIKE VERY MUCH DEAR RICHARD TO LISTEN WHEN YOU READ. 

But the winter ran away, one cold, wet week succeeding another, andstill they were apart. Mahony urged and pleaded, but could not getPolly to name the wedding-day. He began to think pressure was beingbrought to bear on the girl from another side. Naturally the Beamisheswere reluctant to let her go: who would be so useful to them asPolly?--who undertake, without scorn, the education of the whilomshepherd's daughters? Still, they knew they had to lose her, and hecould not see that it made things any easier for them to put off theevil day. No, there was something else at the bottom of it; though hedid not know what. Then one evening, pondering a letter of Polly's, heslapped his forehead and exclaimed aloud at his own stupidity. Thatnight, into his reply he slipped four five-pound notes. JUST TO BUYYOURSELF ANY LITTLE THING YOU FANCY, DEAREST. IF I CHOSE A GIFT, IMIGHT SEND WHAT WOULD NOT BE ACCEPTABLE TO YOU. Yes, sure enough, thatwas it--little Polly had been in straits for money: the next news heheard was that she had bought and was stitching her wedding-gown. Taxedwith her need, Polly guiltily admitted that her salary for the pastthree months was owing to her. But there had been great expenses inconnection with the hotel; and Mr. B. Had had an accident to his leg. From what she wrote, though, Mahony saw that it was not the first timesuch remissness had occurred; and he felt grimly indignant with heremployers. Keeping open house, and hospitable to the point ofvulgarity, they were, it was evident, pinchfists when it came toparting with their money. Still, in the case of a little woman who hadserved them so faithfully! In thought he set a thick black mark againsttheir name, for their cavalier treatment of his Polly. And extended itto John Turnham as well. John had made no move to put hand to pocket;and Polly's niceness of feeling had stood in the way of her applying tohim for aid. It made Mahony yearn to snatch the girl to him, then andthere; to set her free of all contact with such coarse-grained, miserlybrutes. 

Old Ocock negotiated the hire of a neat spring cart for him, and astout little cob; and at last the day had actually come, when he couldset out to bring Polly home. By his side was Ned Turnham. Ned, still alean-jowled wages-man at Rotten Gully, made no secret of his glee atgetting carried down thus comfortably to Polly's nuptials. They drovethe eternal forty odd miles to Geelong, each stick and stone of whichwas fast becoming known to Mahony; a journey that remained equallytiresome whether the red earth rose as a thick red dust, or whether asnow it had turned to a mud like birdlime in which the wheels sankalmost to the axles. Arrived at Geelong they put up at an hotel, wherePurdy awaited them. Purdy had tramped down from Tarrangower, blanket onback, and stood in need of a new rig-out from head to foot. Otherwisehis persistent ill-luck had left no mark on him. 

The ceremony took place early the following morning, at the house ofthe Wesleyan minister, the Anglican parson having been called away. TheBeamishes and Polly drove to town, a tight fit in a double buggy. Onthe back seat, Jinny clung to and half supported a huge clothes-basket, which contained the wedding-breakfast. Polly sat on her trunk by thesplashboard; and Tilly, crowded out, rode in on one of the cart-horses, a coloured bed-quilt pinned round her waist to protect her skirts. 

To Polly's disappointment neither her brother John nor his wife waspresent; a letter came at the eleventh hour to say that Mrs. Emma wasunwell, and her husband did not care to leave her. Enclosed, however, were ten pounds for the purchase of a wedding-gift; and the pleasurePolly felt at being able to announce John's generosity helped to makeup to her for his absence. The only other guest present was an eldersister, Miss Sarah Turnham, who, being out of a situation at themoment, had sailed down from Melbourne. This young lady, a sprightlybrunette of some three or four and twenty, without the fine, regularfeatures of Ned and Polly, but with tenfold their vivacity andexperience, caused quite a sensation; and Tilly's audible raptures atbeholding her Purdy again were of short duration; for Purdy had nevermet the equal of Miss Sarah, and could not take his eyes off her. Heand she were the life of the party. The Beamishes were overawed by thevisitor's town-bred airs and the genteel elegance of her dress; Pollywas a mere crumpled rose-leaf of pink confusion; Mahony too preoccupiedwith ring and licence to take any but his formal share in theproceedings. 

"Come and see you?" echoed Miss Sarah playfully: the knot was tied; thecompany had demolished the good things laid out by Mrs. Beamish in theprivate parlour of an hotel, and emptied a couple of bottles ofchampagne; and Polly had changed her muslin frock for a black silktravelling-gown. "Come and SEE you? Why, of course I will, littlesilly!"--and, with her pretty white hands, she patted the alreadyperfect bow of Polly's bonnet-strings. Miss Sarah had no great opinionof the match her sister was making; but she had been agreeablysurprised by Mahony's person and manners, and had said so, thus fillingPolly's soul with bliss. "Provided, of course, little goosey, you havea SPARE ROOM to offer me. --For, I confess, " she went on, turning to therest of the party, "I confess I feel inordinately curious to see, withmy own eyes, what these famous diggings are like. From all one hears, they must be MARVELLOUSLY entertaining. --Now, I presume that you, Mr. Smith, never touch at such RUDE, OUT-OF-THE-WORLD places in the courseof YOUR travels?"

Purdy, who had discreetly concealed the fact that he was but apoverty-stricken digger himself, quibbled a light evasion, then changedthe subject, and offered his escort to the steam-packet by which MissSarah was returning to Melbourne. 

"And you, too, dear Tilly, " urged little Polly, proceeding with herfarewells. "For, mind, you promised. And I won't forget to . .. You knowwhat!"

Tilly, sobbing noisily, wept on Polly's neck that she wished she wasdead or at the bottom of the sea; and Polly, torn between pride andpain at Purdy's delinquency, could only kiss her several times withoutspeaking. 

The farewells buzzed and flew. 

"Good-bye to you, little lass . .. Beg pardon, Mrs. Dr. Mahony!"----

"Mind you write, Poll! I shall die to 'ear. "----

"Ta-ta, little silly goosey, and AU REVOIR!"--"Mind he don't pitch youout of the cart, Polly!"--"Good-bye, Polly, my duck, and remember I'llcome to you in a winkin', h'if and when . .. " which speech on the partof Mrs. Beamish distressed Polly to the verge of tears. 

But finally she was torn from their arms and hoisted into the cart; andMahony, the reins in his hand, began to unstiffen from the woodenfigure-head he had felt himself during the ceremony, and under thewhirring tongues and whispered confidences of the women. 

"And now, Polly, for home!" he said exultantly, when the largestpocket-handkerchief had shrunk to the size of a nit, and Polly hadceased to twist her neck for one last, last glimpse of her friends. 

And then the bush, and the loneliness of the bush, closed round them. 

It was the time of flowers--of fierce young growth after the fruitfulwinter rains. The short-lived grass, green now as that of an Englishmeadow, was picked out into patterns by the scarlet of the RunningPostman; purple sarsaparilla festooned the stems of the scrub; therewere vast natural paddocks, here of yellow everlastings, there ofheaths in full bloom. Compared with the dark, spindly foliage of theshe-oaks, the ti-trees' waxy flowers stood out like orange-blossomsagainst firs. On damp or marshy ground wattles were aflame: greatquivering masses of softest gold. Wherever these trees stood, thefragrance of their yellow puff-ball blossoms saturated the air; oneknew, before one saw them, that they were coming, and long after theyhad been left behind one carried their honeyed sweetness with one;against them, no other scent could have made itself felt. And to Mahonythese waves of perfume, into which they were continually running, came, in the course of the hours, to stand for a symbol of the golden futurefor which he and Polly were making; and whenever in after years he metwith wattles in full bloom, he was carried back to the blue spring dayof this wedding-journey, and jogged on once more, in the light cart, with his girl-wife at his side. 

It was necessarily a silent drive. More rain had fallen during thenight; even the best bits of the road were worked into deep, glutinousruts, and the low-lying parts were under water. Mahony, but a fairishhand with the reins, was repeatedly obliged to leave the track and taketo the bush, where he steered a way as best he could through trees, stumps, boulders and crab-holes. Sometimes he rose to his feet toencourage the horse; or he alighted and pulled it by the bridle; or puta shoulder to the wheel. But to-day no difficulties had power to daunthim; and the farther he advanced the lighter-hearted he grew: he wentback to Ballarat feeling, for the first time, that he was actuallygoing home. 

And Polly? Sitting motionless at her husband's side, her hands foldedon her black silk lap, Polly obediently turned her head this way andthat, when Richard pointed out a landmark to her, or called herattention to the flowers. At first, things were new and arresting, butthe novelty soon wore off; and as they went on and on, and still on, itbegan to seem to Polly, who had never been farther afield than a coupleof miles north of the "Pivot City, " as if they were driving away fromall the rest of mankind, right into the very heart of nowhere. The roadgrew rougher, too--became scored with ridges and furrows which threwthem violently from side to side. Unused to bush driving, Polly wassure at each fresh jolt that this time the cart MUST tip over; and yetshe preferred the track and its dangers to Richard's adventurousattempts to carve a passage through the scrub. A little later a coldsouth wind sprang up, which struck through her thin silk mantle; shewas very tired, having been on her feet since five o'clock thatmorning; and all the happy fuss and excitement of the wedding wasbehind her. Her heart sank. She loved Richard dearly; if he had askedher, she would have gone to the ends of the earth with him; but at thismoment she felt both small and lonely, and she would have liked nothingbetter than Mrs. Beamish's big motherly bosom, on which to lay herhead. And when, in passing a swamp, a well-known noise broke on herear--that of hundreds of bell-frogs, which were like hundreds ofhissing tea-kettles just about to boil--then such a rush ofhomesickness took her that she would have given all she had, to knowshe was going back, once more, to the familiar little whitewashed roomshe had shared with Tilly and Jinny. 

The seat of the cart was slanting and slippery. Polly was continuallysliding forward, now by inches, now with a great jerk. At last Mahonynoticed it. "You are not sitting very comfortably, Polly, I fear?" hesaid. 

Polly righted herself yet again, and reddened. "It's my . .. My feetaren't long enough, " she replied. 

"Why, my poor little love!" cried Mahony, full of quick compunction. "Why didn't you say so?" And drawing rein and getting down, he stuffedsome of Mrs. Beamish's bundles--fragments of the feast, which the goodwoman had sent with them--under his wife's feet; stuffed too many, sothat Polly drove the rest of the way with her knees raised to a hump infront of her. All the afternoon they had been making for dim blueranges. After leaving the flats near Geelong, the track went up anddown. Grey-green forest surrounded them, out of which nobbly hills roselike islands from a sea of trees. As they approached the end of theirjourney, they overtook a large number of heavy vehicles labouring alongthrough the mire. A coach with six horses dashed past them at fullgallop, and left them rapidly behind. Did they have to skirtbull-punchers who were lashing or otherwise ill-treating their teams, Mahony urged on the horse and bade Polly shut her eyes. 

Night had fallen and a drizzling rain get in, by the time theytravelled the last couple of miles to Ballarat. This was the worst ofall; and Polly held her breath while the horse picked its way amongyawning pits, into which one false step would have plunged them. Herfears were not lessened by hearing that in several places the very roadwas undermined; and she was thankful when Richard--himself rendereduneasy by the precious cargo he bore--got out and walked at the horse'shead. They drew up before a public-house. Cramped from sitting and numbwith cold, Polly climbed stiffly down as bidden; and Mahony havingunloaded the baggage, mounted to his seat again to drive the cart intothe yard. This was a false move, as he was quick to see: he should nothave left Polly standing alone. For the news of the arrival of "Doc. "Mahony and his bride flew from mouth to mouth, and all the loafers whowere in the bar turned out to stare and to quiz. Beside her tumulus oftrunk, bag, bundle little Polly stood desolate, with droopingshoulders; and cursing his want of foresight, Mahony all but drove intothe gatepost, which occasioned a loud guffaw. Nor had Long Jim turnedup as ordered, to shoulder the heavy luggage. These blunders madeMahony very hot and curt. Having himself stowed the things inside thebar and borrowed a lantern, he drew his wife's arm through his, andhurried her away. 

It was pitch-dark, and the ground was wet and squelchy. Their feet sankin the mud. Polly clung to Richard's arm, trembling at the rude voices, the laughter, the brawling, that issued from the grog-shops; at thecontinual apparition of rough, bearded men. One of these, who held acandle stuck in a bottle, was accosted by Richard and soundly rated. When they turned out of the street with its few dismal oil-lamps, theirway led them among dirty tents and black pits, and they had to dependfor light on the lantern they carried. They crossed a rickety littlebridge over a flooded river; then climbed a slope, on which in herbunchy silk skirts Polly slipped and floundered, to stop beforesomething that was half a tent and half a log-hut. --What! this the endof the long, long journey! This the house she had to live in?

Yes, Richard was speaking. "Welcome home, little wife! Not much of aplace, you see, but the best I can give you. "

"It's . .. It's very nice, Richard, " said Polly staunchly; but her lipstrembled. 

Warding off the attack of a big, fierce, dirty dog, which sprang ather, dragging its paws down her dress, Polly waited while her husbandundid the door, then followed him through a chaos, which smelt as shehad never believed any roofed-in place could smell, to a little room atthe back. 

Mahony lighted the lamp that stood ready on the table, and threw asatisfied glance round. His menfolk had done well: things were inapple-pie order. The fire crackled, the kettle was on the boil, thecloth spread. He turned to Polly to kiss her welcome, to relieve her ofbonnet and mantle. But before he could do this there came a noise ofrowdy voices, of shouting and parleying. Picking up the lantern, he ranout to see what the matter was. 

Left alone Polly remained standing by the table, on which an array oftins was set--preserved salmon, sardines, condensed milk--their topsforced back to show their contents. Her heart was heavy as lead, andshe felt a dull sense of injury as well. This hut her home!--to whichshe had so freely invited sister and friend! She would be ashamed forthem ever to set eyes on it. Not in her worst dreams had she imaginedit as mean and poor as this. But perhaps . .. . With the lamp in herhand, she tip-toed guiltily to a door in the wall: it opened into atiny bedroom with a sloping roof. No, this was all, all there was ofit: just these two miserable little poky rooms! She raised her head andlooked round, and the tears welled up in spite of herself. The roof wasso low that you could almost touch it; the window was no larger than apocket-handkerchief; there were chinks between the slabs of the walls. And from one of these she now saw a spider crawl out, a huge blacktarantula, with horrible hairy legs. Polly was afraid of spiders; andat this the tears began to overflow and to trickle down her cheeks. Holding her skirts to her--the new dress she had made with such pride, now damp, and crushed, and soiled--she sat down and put her feet, intheir soaked, mud-caked, little prunella boots, on the rung of herchair, for fear of other monsters that might be crawling the floor. 

And then, while she sat thus hunched together, the voices outside weresuddenly drowned in a deafening noise--in a hideous, stupefying din, that nearly split one's eardrums: it sounded as though all the tins andcans in the town were being beaten and banged before the door. Pollyforgot the tarantula, forgot her bitter disappointment with her newhome. Her black eyes wide with fear, her heart thudding in her chest, she sprang to her feet and stood ready, if need be, to defend herself. Where, oh where was Richard?

It was the last straw. When, some five minutes later, Mahony camebustling in: he had soothed the "kettledrummers" and sent them off witha handsome gratuity, and he carried the trunk on his own shoulder, LongJim following behind with bags and bundles: when he entered, he foundlittle Polly sitting with her head huddled on her arms, crying asthough her heart would break. 

Part II

Chapter I

Over the fathomless grey seas that tossed between, dissevering theancient and gigantic continent from the tiny motherland, unsettlingrumours ran. After close on forty years' fat peace, England had armedfor hostilities again, her fleet set sail for a foreign sea. Such wasthe news the sturdy clipper-ships brought out, in tantalisingfragments; and those who, like Richard Mahony, were merebirds-of-passage in the colony, and had friends and relatives going tothe front, caught hungrily at every detail. But to the majority of thecolonists what England had done, or left undone, in preparation forwar, was of small account. To them the vital question was: will thewily Russian Bear take its revenge by sending men-of-war to annihilateus and plunder the gold in our banks--us, months removed from Englishaid? And the opinion was openly expressed that in casting off herallegiance to Great Britain, and becoming a neutral state, lay youngAustralia's best hope of safety. 

But, even while they made it, the proposers of this scheme wereknee-deep in petty, local affairs again. All Europe was depressed underthe cloud of war; but they went on belabouring hackneyed themes--theunlocking of the lands, iniquitous licence-fees, official corruption. Mahony could not stand it. His heart was in England, went up and downwith England's hopes and fears. He smarted under the tales told of theinefficiency of the British troops and the paucity of their numbers;under the painful disclosures made by journalists, injudiciouslyallowed to travel to the seat of war; he questioned, like many anotherof his class in the old country, the wisdom of the Duke of Newcastle'sorders to lay siege to the port of Sebastopol. And of an evening, whenthe store was closed, he sat over stale English newspapers and a map ofthe Crimea, and meticulously followed the movements of the Allies. 

But in this retirement he was rudely disturbed, by feeling himselftouched on a vulnerable spot--that of his pocket. Before the end of theyear trade had come to a standstill, and the very town he lived in wasunder martial law. 

On both Ballarat and the Bendigo the agitation for the repeal of thelicence-tax had grown more and more vehement; and spring's arrivalfound the digging-community worked up to a white heat. The newGovernor's tour of inspection, on which great hopes had been built, served only to aggravate the trouble. Misled by the golden treasureswith which the diggers, anxious as children to please, dazzled hiseyes, the Governor decided that the tax was not an outrageous one; andordered licence-raids to be undertaken twice as often as before. Thisdefeat of the diggers' hopes, together with the murder of a comrade andthe acquittal of the murderer by a corrupt magistrate, goaded even theleast sensitive spirits to rebellion: the guilty man's house was fired, the police were stoned, and then, for a month or more, deputations andpetitions ran to and fro between Ballarat and Melbourne. In vain: thedemands of the voteless diggers went unheard. The consequence was thatone day at the beginning of summer all the troops that could be sparedfrom the capital, along with several pieces of artillery, were raisingthe dust on the road to Ballarat. 

On the last afternoon in November work was suspended throughout thediggings, and the more cautious among the shopkeepers began to think ofclosing their doors. In front of the "Diggers' Emporium, " where theearth was baked as hard as a burnt crust, a little knot of people stoodshading their eyes from the sun. Opposite, on Bakery Hill, a monstermeeting had been held and the "Southern Cross" hoisted--a blue buntingthat bore the silver stars of the constellation after which it wasnamed. Having sworn allegiance to it with outstretched hands, therebels were lining up to march off to drill. 

Mahony watched the thin procession through narrowed lids. In theory hecondemned equally the blind obstinacy of the authorities, who went ontightening the screw, and the foolhardiness of the men. But--well, hecould not get his eye to shirk one of the screaming banners andplacards: "Down with Despotism!" "Who so base as be a Slave!" by meansof which the diggers sought to inflame popular indignation. "If onlyhonest rebels could get on without melodramatic exaggeration! As it is, those good fellows yonder are rendering a just cause ridiculous. "

Polly tightened her clasp of his arm. She had known no peace since theevening before, when a rough-looking man had come into the store and, with revolver at full cock, had commanded Hempel to hand over all thearms and ammunition it contained. Hempel, much to Richard's wrath, hadmeekly complied; but it might have been Richard himself; he would forcertain have refused; and then. .. . Polly had hardly slept for thinkingof it. She now listened in deferential silence to the men's talk; butwhen old Ocock--he never had a good word to say for the riotousdiggers--took his pipe out of his mouth to remark: "A pack o' Tipperaryboys spoilin' for a fight--that's what I say. An' yet, blow me if Iwouldn't 'a bin glad if one o' my two 'ad 'ad spunk enough to join'em, "--at this Polly could not refrain from saying pitifully: "Oh, Mr. Ocock, do you really MEAN that?" For both Purdy and brother Ned were inthe rebel band, and Polly's heart was heavy because of them. 

"Can't you see my brother anywhere?" she asked Hempel, who held an oldspyglass to his eyes. 

"No, ma'am, sorry to say I can't, " replied Hempel. He would willinglyhave conjured up a dozen brothers to comfort Polly; but he could notswerve from the truth, even for her. 

"Give me the glass, " said Mahony, and swept the line. --"No, no sign ofeither of them. Perhaps they thought better of it after all. --Listen!now they're singing--can you hear them? The MARSEILLAISE as I'm alive. --Poor fools! Many of them are armed with nothing more deadly thanpicks and shovels. "

"And pikes, " corrected Hempel. "Several carry pikes, sir. "

"Ay, that's so, they've bin 'ammerin' out bits of old iron all themornin', " agreed Ocock. "It's said they 'aven't a quarter of a firearmapiece. And the drillin'! Lord love yer! 'Alf of 'em don't know theirright 'and from their left. The troops 'ull make mincemeat of 'em, ifthey come to close quarters. "

"Oh, I hope not!" said Polly. "Oh, I do hope they won't get hurt. "

Patting her hand, Mahony advised his wife to go indoors and resume herhousehold tasks. And since his lightest wish was a command, littlePolly docilely withdrew her arm and returned to her dishwashing. Butthough she rubbed and scoured with her usual precision, her heart wasnot in her work. Both on this day and the next she seemed to existsolely in her two ears. The one strained to catch any scrap of newsabout "poor Ned"; the other listened, with an even sharper anxiety, towhat went on in the store. Several further attempts were made to getarms and provisions from Richard; and each time an angry scene ensued. Close up beside the thin partition, her hands locked under hercooking-apron, Polly sat and trembled for her husband. He had alreadygot himself talked about by refusing to back a Reform League; and nowshe heard him openly declare to some one that he disapproved of theterms of this League, from A to Z. Oh dear! If only he wouldn't. Butshe was careful not to add to his worries by speaking of her fears. Asit was, he came to tea with a moody face. 

The behaviour of the foraging parties growing more and morethreatening, Mahony thought it prudent to follow the general exampleand put up his shutters. Wildly conflicting rumours were in the air. One report said a contingent of Creswick dare-devils had arrived tojoin forces with the insurgents; another that the Creswickers, disgusted at finding neither firearms nor quarters provided for them, had straightway turned and marched the twelve miles home again. For atime it was asserted that Lalor, the Irish leader, had been bought overby the government; then, just as definitely, that his influence aloneheld the rebel faction together. Towards evening Long Jim wasdispatched to find out how matters really stood. He brought back wordthat the diggers had entrenched themselves on a piece of rising groundnear the Eureka lead, behind a flimsy barricade of logs, slabs, ropesand overturned carts. The Camp, for its part, was screened by abreastwork of firewood, trusses of hay and bags of corn; while themounted police stood or lay fully armed by their horses, which weresaddled ready for action at a moment's notice. 

Neither Ned nor Purdy put in an appearance, and the night passedwithout news of them. Just before dawn, however, Mahony was wakened bya tapping at the window. Thrusting out his head he recognised youngTommy Ocock, who had been sent by his father to tell "doctor" that thesoldiers were astir. Lights could be seen moving about the Camp, ahorse had neighed--father thought spies might have given them the hintthat at least half the diggers from the Stockade had come down to MainStreet last night, and got drunk, and never gone back. With a concernedglance at Polly Mahony struggled into his clothes. He must make anothereffort to reach the boys--especially Ned, for Polly's sake. When Nedhad first announced his intention of siding with the insurgents, he hadmerely shrugged his shoulders, believing that the young vapourer wouldsoon have had enough of it. Now he felt responsible to his wife forNed's safety: Ned, whose chief reason for turning rebel, he suspected, was that a facetious trooper had once dubbed him "Eytalianorgan-grinder, " and asked him where he kept his monkey. 

But Mahony's designs of a friendly interference came too late. Thetroops had got away, creeping stealthily through the morning dusk; andhe was still panting up Specimen Hill when he heard the crack of arifle. Confused shouts and cries followed. Then a bugle blared, and thenext instant the rattle and bang of musketry split the air. 

Together with a knot of others, who like himself had run forth halfdressed, Mahony stopped and waited, in extreme anxiety; and, while hestood, the stars went out, one by one, as though a finger-tip touchedthem. The diggers' response to the volley of the attacking party waseasily distinguished: it was a dropping fire, and sounded like a thinhail-shower after a peal of thunder. Within half an hour all was over:the barricade had fallen, to cheers and laughter from the military; therebel flag was torn down; huts and tents inside the enclosure weregoing up in flames. 

Towards six o'clock, just as the December sun, huge and fiery, thrustthe edge of its globe above the horizon, a number of onlookers ran upthe slope to all that was left of the ill-fated stockade. On the dust, bloodstains, now set hard as scabs, traced the route by which awretched procession of prisoners had been marched to the Camp gaol. Behind the demolished barrier huts smouldered as heaps of blackenedembers; and the ground was strewn with stark forms, which layabout--some twenty or thirty of them--in grotesque attitudes. Somesprawled with outstretched arms, their sightless eyes seeming to fixthe pale azure of the sky; others were hunched and huddled in a lastconvulsion. And in the course of his fruitless search for friend andbrother, an old instinct reasserted itself in Mahony: kneeling down hebegan swiftly and dexterously to examine the prostrate bodies. Two orthree still heaved, the blood gurgling from throat and breast likewater from the neck of a bottle. Here, one had a mouth plugged withshot, and a beard as stiff as though it were made of rope. Another thathe turned over was a German he had once heard speak at a diggers'meeting--a windy braggart of a man, with a quaint impediment in hisspeech. Well, poor soul! he would never mouth invectives or tickle theribs of an audience again. His body was a very colander of wounds. Somehad not bled either. It looked as though the soldiers had viciouslygone on prodding and stabbing the fallen. 

Stripping a corpse of its shirt, he tore off a piece of stuff to make abandage for a shattered leg. While he was binding the limb to a board, young Tom ran up to say that the military, returning with carts, werearresting every one they met in the vicinity. With others who had beencovering up and carrying away their friends, Mahony hastened down theback of the hill towards the bush. Here was plain evidence of astampede. More bloodstains pointed the track, and a number of odd andclumsy weapons had been dropped or thrown away by the diggers in theirflight. 

He went home with the relatively good tidings that neither Ned norPurdy was to be found. Polly was up and dressed. She had also lightedthe fire and set water on to boil, "just in case. " "Was there ever sucha sensible little woman?" said her husband with a kiss. 

The day dragged by, flat and stale after the excitement of the morning. No one ventured far from cover; for the military remained under arms, and detachments of mounted troopers patrolled the streets. At the Campthe hundred odd prisoners were being sorted out, and the maimed andwounded doctored in the rude little temporary hospital. Down in MainStreet the noise of hammering went on hour after hour. The dead couldnot be kept, in the summer heat, must be got underground before dark. 

Mahony had just secured his premises for the night, when there came arapping at the back door. In the yard stood a stranger who, when thedog Pompey had been chidden and soothed, made mysterious signs toMahony and murmured a well-known name. Admitted to the sitting-room hefished a scrap of dirty paper from his boot. Mahony put the candle onthe table and straightened out the missive. Sure enough, it was inPurdy's hand--though sadly scrawled. 

HAVE BEEN HIT IN THE PIN. COME IF POSSIBLE AND BRING YOUR TOOLS. THEBEARER IS SQUARE. 

Polly could hear the two of them talking in low, urgent tones. But herrelief that the visitor brought no bad news of her brother was dashedwhen she learned that Richard had to ride out into the bush, to visit asick man. However she buttoned her bodice, and with her hair hangingdown her back went into the sitting-room to help her husband; for hewas turning the place upside down. He had a pair of probe-scissorssomewhere, he felt sure, if he could only lay hands on them. And whilehe ransacked drawers and cupboards for one or other of the few poorinstruments left him, his thoughts went back, inopportunely enough, tothe time when he had been surgeon's dresser in the Edinburgh RoyalInfirmary. O TEMPORA, O MORES! He wondered what old Syme, that princeof surgeons, would say, could he see his whilom student raking out aprobe from among the ladles and kitchen spoons, a roll of lint frombehind the saucepans. 

Bag in hand, he followed his guide to where the latter had left a horsein safe-keeping; and having lengthened the stirrups and receivedinstructions about the road, he set off for the hut in the ranges whichPurdy had contrived to reach. He had an awkward cross-country ride ofsome four miles before him; but this did not trouble him. Thechance-touched spring had opened the gates to a flood of memories; and, as he jogged along, he re-lived in thought the happy days spent as astudent under the shadow of Arthur's Seat, round the College, theInfirmary and old Surgeons' Square. Once more he sat in the theatre, the breathless spectator of famous surgical operations; or ashouse-surgeon to the Lying-in Hospital himself assisted in daringattempts to lessen suffering and save life. It was, of course, too latenow to bemoan the fact that he had broken with his profession. Yet onlythat very day envy had beset him. The rest of the fraternity had run toand from the tents where the wounded were housed, while he, behung withhis shopman's apron, pottered about among barrels and crates. No onethought of enlisting his services; another, not he, would set (orbungle) the fracture he had temporarily splinted. 

The hut--it had four slab walls and an earthen floor--was in darknesson his arrival, for Purdy had not dared to make a light. He lay tossingrestlessly on a dirty old straw palliasse, and was in great pain; butgreeted his friend with a dash of the old brio. 

Hanging his coat over the chinks in the door, and turning back hissleeves, Mahony took up the lantern and stooped to examine the injuredleg. A bullet had struck the right ankle, causing an ugly wound. Hewashed it out, dressed and bandaged it. He also bathed the patient'ssweat-soaked head and shoulders; then sat down to await the owner ofthe hut's return. 

As soon as the latter appeared he took his leave, promising to ride outagain the night after next. In spite of the circumstances under whichthey met, he and Purdy parted with a slight coolness. Mahony had loudlyvoiced his surprise at the nature of the wound caused by the bullet: itwas incredible that any of the military could have borne a weapon ofthis calibre. Pressed, Purdy admitted that his hurt was a piece ofgross ill-luck: he had been accidentally shot by a clumsy fool of adigger, from an ancient holster-pistol. 

To Mahony this seemed to cap the climax; and he did not mask hissentiments. The pitiful little forcible-feeble rebellion, all along buta futile attempt to cast straws against the wind, was now completelyover and done with, and would never be heard of again. Or such atleast, he added, was the earnest hope of the law-abiding community. This irritated Purdy, who was spumy with the self-importance of one whohas stood in the thick of the fray. He answered hotly, and ended byrapping out with a contemptuous click of the tongue: "Upon my word, Dick, you look at the whole thing like the tradesman you are!"

These words rankled in Mahony all the way home. --Trust Purdy for not, in anger, being able to resist giving him a flick on the raw. It madehim feel thankful he was no longer so dependent on this friendship asof old. Since then he had tasted better things. Now, a woman's heartbeat in sympathetic understanding; there met his, two lips which hadnever said an unkind word. He pushed on with a new zest, reaching homeabout dawn. And over his young wife's joy at his safe return, he forgotthe shifting moods of his night-journey. 

It had, however, this result. Next day Polly found him with his head inone of the great old shabby black books which, to her mind, spoilt theneat appearance of the bookshelves. He stood to read, the volume lyingopen before him on the top of the cold stove, and was so deeplyengrossed that the store-bell rang twice without his hearing it. When, reminded that Hempel was absent, he whipped out to answer it, hecarried the volume with him. 

Chapter II

But his first treatment of Purdy's wound was also his last. Two nightslater he found the hut deserted; and diligently as he prowled round itin the moonlight, he could discover no clue to the fate of itsoccupants. There was nothing to be done but to head his horse for homeagain. Polly was more fortunate. Within three days of the fight Nedturned up, sound as a bell. He was sporting a new hat, a flashy silkneckerchief and a silver watch and chain. At sight of these kickshaws adismal suspicion entered Mahony's mind, and refused to be dislodged. But he did not breathe his doubts--for Polly's sake. Polly wasrapturously content to see her brother again. She threw her arms roundhis neck, and listened, with her big, black, innocent eyes--except fortheir fleckless candour, the counterpart of Ned's own--to the tale ofhis miraculous escape, and of the rich gutter he had had the good luckto strike. 

Meanwhile public feeling, exasperated beyond measure by the tragedy ofthat summer dawn, slowly subsided. Hesitation, timidity, and a veryhuman waiting on success had held many diggers back from joining in thefinal coup; but the sympathy of the community was with the rebels, andat the funerals of the fallen, hundreds of mourners, in such blackcoats as they could muster, marched side by side to the wild littleunfenced bush cemetery. When, too, the relief-party arrived fromMelbourne and martial law was proclaimed, the residents handed overtheir firearms as ordered; but an attempt to swear in specialconstables failed, not a soul stepping forward in support of thegovernment. 

There was literally nothing doing during the month the militaryoccupied Ballarat. Mahony seized the opportunity to give his backpremises a coat of paint; he also began to catalogue his collection ofLepidoptera. Hence, as far as business was concerned, it was a timelymoment for the arrival of a letter from Henry Ocock, to the effectthat, "subject of course to any part-heard case, " "our case" was firston the list for a date early in January. 

None the less, the announcement threw Mahony into the fidgets. He hadalmost clean forgotten the plaguey affair: it had its roots in the darkdays before his marriage. He wished now he had thought twice beforeletting himself be entangled in a lawsuit. Now, he had a wife dependenton him, and to lose the case, and be held responsible for costs, wouldcripple him. And such a verdict was not at all unlikely; for Purdy, hischief witness, could not be got at: the Lord alone knew where Purdy layhid. He at once sat down and wrote the bad news to his solicitor. 

At six o'clock in the morning some few days later, he took his seat inthe coach for Melbourne. By his side sat Johnny Ocock, the elder of thetwo brothers. Johnny had by chance been within earshot during thenegotiations with the rascally carrier, and on learning this, Henry hadstraightway subpoenaed him. Mahony was none too well pleased: the boythreatened to be a handful. His old father, on delivering him up at thecoach-office, had drawn Mahony aside to whisper: "Don't let the younglimb out o' yer sight, doc. , or get nip or sip o' liquor. If 'e so muchas wets 'is tongue, there's no 'olding 'im. " Johnny was a lean, pimply-faced youth, with cold, flabby hands. 

Little Polly had to stay behind. Mahony would have liked to give herthe trip and show her the sights of the capital; but the law-courtswere no place for a woman; neither could he leave her sitting alone ina hotel. And a tentative letter to her brother John had not calledforth an invitation: Mrs. Emma was in delicate health at present, andhad no mind for visitors. So he committed Polly to the care of Hempeland Long Jim, both of whom were her faithful henchmen. She herself, inproper wifely fashion, proposed to give her little house a good red-upin its master's absence. 

Mahony and Johnny dismounted from the coach in the early afternoon, sore, stiff and hungry: they had broken their fast merely onhalf-a-dozen sandwiches, keeping their seats the while that the youngtoper might be spared the sight of intoxicating liquors. Now, stoppingonly to brush off the top layer of dust and snatch a bite of solidfood, Mahony hastened away, his witness at heel, to Chancery Lane. 

It was a relief to find that Ocock was not greatly put out at Purdyhaving failed them. "Leave it to us, sir. We'll make that all right. "As on the previous visit he dry-washed his hands while he spoke, andhis little eyes shot flashes from one to the other, like electricsparks. He proposed just to run through the morrow's evidence with "ouryoung friend there"; and in the course of this rehearsal said more thanonce: "Good . .. Good! Why, sonny, you're quite smart. " This when Johnnysucceeded in grasping his drift. But at the least hint of unreadinessor hesitation, he tut-tutted and drew his brows together. And as itwent on, it seemed to Mahony that Ocock was putting words into theboy's mouth; while Johnny, intimidated, said yes and amen to things hecould not possibly know. Presently he interfered to this effect. Ocockbrushed his remark aside. But after a second interruption from Mahony:"I think, sir, with your permission we will ask John not to depart fromwhat he actually heard, " the lawyer shuffled his papers into a heap andsaid that would do for to-day: they would meet at the court in themorning. Prior to shaking hands, however, he threw out a hint that hewould like a word with his brother on family matters. And for half anhour Mahony paced the street below. 

The remainder of the day was spent in keeping Johnny out oftemptation's way, in trying to interest him in the life of the city, its monuments and curiosities. But the lad was too apathetic to lookabout him, and never opened his mouth. Once only in the course of theafternoon did he offer a kind of handle. In their peregrinations theypassed a Book Arcade, where Mahony stopped to turn the leaves of avolume. Johnny also took up a book, and began to read. 

"What is it?" asked Mahony. "Would you like to have it, my boy?"

Johnny stonily accepted the gift--it was a tale of Red Indians, thepages smudged with gaudy illustrations--and put it under his arm. 

At the good supper that was set before him he picked with a meagrezest; then fell asleep. Mahony took the opportunity to write a line toPolly to tell of their safe arrival; and having sealed the letter, ranout to post it. He was not away for more than three minutes, but whenhe came back Johnny was gone. He hunted high and low for him, ransackedthe place without success: the boy had spoken to no one, nor had hebeen seen to leave the coffee-room; and as the clock-hands were nearingtwelve, Mahony was obliged to give up the search and go back to thehotel. It was impossible at that hour to let Ocock know of this freshpiece of ill-luck. Besides, there was just a chance the young scampwould turn up in the morning. Morning came, however, and no Johnny withit. Outwitted and chagrined, Mahony set off for the court alone. 

Day had broken dim and misty, and by the time breakfast was over anorth wind was raging--a furnace-like blast that bore off the sandydeserts of the interior. The sun was a yellow blotch in a copper sky;the thermometer had leapt to a hundred and ten in the shade. Blindingclouds of coarse, gritty dust swept house-high through the streets:half-suffocated, Mahony fought his way along, his veil lowered, hishandkerchief at his mouth. Outside those public-houses that advertisedice, crowds stood waiting their turn of entry; while half-naked barmen, their linen trousers drenched with sweat, worked like niggers to mixdrinks which should quench these bottomless thirsts. Mahony believed hewas the only perfectly sober person in the lobby of the court. EvenOcock himself would seem to have been indulging. 

This suspicion was confirmed by the lawyer's behaviour. No sooner didOcock espy him than up he rushed, brandishing the note that had beengot to him early that morning--and now his eyes looked like little dabsof pitch in his chalk-white face, and his manner, stripped of itsveneer, let the real man show through. 

"Curse it, sir, and what's the meaning of this, I'd like to know?" hecried, and struck at the sheet of notepaper with his free hand. "Apretty fix to put us in at the last minute, upon my word! It was yourbusiness, sir, to nurse your witness . .. After all the trouble I'd beento with him! What the devil do you expect us to do now?"

Mahony's face paled under its top-dressing of dust and moisture. ToOcock's gross: "Well, it's your own look-out, confound you!--entirelyyour own look-out, " he returned a cool: "Certainly, " then moved to oneside and took up his stand in a corner of the hall, out of the way ofthe jostle and bustle, the constant going and coming that gave thehinges of the door no rest. 

When after a weary wait the time came to enter court, he continued togive Ocock, who had been deep in consultation with his clerk, a wideberth, and moved forward among a number of other people. A dark, ladder-like stair led to the upper storey. While he was mounting this, some words exchanged in a low tone behind him arrested his attention. 

"Are you O. K. , old man?"

"We are, if our client doesn't give us away. But he has to be handledlike a hot--" Here the sentence snapped, for Mahony, bitten by a suddendoubt, faced sharply round. But it was a stranger who uncivilly accusedhim of treading on his toe. 

The court--it was not much more than twenty feet square--was like anill-smelling oven. Every chink and crack had been stopped against thesearing wind; and the atmosphere was a brew of all the sour odours, theoffensive breaths, given off by the two-score odd people crushed withinits walls. In spite of precautions the dust had got in: it lay thick onsills, desks and papers, gritted between the teeth, made the throatraspy as a file. 

Mahony had given up all hope of winning his case, and looked forward tothe sorry pleasure of assisting at a miscarriage of justice. During thespeech for the plaintiff, however, he began to see the matter inanother light. Not so much thanks to the speaker, as in spite of him. Plaintiff's counsel was a common little fellow of ungainly appearance:a double toll of fat bulged over the neck of his gown, and his wig, hastily re-donned after a breathing-space, sat askew. Nor was heanything of an orator: he stumbled over his sentences, and once ortwice lost his place altogether. To his dry presentment of the casenobody seemed to pay heed. The judge, tired of wiping his spectaclesdry, leant back and closed his eyes. Mahony believed he slept, as didalso some of the jurors, deaf to the Citation of Dawes V. Peck andDunlop V. Lambert; to the assertion that the carrier was the agent, thegoods were accepted, the property had "passed. " This "passing" of theproperty was evidently a strong point; the plaintiff's name itself wasnot much oftener on the speaker's lips. "The absconding driver, me Lud, was a personal friend of the defendant's. Mr. Bolliver never knew him;hence could not engage him. Had this person not been thrust upon him, Mr. Bolliver would have employed the same carrier as on a previousoccasion. " And so on and on. 

Mahony listened hand at ear, that organ not being keyed up to themutterings and mumblings of justice. And for all the dullness of thesubject-matter and counsel's lack of eloquence his interest did notflag. It was the first time he heard the case for the other side statedplainly; and he was dismayed to find how convincing it was. Put thus, it must surely gain over every honest, straight-thinking man. Incomparison, the points Ocock was going to advance shrank to mere legalquibbles and hair-splitting evasions. 

Then the plaintiff himself went into the witness-box--and Mahony'sfeelings became involved as well. This his adversary!--this poor oldmangy greybeard, who stood blinking a pair of rheumy eyes and weaklysmiling. One did not pit oneself against such human flotsam. Drunkardwas stamped on every inch of the man, but this morning, in oddexception to the well-primed crew around him, he wassober--bewilderedly sober--and his shabby clothing was brushed, hisfrayed collar clean. Recognising the pitiful bid for sympathy, Mahonycaught himself thinking: "Good Lord! I could have supplied him with acoat he'd have cut a better figure than that in. "

Bolliver clutched the edge of the box with his two hands. His unusualcondition was a hindrance rather than a help to him; without a peg ortwo his woolly thoughts were not to be disentangled. He stammered forthhis evidence, halting either to piece together what he was going tosay, or to recollect what he had just said--it was clear he went inmortal fear of contradicting himself. The scene was painful enoughwhile he faced his own counsel, but, when counsel for the defence rose, a half-hour followed in which Mahony wished himself far from the court. 

Bolliver could not come to the point. Counsel was merciless andcoarsely jocose, and brought off several laughs. His victim wound hisknotty hands in and out, and swallowed oftener than he had saliva for, in a forlorn endeavour to evade the pitfalls artfully dug for him. Morethan once he threw a covert glance, that was like an appeal for help, at all the indifferent faces. Mahony drooped his head, that their eyesshould not meet. 

In high feather at the effect he was producing, counsel inserted hisleft arm under his gown, and held the stuff out from his back with thetips of all five fingers. 

"And now you'll p'raps have the goodness to tell us whether you've everhad occasion to send goods by a carrier before, in the course of youryoung life?"

"Yes. " It was a humble monosyllable, returned without spirit. 

"Then of course you've heard of this Murphy?"

"N . .. No, I haven't, " answered Bolliver, and let his vacillating eyeswander to the judge and back. 

"You tell that to the marines!" And after half a dozen other trickyquestions: "I put it to you, it's a well-known fact that he's been acarrier hereabouts for the last couple o' years or more?"

"I don't know--I sup . .. Sup-pose so. " Bolliver's tongue grew heavy andtripped up his words. 

"And yet you've the cheek, you old rogue you, to insinuate that thiswas a put-up job?"

"I . .. I only say what I heard. "

"I don't care a button what you heard or didn't hear. What I ask, mypretty, is do you yourself say so?"

"The . .. The defendant recommended him. "

"I put it to you, this man Murphy was one of the best known carriers inMelbourne, and THAT was why the defendant recommended him--are you outto deny it?"

"N . .. N . .. No. "

"Then you can stand down!" and leaning over to Grindle, who was belowhim, counsel whispered with a pleased spread of the hand: "There youare! that's our case. "

There was a painful moment just before Bolliver left the witness-box. As if become suddenly alive to the sorry figure he had cut, he turnedto the judge with hands clasped, exclaimed: "My Lord, if the case goesagainst me, I'm done . .. Stony-broke! And the defendant's got a down onme, my Lord--'e's made up his mind to ruin me. Look at him a-settingthere--a hard man, a mean man, if ever you saw one! What would the bitof money 'ave meant to 'im? But . .. "

He was rudely silenced and hustled away, to a sharp rebuke from thejudge, who woke up to give it. All eyes were turned on Mahony. Underthe fire of observation--they were comparing him, he knew, with thepoor old Jeremy Diddler yonder, to the latter's disadvantage--his spinestiffened and he held himself nervously erect. But, the quizzing at anend, he fumbled with his finger at his neck--his collar seemed to havegrown too tight. While, without, the hot blast, dark with dust, flungitself against the corners of the house, and howled like a soul in pain. 

Counsel for the defence made an excellent impression. "Naturally! I canafford to pay a better-class man, " was Mahony's caustic note. He hadfallen to scribbling on a sheet of paper, and was resigned to sittingthrough an adept presentment of Ocock's shifts and dodges. But theopening words made him prick up his ears. 

"My Lord, " said counsel, "I submit there is here no case to go to thejury. No written contract existed between the parties, to bring itwithin the Statute of Frauds. Therefore, the plaintiff must prove thatthe defendant accepted these goods. Now I submit to you, on theplaintiff's own admission, that the man Murphy was a common carrier. Your Lordship will know the cases of Hanson V. Armitage and variousothers, in which it has been established beyond doubt that a carrier isnot an agent to accept goods. "

The judge had revived, and while counsel called the quality of theundelivered goods in question, and laid stress on the fact of no moneyhaving passed, he turned the pages of a thick red book with a moistenedthumb. Having found what he sought, he pushed up his spectacles, openedhis mouth, and, his eyes bent meditatively on the speaker, picked aback tooth with the nail of his first finger. 

"Therefore, " concluded counsel, "I hold that there is no question offact to go to the jury. I do not wish to occupy your Lordship's timeany further upon this submission. I have my client here, and all hiswitnesses are in court whom I am prepared to call, should your Lordshipdecide against me on the present point. But I do submit that theplaintiff, on his own showing, has made out no case; and that under thecircumstances, upon his own evidence, this action must fail. "

At the reference to witnesses, Mahony dug his pencil into the papertill the point snapped. So this was their little game! And should thebluff not work . .. ? He sat rigid, staring at the chipped fragment oflead, and did not look up throughout the concluding scene of the farce. 

It was over; the judge had decided in his favour. He jumped to hisfeet, and his coat-sleeve swept the dust off the entire length of theledge in front of him. But before he reached the foot of the stairsGrindle came flying down, to say that Ocock wished to speak to him. Very good, replied Mahony, he would call at the office in the course ofthe afternoon. But the clerk left the courthouse at his side. Andsuddenly the thought flashed through Mahony's mind: "The fellowsuspects me of trying to do a bolt--of wanting to make off withoutpaying my bill!"

The leech-like fashion in which Grindle stuck to his heels was not tobe misread. "This is what they call nursing, I suppose--he's nursing MEnow!" said Mahony to himself. At the same time he reckoned up, withsome anxiety, the money he had in his pocket. Should it proveinsufficient, who knew what further affronts were in store for him. 

But Ocock had recovered his oily sleekness. 

"A close shave that, sir, a VE-RY close shave! With Warnock on thebench I thought we could manage to pull it off. Had it been Guppy now. .. Still, all's well that ends well, as the poet says. And now for atrifling matter of business. "

"How much do I owe you?"

The bill--it was already drawn up--for "solicitor's and client's costs"came to twenty odd pounds. Mahony paid it, and stalked out of theoffice. 

But this was still not all. Once again Grindle ran after him, andpinned him to the floor. 

"I say, Mr. Mahony, a rare joke--gad, it's enough to make you burstyour sides! That old thingumbob, the plaintiff, ye know, now what'nearth d'you think 'e's been an' done? Gets outer court like oneo'clock--'e'd a sorter rabbit-fancyin' business in 'is backyard. Well, 'ome 'e trots an' slits the guts of every blamed bunny, an' chucks thebloody corpses inter the street. Oh lor! What do you say to that, eh?Unfurnished in the upper storey, what? Heh, heh, heh!"

Chapter III

How truly "home" the poor little gimcrack shanty had become to him, Mahony grasped only when he once more crossed its threshold and Polly'sarms lay round his neck. 

His search for Johnny Ocock had detained him in Melbourne for over aweek. Under the guidance of young Grindle he had scoured the city, notomitting even the dens of infamy in the Chinese quarter; and he did notknow which to be more saddened by: the revolting sights he saw, or hisguide's proud familiarity with every shade of vice. But nothing couldbe heard of the missing lad; and at the suggestion of Henry Ocock heput an advertisement in the ARGUS, offering a substantial reward fornews of Johnny alive or dead. 

While waiting to see what this would bring forth, he paid a visit toJohn Turnham. It had not been part of his scheme to trouble his newrelatives on this occasion; he bore them a grudge for the way they hadmet Polly's overture. But he was at his wits' end how to kill time:chafing at the delay was his main employment, if he were not worryingover the thought of having to appear before old Ocock without his son. So, one midday he called at Turnham's place of business in FlindersLane, and was affably received by John, who carried him off to lunch atthe Melbourne Club. Turnham was a warm partisan of the diggers' cause. He had addressed a mass meeting held in Melbourne, soon after the fighton the Eureka; and he now roundly condemned the government's policy ofrepression. 

"I am, as you are aware, my dear Mahony, no sentimentalist. But theserioters of yours seem to me the very type of man the country needs. Could we have a better bedrock on which to build than these fearlesschampions of liberty?"

He set an excellent meal before his brother-in-law, and himself ate anddrank heartily, unfolding his very table-napkin with a kind of relish. In lunching, he inquired the object of Mahony's journey to town. At themention of Henry Ocock's name he raised his eyebrows and pursed hislips. 

"Ah, indeed! Then it is hardly necessary to ask the upshot. "

He pooh-poohed Mahony's intention of staying till the defaultingwitness was found; disapproved, too, the offer of a reward. "To be paidout of YOUR pocket, of course! No, my dear Mahony, set your mind atrest and return to your wife. Lads of that sort never come togrief--more's the pity! By the bye, how IS Polly, and how does she likelife on the diggings?"

In this connection, Mahony tendered congratulations on the expectedaddition to Turnham's family. John embarked readily enough on the themeof his beautiful wife; but into his voice, as he talked, came a note ofimpatience or annoyance, which formed an odd contrast to his wontedself-possession. "Yes. .. Her third, and for some reason which I cannotfathom, it threatens to prove the most trying of any. " And here he wentinto medical detail on Mrs. Emma's state. 

Mahony urged compliance with the whims of the mother-to-be, even shouldthey seem extravagant. "Believe me, at a time like this such moods andcaprices have their use. Nature very well knows what she is about. "

"Nature? Bah! I am no great believer in nature, " gave back John, andemptied his glass of madeira. "Nature exists to be coerced andimproved. "

They parted; and Mahony went back to twirl his thumbs in the hotelcoffee-room. He could not persuade himself to take Turnham's advice andleave Johnny to his fate. And the delay was nearly over. At dawn nextmorning Johnny was found lying in a pitiable condition at the door ofthe hotel. It took Mahony the best part of the day to rouse him; tomake him understand he was not to be horsewhipped; to purchase a freshsuit of clothing for him: to get him, in short, halfway ready to travelthe following day--a blear-eyed, weak-witted craven, who fell into acold sweat at every bump of the coach. Not till they reached the end ofthe awful journey--even a Chinaman rose to impudence about Johnny'snerves, his foul breath, his cracked lips--did Mahony learn how thewretched boy had come by the money for his debauch. At the public-housewhere the coach drew up, old Ocock stood grimly waiting, with a leatherthong at his belt, and the news that his till had been broken open androbbed of its contents. With an involuntary recommendation to mercy, Mahony handed over the culprit and turned his steps home. 

Polly stood on tip-toe to kiss him; Pompey barked till the roof rang, making leaps that fell wide of the mark; the cat hoisted its tail, andwound purring in and out between his legs. Tea was spread, on a cleancloth, with all sorts of good things to eat; an English mail hadbrought him a batch of letters and journals. Altogether it was a veryhappy home-coming. 

When he had had a sponge-down and finished tea, over which he listened, with a zest that surprised him, to a hundred and one domestic details:afterwards he and Polly strolled arm-in-arm to the top of the littlehill to which, before marriage, he used to carry her letters. Here theysat and talked till night fell; and, for the first time, Mahony tastedthe dregless pleasure of coming back from the world outside with histoll of adventure, and being met by a woman's lively and disinterestedsympathy. Agreeable incidents gained, those that were the reverse ofpleasing lost their sting by being shared with Polly. Not that he toldher everything; of the dark side of life he greatly preferred littlePolly to remain ignorant. Still, as far as it went, it was a delightfulexperience. In return he confessed to her something of the uncertaintythat had beset him, on hearing his opponent's counsel state the casefor the other side. It was disquieting to think he might be suspectedof advancing a claim that was not strictly just. 

"Suspected? . .. YOU? Oh, how could anybody be so silly!"

For all the fatigues of his day Mahony could not sleep. And aftertossing and tumbling for some time, he rose, threw on his clothing andwent out to smoke a pipe in front of the store. Various worries werepecking at him--the hint he had given Polly of their existence seemedto have let them fairly loose upon him. Of course he would be--hewas--suspected of having connived at the imposture by which his suitwas won--why else have put it in the hands of such a one as Ocock? JohnTurnham's soundless whistle of astonishment recurred to him, andflicked him. Imagine it! He, Richard Mahony, giving his sanction tothese queasy tricks!

It was bad enough to know that Ocock at any rate had believed him notaverse from winning by unjust means. Yet, on the whole, he thought thismortified him less than to feel that he had been written down a SimpleSimon, whom it was easy to impose on. Ah well! At best he had been buta kind of guy, set up for them to let off their verbal fireworks round. Faith and that was all these lawyer-fellows wanted--the ghost of anexcuse for parading their skill. Justice played a negligible role inthis battle of wits; else not he but the plaintiff would have come outvictorious. That wretched Bolliver! . .. The memory of him wincing andflushing in the witness-box would haunt him for the rest of his days. He could see him, too, with equal clearness, broken-heartedly slittingthe gizzards of his, pets. A poor old derelict--the amen to a lifewhich, like most lives, had once been flush with promise. And it hadbeen his Mahony's. , honourable portion to give the last kick, theultimate shove into perdition. Why, he would rather have lost the moneyten times over!

To divert his mind, he began next morning to make an inventory of thegoods in the store. It was high time, too: thanks to the recentdisturbances he did not know where he stood. And while he was about it, he gave the place a general clean-up. A job of this kind was a powerfulally in keeping edged thoughts at bay. He and his men had their handsfull for several days, Polly, who was not allowed to set foot in thestore, peeping critically in at them to see how they progressed. And, after business hours, there was little Polly herself. 

He loved to contemplate her. 

Six months of married life had worked certain changes in his black-eyedslip of a girl; but something of the doe-like shyness that had caughthis fancy still clung to her. With strangers she could even yet betouchingly bashful. Not long out of short frocks, she found itdifficult to stand upon her dignity as Mrs. Dr. Mahony. Besides, it wassecond nature to Polly to efface herself, to steal mousily away. Unless, of course, some one needed help or was in distress, in whichcase she forgot to be shy. To her husband's habits and idiosyncrasiesshe had adapted herself implicitly--but this came easy; for she wassure everything Richard did was right, and that his way of looking atthings was the one and only way. So there was no room for discordbetween them. By this time Polly could laugh over the dismay of herfirst homecoming: the pitch-dark night and unfamiliar road, the racketof the serenade, the apparition of the great spider: now, all thismight have happened to somebody else, not Polly Mahony. Her dislike ofthings that creep and crawl was, it is true, inborn, and persisted; butnowadays if one of the many "triantelopes" that infested the roofshowed its hairy legs, she had only to call Hempel, and out the latterwould pop with a broomstick, to do away with the creature. If ascorpion or a centipede wriggled from under a log, the cry of "Tom!"would bring the idle lad next door double-quick over the fence. Pollyhad learnt not to summon her husband on these occasions; for Richardheld to the maxim: "Live and let live. " If at night a tarantulaappeared on the bedroom-wall, he caught it in a covered glass andcarried it outside: "Just to come in again, " was her rueful reflection. But indeed Polly was surrounded by willing helpers. And small wonder, thought Mahony. Her young nerves were so sound that Hempel's dry coughnever grated them: she doctored him and fussed over him, and wasworried that she could not cure him. She met Long Jim's grumbles with asunny face, and listened patiently to his forebodings that he wouldnever see "home" or his old woman again. She even brought out a clumsygood-will in the young varmint Tom; nor did his old father's want ofrefinement repel her. 

"But, Richard, he's such a kind old man, " she met her husband'sadmission of this stumbling-block. "And it isn't his fault that hewasn't properly educated. He has had to work for his living ever sincehe was twelve years old. "

And Mr. Ocock cried quits by remarking confidentially: "That littlelady o' yours 'as got 'er 'eadpiece screwed on the right way. It beatsme, doc. , why you don't take 'er inter the store and learn 'er thebizness. No offence, I'm sure, " he made haste to add, disconcerted byMahony's cold stare. 

Had anyone at this date tried to tell Polly she lived in a mean, roughhome, he would have had a poor reception. Polly was long since certainthat not a house on the diggings could compare with theirs. This was atrait Mahony loved in her--her sterling loyalty; a loyalty thatembraced not only her dear ones themselves, but every stick and stonebelonging to them. His discovery of it helped him to understand herallegiance to her own multicoloured family: in the beginning he hadalmost doubted its sincerity. Now, he knew her better. It was just asthough a sixth sense had been implanted in Polly, enabling her topierce straight through John's self-sufficiency or Ned's vapourings, tothe real kernel of goodness that no doubt lay hid below. He himselfcould not get at it; but then his powers of divination were the exactopposite of Polly's. He was always struck by the weak or ridiculousside of a person, and had to dig laboriously down to the virtues. Whilehis young wife, by a kind of genius, saw the good at a glance--and sawnothing else. And she did not stint with her gift, or hoard it upsolely for use on her own kith and kin. Her splendid sympathy was thereverse of clannish; it was applied to every mortal who crossed herpath. 

Yes, for all her youth, Polly had quite a character of her own; andeven thus early her husband sometimes ran up against a certain nativesturdiness of opinion. But this did not displease him; on the contrary, he would have thanked you for a wife who was only an echo of himself. To take the case of the animals. He had a profound respect for thosecreatures to which speech has been denied; and he treated thefour-footers that dwelt under his roof as his fellows, humanising them, reading his own thoughts into them, and showing more consideration fortheir feelings than if they had been able to speak up for themselves. Polly saw this in the light of an exquisite joke. She was always kindto Pompey and the stately Palmerston, and would as soon have forgottento set Richard's dinner before him as to feed the pair; but theyremained "the dog" and "the cat" to her, and, if they had enough toeat, and received neither kicks nor blows, she could not conceive oftheir souls asking more. It went beyond her to study the cat's disliketo being turned off its favourite chair, or to believe that the dog didnot make dirty prints on her fresh scrubbed floor out of maliceprepense; it was also incredible that he should have doggy fits ofdepression, in which up he must to stick a cold, slobbery snout into awarm human hand. And when Richard tried to conciliate Palmerstonstalking sulky to the door, or to pet away the melancholy in therejected Pompey's eyes, Polly had to lay down her sewing and laugh ather husband, so greatly did his behaviour amuse her. 

Again, there was the question of literature. Books to Mahony werealmost as necessary as bread; to his girl-wife, on the other hand, theyseemed a somewhat needless luxury--less vital by far than the animalsthat walked the floor. She took great care of the precious volumesRichard had had carted up from Melbourne; but the cost of the transportwas what impressed her most. It was not an overstatement, thoughtMahony, to say that a stack of well-chopped, neatly piled wood meantmore to Polly than all the books ever written. Not that she did notenjoy a good story: her work done, she liked few things better; and heoften smiled at the ease with which she lived herself into the world ofmake-believe, knowing, of course, that it WAS make-believe and just akind of humbug. But poetry, and the higher fiction! Little Polly'sprofessed love for poetry had been merely a concession to theconventional idea of girlhood; or, at best, such a burning wish to beall her Richard desired, that, at the moment, she was convinced of thetruth of what she said. But did he read to her from his favouriteauthors her attention WOULD wander, in spite of the efforts she made topin it down. 

Mahony declaimed:

'TIS THE SUNSET OF LIFE GIVES US MYSTICAL LORE, AND COMING EVENTS CAST THEIR SHADOWS BEFORE, and his pleasure in the swing of the couplet was such that he repeatedit. 

Polly wakened with a start. Her thoughts had been miles away--had beenback at the "Family Hotel". There Purdy, after several adventures, hispoor leg a mass of supuration, had at length betaken himself, to belooked after by his Tilly; and Polly's hopes were all alight again. 

She blushed guiltily at the repetition, and asked her husband to saythe lines once again. He did so. 

"But they don't really, Richard, do they?" she said in an apologetictone--she referred to the casting of shadows. "It would be so useful ifthey did--" and she drew a sigh at Purdy's dilatory treatment of thegirl who loved him so well. 

"Oh, you prosaic little woman!" cried Mahony, and laid down his book tokiss her. It was impossible to be vexed with Polly: she was so honest, so transparent. "Did you never hear of a certain something calledpoetic licence?"

No: Polly was more or less familiar with various other forms oflicence, from the gold-diggers' that had caused all the fuss, down tothe special licence by which she had been married; but this particularone had not come her way. And on Richard explaining to her the libertypoets allowed themselves, she shifted uncomfortably in her chair, andwas sorry to think he approved. It seemed to her just a fine name forwanton exaggeration--if not something worse. 

There were also those long evenings they spent over the first hundredpages of WAVERLEY. Mahony, eager for her to share his enthusiasm, comforted her each night anew that they would soon reach the storyproper, and then, how interested she would be! But the opening chapterswere a sandy desert of words, all about people duller than any Pollyhad known alive; and sometimes, before the book was brought out, shewould heave a secret sigh--although, of course, she enjoyed sittingcosily together with Richard, watching him and listening to his voice. But they might have put their time to a pleasanter use: by talking ofthemselves, or their friends, or how further to improve their home, orwhat the store was doing. 

Mahony saw her smiling to herself one evening; and after assuringhimself that there was nothing on the page before him to call thatpleased look to her young face, he laid the book down and offered her apenny for her thoughts. But Polly was loath to confess towool-gathering. 

"I haven't succeeded in interesting you, have I, Pollikins?"

She made haste to contradict him. Oh, it was very nice, and she lovedto hear him read. 

"Come, honestly now, little woman!"

She faced him squarely at that, though with pink cheeks. "Well, notmuch, Richard. "

He took her on his knee. "And what were you smiling at?"

"Me? Oh, I was just thinking of something that happened yesterday"--andPolly sat up, agog to tell. 

It appeared that the day before, while he was out, the digger's wifewho did Polly's rough work for her had rushed in, crying that heryoungest was choking. Bonnetless, Polly had flown across to the woman'shut. There she discovered the child, a fat youngster of a year or so, purple in the face, with a button wedged in its throat. Taking it bythe heels she shook the child vigorously, upside-down; and, lo andbehold! this had the opposite effect to what she intended. When theystraightened the child out again the button was found to have passedthe danger-point and gone down. Quickly resolved, Polly cut slice onslice of thin bread-and-butter, and with this she and Mrs. Hemmerdestuffed the willing babe till, full to bursting, it warded them offwith its tiny hands. 

Mahony laughed heartily at the tale, and applauded his wife's promptmeasures. "Short of the forceps nothing could have been better!"

Yes, Polly had a dash of native shrewdness, which he prized. And a pairof clever hands that were never idle. He had given her leave to makeany changes she chose in the house, and she was for ever stitching awayat white muslin, or tacking it over pink calico. These affairs madetheir little home very spick and span, and kept Polly from feelingdull--if one could imagine Polly dull! With the cooking alone had therebeen a hitch in the beginning. Like a true expert Mrs. Beamish had nottolerated understudies: none but the lowliest jobs, such asraisin-stoning or potato-peeling, had fallen to the three girls' share:and in face of her first fowl Polly stood helpless and dismayed. Butnot for long. Sarah was applied to for the best cookery-book on sale inMelbourne, and when this arrived, Polly gave herself up to the study ofit. She had many failures, both private and avowed. With the worst, sheeither retired behind the woodstack, or Tom disposed of them for her, or the dog ate them up. But she persevered: and soon Mahony could withtruth declare that no one raised a better loaf or had a lighter hand atpastry than his wife. 

Three knocks on the wooden partition was the signal which, if he werenot serving a customer, summoned him to the kitchen. 

"Oh, Richard, it's ripen beautifully!" And, red with heat and pride, Polly drew a great golden-crusted, blown-up sponge-cake along the ovenshelf. Richard, who had a sweet tooth, pretended to be unable to curbhis impatience. 

"Wait! First I must see . .. " and she plunged a knife into the cake'sheart: it came out untarnished. "Yes, it's done to a turn. "

There and then it was cut; for, said Mahony, that was the only way inwhich he could make sure of a piece. Afterwards chunks were dealt outto every one Polly knew--to Long Jim, Hempel, Tommy Ocock, the littleHemmerdes. Side by side on the kitchen-table, their feet dangling inthe air, husband and wife sat boy-and-girl fashion and munched hotcake, till their appetites for dinner were wrecked. 

But the rains that heralded winter--and they set in early thatyear--had not begun to fall when more serious matters claimed Mahony'sattention. 

Chapter IV

It was an odd and inexplicable thing that business showed no sign ofimproving. Affairs on Ballarat had, for months past, run their usualprosperous course. The western township grew from day to day, and wasstraggling right out to the banks of the great swamp. On the Flat, thedeep sinking that was at present the rule--some parties actuallytouched a depth of three hundred feet before bottoming--had brought afresh host of fortune-hunters to the spot, and the results obtained bidfair to rival those of the first golden year. The diggers' grievancesand their conflict with the government were now a turned page. At astate trial all prisoners had been acquitted, and a general amnestydeclared for those rebels who were still at large. Unpopular ministershad resigned or died; a new constitution for the colony awaited theRoyal assent; and pending this, two of the rebel-leaders, now prominenttownsmen, were chosen to sit in the Legislative Council. The futurecould not have looked rosier. For others, that was. For him, Mahony, itheld more than one element of uncertainty. 

At no time had he come near making a fortune out of storekeeping. Forone thing, he had been too squeamish. From the outset he had declinedto soil his hands with surreptitious grog-selling; nor would he be aparty to that evasion of the law which consisted in overcharging onother goods, and throwing in drinks free. Again, he would rather havebeen hamstrung than stoop to the tricks in vogue with regard to theweighing of gold-dust: the greased scales, the wet sponge, false beams, and so on. Accordingly, he had a clearer conscience than the majorityand a lighter till. But even at the legitimate ABC of business he hadproved a duffer. He had never, for instance, learned to be a reallyskilled hand at stocking a shop. Was an out-of-the-way article calledfor, ten to one he had run short of it; and the born shopman's knack ofpalming off or persuading to a makeshift was not his. Such goods as hehad, he did not press on people; his attitude was always that of "takeit or leave it"; and he sometimes surprised a ridiculous feeling ofsatisfaction when he chased a drunken and insolent customer off thepremises, or secured an hour's leisure unbroken by the jangle of thestore-bell. 

Still, in spite of everything he had, till recently, done well enough. Money was loose, and the diggers, if given long credit when down ontheir luck, were in the main to be relied on to pay up when they struckthe lead or tapped a pocket. He had had slack seasons before now, andthings had always come right again. This made it hard for him toexplain the present prolonged spell of dullness. 

That there was something more than ordinarily wrong first dawned on himduring the stock-taking in summer. Hempel and he were constantly comingupon goods that had been too long on hand, and were now fit only to bethrown away. Half-a-dozen boxes of currants showed a respectable growthof mould; a like fate had come upon some flitches of bacon; and not abag of flour but had developed a species of minute maggot. Rats had gotat his coils of rope, one of which, sold in all good faith, had gonenear causing the death of the digger who used it. The remains of somesmoked fish were brought back and flung at his head with a shower ofcurses, by a woman who had fallen ill through eating of it. And yet, inspite of the replenishing this involved, the order he sent to town thatseason was the smallest he had ever given. For the first time he couldnot fill a dray, but had to share one with a greenhorn, who, if youplease, was setting up at his very door. 

He and Hempel cracked their brains to account for the falling-off--orat least he did: afterwards he believed Hempel had suspected the truthand been too mealy-mouthed to speak out. It was Polly whoinnocently--for of course he did not draw her into confidence--Pollysupplied the clue from a piece of gossip brought to the house by thewoman Hemmerde. It appeared that, at the time of the rebellion, Mahony's open antagonism to the Reform League had given offence allround--to the extremists as well as to the more wary on whose behalfthe League was drafted. They now got even with him by taking theircustom elsewhere. He snorted with indignation on hearing of it; thenlaughed ironically. He was expected, was he, not only to bring hispersonal tastes and habits into line with those of the majority, but todeny his politics as well? And if he refused, they would make it hardfor him to earn a decent living in their midst. Nothing seemed easierto these unprincipled democrats than for a man to cut his coat to suithis job. Why, he might just as well turn Whig and be done with it!

He sat over his account-books. The pages were black with bad debts for"tucker. " Here however was no mystery. The owners of these names--Purdywas among them--had without doubt been implicated in the Eureka riot, and had made off and never returned. He struck a balance, and found tohis consternation that, unless business took a turn for the better, hewould not be able to hold out beyond the end of the year. Afterwards, he was blessed if he knew what was going to happen. The ingeniousHempel was full of ideas for tempting back fortune--opening a branchstore on a new lead was one of them, or removing bodily to MainStreet--but ready money was the SINE QUA NON of such schemes, and readymoney he had not got. Since his marriage he had put by as good asnothing; and the enlarging and improving of his house, at that time, had made a big hole in his bachelor savings. He did not feel justifiedat the present pass in drawing on them anew. For one thing, beforesummer was out there would be, if all went well, another mouth to feed. And that meant a variety of seen and unforeseen expenses. 

Such were the material anxieties he had to encounter in the course ofthat winter. Below the surface a subtler embarrassment worked todestroy his peace. In face of the shortage of money, he was obliged tothank his stars that he had not lost the miserable lawsuit of a fewmonths back. Had that happened, he wouldn't at present have known whereto turn. But this amounted to confessing his satisfaction at havingpulled off his case, pulled it off anyhow, by no matter what crookedmeans. And as if this were not enough, the last words he had heardPurdy say came back to sting him anew. The boy had accused him ofjudging a fight for freedom from a tradesman's standpoint. Now it mightbe said of him that he was viewing justice from the same angle. He hadscorned the idea of distorting his political opinions to fit the tradeby which he gained his bread. But it was a far more serious thing ifhis principles, his character, his sense of equity were all to beundermined as well. If he stayed here, he would end by becoming asblunt to what was right and fair as the rest of them. As it was, he wasno longer able to regard the two great landmarks of man's moraldevelopment--liberty and justice--from the point of view of an honestman and a gentleman. 

His self-annoyance was so great that it galvanised him to action. Thereand then he made up his mind: as soon as the child that was coming tothem was old enough to travel, he would sell out for what he could get, and go back to the old country. Once upon a time he had hoped, when hewent, to take a good round sum with him towards a first-rate Englishpractice. Now he saw that this scheme had been a kind ofJack-o'-lantern--a marsh-light after which he might have danced foryears to come. As matters stood, he must needs be content if, thepassage-moneys paid, he could scrape together enough to keep him afloattill he found a modest corner to slip into. 

His first impulse was to say nothing of this to his wife in themeantime. Why unsettle her? But he had reckoned without the suddenupward leap his spirits made, once his decision was taken: the wintersky was blue as violets again above him; he turned out light-heartedlyof a morning. It was impossible to hide the change in his mood fromPolly--even if he had felt it fair to do so. Another thing: when hecame to study Polly by the light of his new plan, he saw that hisscruples about unsettling her were fanciful--wraiths of his ownimagining. As a matter of fact, the sooner he broke the news to her thebetter. Little Polly was so thoroughly happy here that she would needtime to accustom herself to the prospect of life elsewhere. 

He went about it very cautiously though; and with no hint of the sourand sorry incidents that had driven him to the step. As was onlynatural, Polly was rather easily upset at present: the very eveningbefore, he had had occasion to blame himself for his tactless behaviour. 

In her first sick young fear Polly had impulsively written off toMother Beamish, to claim the fulfilment of that good woman's promise tostand by her when her time came. One letter gave another; Mrs. Beamishnot only announced that she would hold herself ready to support her"little duck" at a moment's notice, but filled sheets with sage adviceand old wives' maxims; and the correspondence, which had languished, flared up anew. Now came an ill-scrawled, misspelt epistle fromTilly--doleful, too, for Purdy had once more quitted her withoutspeaking the binding word--in which she told that Purdy's leg, thoughhealed, was permanently shortened; the doctor in Geelong said he wouldnever walk straight again. 

Husband and wife sat and discussed the news, wondered how lamenesswould affect Purdy's future and what he was doing now, Tilly not havingmentioned his whereabouts. "She has probably no more idea than wehave, " said Mahony. 

"I'm afraid not, " said Polly with a sigh. "Well, I hope he won't comeback here, that's all"; and she considered the seam she was sewing, with an absent air. 

"Why, love? Don't you like old Dickybird?" asked Mahony in no smallsurprise. 

"Oh yes, quite well. But. .. "

"Is it because he still can't make up his mind to take your Tilly--eh?"

"That, too. But chiefly because of something he said. "

"And what was that, my dear?"

"Oh, very silly, " and Polly smiled. 

"Out with it, madam! Or I shall suspect the young dog of having madeadvances to my wife. "

"Richard, DEAR!" Little Polly thought he was in earnest, and grewexceedingly confused. "Oh no, nothing like that, " she assured him, andwith red cheeks rushed into an explanation. "He only said, in spite ofyou being such old friends he felt you didn't really care to have himhere on Ballarat. After a time you always invented some excuse to gethim away. " But now that it was out, Polly felt the need of toning downthe statement, and added: "I shouldn't wonder if he was silly enough tothink you were envious of him, for having so many friends and beingliked by all sorts of people. "

"Envious of him? I? Who on earth has been putting such ideas into yourhead?" cried Mahony. 

"It was 'mother' thought so--it was while I was still there, " stammeredPolly, still more fluttered by the fact of him fastening on just thesewords. 

Mahony tried to quell his irritation by fidgeting round the room. "Surely, Polly, you might give up calling that woman 'mother, ' now youbelong to me--I thank you for the relationship!" he said testily. Andhaving with much unnecessary ado knocked the ashes out of his pipe, hewent on: "It's bad enough to say things of that kind; but to repeatthem, love, is in even poorer taste. "

"Yes, Richard, " said Polly meekly. 

But her amazed inner query was: "Not even to one's own husband?"

She hung her head, till the white thread of parting between the darkloops of her hair was almost perpendicular. She had spoken withoutthinking in the first place--had just blurted out a passing thought. But even when forced to explain, she had never dreamt of Richard takingoffence. Rather she had imagined the two of them--two banded lovinglyagainst one--making merry together over Purdy's nonsense. She had heardher husband laugh away much unkinder remarks than this. And perhaps ifshe had stopped there, and said no more, it might have been all right. By her stupid attempt to gloss things over, she had really managed tohurt him, and had made him think her gossipy into the bargain. 

She went on with her sewing. But when Mahony came back from the briskwalk by means of which he got rid of his annoyance, he fancied, thoughPolly was as cheery as ever and had supper laid for him, that hereyelids were red. 

This was why, the following evening, he promised himself to be discreet. 

Winter had come in earnest; the night was wild and cold. Before thecrackling stove the cat lay stretched at full length, while Pompeydozed fitfully, his nose between his paws. The red-cotton curtains thathung at the little window gave back the lamplight in a ruddy glow; theclock beat off the seconds evenly, except when drowned by the wind, which came in bouts, hurling itself against the corners of the house. And presently, laying down his book--Polly was too busy now to be readto--Mahony looked across at his wife. She was wrinkling her prettybrows over the manufacture of tiny clothes, a rather pale little womanstill, none of the initial discomforts of her condition having beenspared her. Feeling his eyes on her, she looked up and smiled: did everanyone see such a ridiculous armhole? Three of one's fingers wereenough to fill it--and she held the little shirt aloft for hisinspection. Here was his chance: the child's coming offered the best ofpretexts. Taking not only the midget garment but also the hand thatheld it, he told her of his resolve to go back to England and re-enterhis profession. 

"You know, love, I've always wished to get home again. And now there'san additional reason. I don't want my . .. Our children to grow up in aplace like this. Without companions--or refining influences. Who knowshow they would turn out?"

He said it, but in his heart he knew that his children would be safeenough. And Polly, listening to him, made the same reservation: yes, but OUR children. .. . 

"And so I propose, as soon as the youngster's old enough to travel, tohaul down the flag for good and all, and book passages for the three ofus in some smart clipper. We'll live in the country, love. Think of it, Polly! A little gabled, red-roofed house at the foot of some Sussexdown, with fruit trees and a high hedge round it, and only theoast-houses peeping over. Doesn't it make your mouth water, my dear?"

He had risen in his eagerness, and stood with his back to the stove, his legs apart. And Polly nodded and smiled up at him--though, truth totell, the picture he drew did not mean much to her: she had never beenin Sussex, nor did she know what an oast-house was. A night such asthis, with flying clouds and a shrill, piping wind, made her think ofangry seas and a dark ship's cabin, in which she lay deathly sick. Butit was not Polly's way to dwell on disagreeables: her mind glanced offto a pleasanter theme. 

"Have you ever thought, Richard, how strange it will seem when thereARE three of us? You and I will never be quite alone together again. Oh, I do hope he will be a good baby and not cry much. It will worryyou if he does--like Hempel's cough. And then you won't love himproperly. "

"I shall love it because it is yours, my darling. And the baby of sucha dear little mother is sure to be good. "

"Oh, babies will be babies, you know!" said Polly, with a new air ofwisdom which sat delightfully on her. 

Mahony pinched her cheek. "Mrs. Mahony, you're shirking my question. Tell me now, should you not be pleased to get back to England?"

"I'll go wherever you go, Richard, " said Polly staunchly. "Always. Andof course I should like to see mother--I mean my real mother--again. But then Ned's here . .. And John, and Sarah. I should be very sorry toleave them. I don't think any of them will ever go home now. "

"They may be here, but they don't trouble YOU often, my dear, " saidMahony, with more than a hint of impatience. "Especially Ned thewell-beloved, who lives not a mile from your door. "

"I know he doesn't often come to see us, Richard. But he's only a boy;and has to work so hard. You see it's like this. If Ned should get intoany trouble, I'm here to look after him; and I know that makes mother'smind easier--Ned was always her favourite. "

"And an extraordinary thing, too! I believe it's the boy's good looksthat blind you women to his faults. "

"Oh no, indeed it isn't!" declared Polly warmly. "It's just becauseNed's Ned. The dearest fellow, if you really know him. "

"And so your heart's anchored here, little wife, and would remain hereeven if I carried your body off to England?"

"Oh no, Richard, " said Polly again. "My heart would always be where youare. But I can't help wondering how Ned would get on alone. And Jerrywill soon be here too, now, and he's younger still. And HOW I shouldlike to see dear Tilly settled before I go!"

Judging that enough had been said for the time being, Mahony re-openedhis book, leaving his wife to chew the cud of innocent matchmaking andsisterly cares. 

In reality Polly's reflections were of quite another nature. 

Her husband's abrupt resolve to leave the colony, disturbing though itwas, did not take her altogether by surprise. She would have needed tobe both deaf and blind not to notice that the store-bell rang muchseldomer than it used to, and that Richard had more spare time on hishands. Yes, trade was dull, and that made him fidgety. Now she hadalways known that someday it would be her duty to follow Richard toEngland. But she had imagined that day to be very far off--when theywere elderly people, and had saved up a good deal of money. To hear thedate fixed for six months hence was something of a shock to her. And itwas at this point that Polly had a sudden inspiration. As she listenedto Richard talking of resuming his profession, the thought flashedthrough her mind: why not here? Why should he not start practice inBallarat, instead of travelling all those thousands of miles to do it?

This was what she ruminated while she tucked and hemmed. She couldimagine, of course, what his answer would be. He would say there weretoo many doctors on Ballarat already; not more than a dozen of themmade satisfactory incomes. But this argument did not convince Polly. Richard wasn't, perhaps, a great success at storekeeping; but that wasonly because he was too good for it. As a doctor, he with hiscleverness and gentlemanly manners would soon, she was certain, standhead and shoulders above the rest. And then there would be moneygalore. It was true he did not care for Ballarat--was down on bothplace and people. But this objection, too, Polly waived. It passedbelief that anybody could really dislike this big, rich, bustling, go-ahead township, where such handsome buildings were springing up andevery one was so friendly. In her heart she ascribed her husband's wantof love for it to the "infra dig" position he occupied. If he mixedwith his equals again and got rid of the feeling that he was lookeddown on, it would make all the difference in the world to him. He wouldthen be out of reach of snubs and slights, and people would understandhim better--not the residents on Ballarat alone, but also John, andSarah, and the Beamishes, none of whom really appreciated Richard. Inher mind's eye Polly had a vision of him going his rounds mounted on achestnut horse, dressed in surtout and choker, and hand and glove withthe bigwigs of society--the gentlemen at the Camp, the PoliceMagistrate and Archdeacon Long, the rich squatters who lived at thefoot of Mount Buninyong. It brought the colour to her cheeks merely tothink of it. 

She did not, however, breathe a word of this to Richard. She was ashade wiser than the night before, when she had vexed him by blurtingout her thoughts. And the present was not the right time to speak. Inthese days Richard was under the impression that she needed to behumoured. He might agree with her against his better judgment, or, worse still, pretend to agree. And Polly didn't want that. She wishedfairly to persuade him that, by setting up here on the diggings wherehe was known and respected, he would get on quicker, and make moremoney, than if he buried himself in some poky English village where noone had ever heard of him. 

Meanwhile the unconscious centre of her ambitions wore a perplexedfrown. Mahony was much exercised just now over the question of medicalattendance for Polly. The thought of coming into personal contact witha member of the fraternity was distasteful to him; none of them had aninkling who or what he was. And, though piqued by theirunsuspectingness, he at the same time feared lest it should not beabsolute, and he have the ill-luck to hit on a practitioner who hadheard of his stray spurts of doctoring and written him down a charlatanand a quack. For this reason he would call in no one in the immediateneighbourhood--even the western township seemed too near. Ultimately, his choice fell on a man named Rogers who hailed from Mount Pleasant, the rise on the opposite side of the valley and some two miles off. Itwas true since he did not intend to disclose his own standing, thedistance would make the fellow's fees mount up. But Rogers was at leastproperly qualified (half those claiming the title of physician wereimpudent impostors, who didn't know a diploma from the TenCommandments), of the same ALMA MATER as himself--not a contemporary, though, he took good care of that!--and, if report spoke true, askilful and careful obstetrician. 

When, however, in response to a note carried by Long Jim Rogers drewrein in front of the store, Mahony was not greatly impressed by him. Heproved to be a stout, reddish man, some ten years Mahony's senior, witha hasty-pudding face and an undecided manner. There he sat, his tenspread finger-tips meeting and gently tapping one another across hispaunch, and nodding: "Just so, just so!" to all he heard. He had thetrick of saying everything twice over. "Needs to clinch his ownopinion!" was Mahony's swift diagnosis. Himself, he kept in thebackground. And was he forced to come forward his manner was both stiffand forbidding, so on tenterhooks was he lest the other should presumeto treat him as anything but the storekeeper he gave himself out to be. 

A day or so later who but the wife must arrive to visit Polly!--a pieceof gratuitous friendliness that could well have been dispensed with;even though Mahony felt it keenly that, at this juncture, Polly shouldlack companions of her own sex. But Rogers had married beneath him, andthe sight of the pursy upstart--there were people on the Flat whoremembered her running barefoot and slatternly--sitting there, in satinand feathers, lording it over his own little Jenny Wren, was more thanMahony could tolerate. The distance was put forward as an excuse forPolly not returning the call, and Polly was docile as usual; though forher part she had thought her visitor quite a pleasant, kindly woman. But then Polly never knew when she was being patronised!

To wipe out any little trace of disappointment, her husband suggestedthat she should write and ask one of the Beamish girls to stay withher: it would keep her from feeling the days long. 

But Polly only laughed. "Long?--when I have so much sewing to do?"

No, she did not want company. By now, indeed, she regretted having sentoff that impulsive invitation to Mrs. Beamish for the end of the year. Puzzle as she would, she could not see how she was going to put"mother" comfortably up. 

Meanwhile the rains were changing the familiar aspect of the place. Creeks--in summer dry gutters of baked clay--were now rich red rivers;and the yellow Yarrowee ran full to the brim, keeping those who livedhard by it in a twitter of anxiety. The steep slopes of Black Hillshowed thinly green; the roads were ploughed troughs of sticky mire. Occasional night frosts whitened the ground, bringing cloudless days intheir wake. Then down came the rain once more, and fell for a week onend. The diggers were washed out of their holes, the Flat became anuntraversable bog. And now there were floods in earnest: the creeksturned to foaming torrents that swept away trees and the old roots oftrees; and the dwellers on the river banks had to fly for their barelives. 

Over the top of book or newspaper Mahony watched his wife stitch, stitch, stitch, with a zeal that never flagged, at the dolly garments. Just as he could read his way, so Polly sewed hers, through the time ofwaiting. But whereas she, like a sensible little woman, pinned herthoughts fast to the matter in hand, he let his range freely over thefuture. Of the many good things this had in store for him, one inparticular whetted his impatience. It took close on a twelvemonth outhere to get hold of a new book. On Ballarat not even a stationer'sexisted; nor were there more than a couple of shops in Melbourne itselfthat could be relied on to carry out your order. You perforce fellbehind in the race, remained ignorant of what was being said anddone--in science, letters, religious controversy--in the great worldoverseas. To this day he didn't know whether Agassiz had or had notbeen appointed to the chair of Natural History in Edinburgh; or whetherfresh heresies with regard to the creation of species had spoiled hischances; did not know whether Hugh Miller had actually gone crazy overthe VESTIGES; or even if those arch-combatants, Syme and Simpson, hadat length sheathed their swords. Now, however, God willing, he wouldbefore very long be back in the thick of it all, in intimate touch withthe doings of the most wide-awake city in Europe; and new books andpamphlets would come into his possession as they dropped hot from thepress. 

Chapter V

And then one morning--it was spring now, and piping hot at noon--LongJim brought home from the post-office a letter for Polly, addressed inher sister Sarah's sloping hand. Knowing the pleasure it would giveher, Mahony carried it at once to his wife; and Polly laid aside broomand duster and sat down to read. 

But he was hardly out of the room when a startled cry drew him back toher side. Polly had hidden her face, and was shaken by sobs As he couldnot get her to speak, Mahony picked up the letter from the floor andread it for himself. 

Sarah wrote like one distracted. 

OH, MY DEAR SISTER, HOW CAN I FIND WORDS TO TELL YOU OF THE TRULY"AWFUL" CALAMITY THAT HAS BEFALLEN OUR UNHAPPY BROTHER. Mahony skippedthe phrases, and learnt that owing to a carriage accident Emma Turnhamhad been prematurely confined, and, the best medical aidnotwithstanding--JOHN SPARED ABSOLUTELY "NO" EXPENSE--had died two dayslater. JOHN IS LIKE A MADMAN. DIRECTLY I HEARD THE "SHOCKING" NEWS, IAT ONCE THREW UP MY ENGAGEMENT--AT "SERIOUS" LOSS TO MYSELF, BUT THATIS A MATTER OF SMALL CONSEQUENCE--AND CAME TO TAKE MY PLACE BESIDE OURPOOR DEAR BROTHER IN HIS GREAT TRIAL. BUT ALL MY EFFORTS TO BRING HIMTO A PROPER AND "CHRISTIAN" FRAME OF MIND HAVE BEEN FRUITLESS. I AMINDEED ALARMED TO BE ALONE WITH HIM, AND I TREMBLE FOR THE CHILDREN, FOR HE IS POSSESSED OF AN "INSANE" HATRED FOR THE SWEET LITTLE LOVES. HE HAS LOCKED HIMSELF IN HIS ROOM, WILL SEE "NO ONE" NOR TOUCH A"PARTICLE" OF NOURISHMENT. DO, MY DEAREST POLLY, COME AT ONCE ONRECEIPT OF THIS, AND HELP ME IN THE "TRULY AWFUL" TASK THAT HAS BEENLAID UPON ME. AND PRAY FORGIVE ME FOR USING THIS PLAIN PAPER. I HAVEHAD LITERALLY NO TIME TO ORDER MOURNING "OF ANY KIND. "

So that was Sarah! With a click of the tongue Mahony tossed the letteron the table, and made it clear to Polly that under no considerationwould he allow her to attempt the journey to town. Her relatives seemedutterly to have forgotten her condition; if, indeed. , they had evergrasped the fact that she was expecting a child. 

But Polly did not heed him. "Oh, poor, poor Emma! Oh, poor dear John!"Her husband could only soothe her by promising to go to Sarah'sassistance himself, the following day. 

They had been entirely in the dark about things. For John Turnhamthought proper to erect a jealous wall about his family life. What wenton behind it was nobody's business but his own. You felt yourself--weremeant to feel yourself--the alien, the outsider. And Mahony marvelledonce more at the wealth of love and sympathy his little Polly had keptfresh for these two, who had wasted so few of their thoughts on her. 

Polly dried her eyes; he packed his carpet-bag. He did this with a gooddeal of pother, pulling open the wrong drawers, tumbling up theircontents and generally making havoc of his wife's arrangements. But thesight of his clumsiness acted as a kind of tonic on Polly: she liked tofeel that he was dependent on her for his material comfort andwell-being. 

They spoke of John's brief married life. 

"He loved her like a pagan, my dear, " said Mahony. "And if what yoursister Sarah writes is not exaggerated, he is bearing his punishment ina truly pagan way. "

"But you won't say that to him, dear Richard . .. Will you? You'll bevery gentle with him?" pleaded Polly anxiously. 

"Indeed I shall, little woman. But one can't help thinking thesethings, all the same. You know it is written: 'Thou shalt have noneother gods but Me. '"

"Yes, I know. But then this was JUST Emma . .. And she was so pretty andso good"--and Polly cried anew. 

Mahony rose before dawn to catch the coach. Together with a packet ofsandwiches, Polly brought him a small black mantle. 

"For Sarah, with my dear love. You see, Richard, I know she alwayswears coloured dresses. And she will feel so much happier if she hasSOMETHING black to put on. " Little Polly's voice was deep withpersuasion. Richard was none too well pleased, she could see, at havingto unlock his bag again; she feared too, that, after the letter of theday before, his opinion of Sarah had gone down to zero. 

Mahony secured a corner seat; and so, though his knees interlocked withthose of his VIS-A-VIS, only one of the eight inside passengers wasjammed against him. The coach started; and the long, dull hours of thejourney began to wear away. Nothing broke the monotony but speculationswhether the driver--a noted tippler--would be drunk before Melbournewas reached and capsize them; and the drawling voice of a Yankeeprospector, who told lying tales about his exploits in California in'48 until, having talked his hearers to sleep, he dropped off himself. Then, Mahony fell to reflecting on what lay before him. He didn't likethe job. He was not one of your born good Samaritans: he relishedintruding as little as being intruded on. Besides, morally to sustain, to forbear with, a fellow-creature in misfortune, seemed to him asdifficult and thankless a task as any required of one. Infinite tactwas essential, and a skin thick enough to stand snubs and rebuffs. Buthere he smiled. "Or my little wife's inability to recognise them!"

House and garden had lost their air of well-groomed smartness: the gatestood ajar, the gravel was unraked, the verandah-flooring black withfootmarks. With all the blinds still down, the windows looked like somany dead eyes. Mahony's first knock brought no response; at hissecond, the door was opened by Sarah Turnham herself. But a verydifferent Sarah this, from the elegant and sprightly young person whohad graced his wedding. Her chignon was loose, her dress dishevelled. On recognising Mahony, she uttered a cry and fell on his neck--he hadto disengage her arms by force and speak severely to her, declaringthat he would go away again, if she carried out her intention ofswooning. 

At last he got her round so far that she could tell her tale, which shedid with a hysterical overstatement. She had, it seemed, arrived therejust before her sister-in-law died. John was quarrelling furiously withall three doctors, and, before the end, insulted the only one who wasleft in such a fashion that he, too, marched out of the house. They hadto get the dead woman measured, coffined and taken away by stealth. Whereupon John had locked himself up in his room, and had not been seensince. He had a loaded revolver with him; through the closed door hehad threatened to shoot both her and the children. The servants haddeserted, panic-stricken at their master's behaviour, at the suddencollapse of the well-regulated household: the last, a nurse-girl sentout on an errand some hours previously, had not returned. Sarah was ather wits' end to know what to do with the children--he might hear themscreaming at this moment. 

Mahony, in no hesitancy now how to deal with the situation, laid hishat aside and drew off his gloves. "Prepare some food, " he saidbriefly. "A glass of port and a sandwich or two, if you can managenothing else--but meat of some kind. "

But there was not a morsel of meat in the house. 

"Then go to the butcher's and buy some. "

Sarah gasped, and bridled. She had never in her life been inside abutcher's shop!

"Good God, woman, then the sooner you make the beginning the better!"cried Mahony. And as he strode down the passage to the door sheindicated, he added: "Now control yourself, madam! And if you have notgot what I want in a quarter of an hour's time, I'll walk out of thehouse and leave you to your own devices!" At which Sarah, cowed andshaken, began tremblingly to tie her bonnet-strings. 

Mahony knocked three times at the door of John Turnham's room, eachtime more loudly. Then he took to battering with his fist on thepanels, and cried: "It is I, John, your brother-in-law! Have thegoodness to unlock this door at once!"

There was still an instant of suspense; then heavy footsteps crossedthe floor and the door swung back. Mahony's eyes met a haggard whiteface set in a dusky background. 

"You!" said John in a slow, dazed way, and blinked at the light. But inthe next breath he burst out: "Where's that damned fool of a woman? Isshe skulking behind you? I won't see her--won't have her near me!"

"If you mean your sister Sarah, she is not in the house at present, "said Mahony; and stepping over the threshold he shut the door. The twomen faced each other in the twilight. 

"What do you want?" demanded John in a hoarse voice. "Have you, too, come to preach and sermonise? If so, you can go back where you camefrom! I'll have none of that cant here. "

"No, no, I leave that to those whose business it is. I'm here as yourdoctor"; and Mahony drew up a blind and opened a window. Instantly thelevel sun-rays flooded the room; and the air that came in with themsmacked of the sea. Just outside the window a quince-tree in fullblossom reared extravagant masses of pink snow against the blueoverhead; beyond it a covered walk of vines shone golden-green. Therewas not a cloud in the sky. To turn back to the musty room from allthis lush and lovely life was like stepping down into a vault. 

John had sunk into a seat before a secretaire, and shielded his eyesfrom the sun. A burnt-out candle stood at his elbow; and in a linebefore him were ranged such images as remained to him of his dead--adozen or more daguerrotypes, of various sizes: Emma and he beforemarriage and after marriage; Emma with her first babe, at differentstages of its growth; Emma with the two children; Emma in ball-attire;with a hat on; holding a book. 

The sight gave the quietus to Mahony's scruples. Stooping, he laid hishand on John's shoulder. "My poor fellow, " he said gently. "Your sisterwas not in a fit state to travel, so I have come in her place to tellyou how deeply, how truly, we feel for you in your loss. I want to try, too, to help you to bear it. For it has to be borne, John. "

At this the torrent burst. Leaping to his feet John began to flingwildly to and fro; and then, for a time, the noise of his lamentationsfilled the room. Mahony had assisted at scenes of this kind before, butnever had he heard the like of the blasphemies that poured over John'slips. (Afterwards, when he had recovered his distance, he would referto it as the occasion on which John took the Almighty to task, forhaving dared to interfere in his private life. )

At the moment he sat silent. "Better for him to get it out, " he thoughtto himself, even while he winced at John's scurrility. 

When, through sheer exhaustion, John came to a stop, Mahony cast aboutfor words of consolation. All reference to the mystery of God's way wasprecluded; and he shrank from entering that sound plea for the workingof Time, which drives a spike into the heart of the new-made mourner. He bethought himself of the children. "Remember, she did not leave youcomfortless. You have your little ones. Think of them. "

But this was a false move. Like a belated thunderclap after the stormis over, John broke out again, his haggard eyes aflame. "Curse thechildren!" he cried thickly. "Curse them, I say! If I had once caughtsight of them since she . .. She went, I should have wrung their necks. I never wanted children. They came between us. They took her from me. It was a child that killed her. Now, she is gone and they are left. Keep them out of my way, Mahony! Don't let them near me. --Oh, Emma. .. Wife!" and here his shoulders heaved, under dry, harsh sobs. 

Mahony felt his own eyes grow moist. "Listen to me, John. I promiseyou, you shall not see your children again until you wish to--tillyou're glad to recall them, as a living gift from her you have lost. I'll look after them for you. "

"You will? . .. God bless you, Mahony!"

Judging the moment ripe, Mahony rose and went out to fetch the tray onwhich Sarah had set the eatables. The meat was but a chop, charred onone side, raw on the other; but John did not notice its shortcomings. He fell on it like the starving man he was, and gulped down two orthree glasses of port. The colour returned to his face, he was able togive an account of his wife's last hours. "And to talk is what heneeds, even if he goes on till morning. " Mahony was quick to see thatthere were things that rankled in John's memory, like festers in flesh. One was that, knowing the greys were tricky, he had not forbidden themto Emma long ago. But he had felt proud of her skill in handling thereins, of the attention she attracted. Far from thwarting her, he hadactually urged her on. Her fall had been a light one, and at the outsetno bad results were anticipated: a slight haemorrhage was soon gotunder control. A week later, however, it began anew, more violently, and then all remedies were in vain. As it became clear that the childwas dead, the doctors had recourse to serious measures. But thebleeding went on. She complained of a roaring in her ears, herextremities grew cold, her pulse fluttered to nothing. She passed fromsyncope to coma, and from coma to death. John swore that two of thedoctors had been the worse for drink; the third was one of thoseignorant impostors with whom the place swarmed. And again he madehimself reproaches. 

"I ought to have gone to look for someone else. But she was dying . .. Icould not tear myself away. --Mahony, I can still see her. They hadstretched her across the bed, so that her head hung over the side. Herhair swept the floor--one scoundrel trod on it . .. Trod on her hair!And I had to stand by and watch, while they butchered her--butchered mygirl. --Oh, there are things, Mahony, one cannot dwell on and live!"

"You must not look at it like that. Yet, when I recall some of thecases I've seen contraction induced in . .. "

"Ah yes, if you had been here . .. My God, if only you had been here!"

But Mahony did not encourage this idea; it was his duty to unhitchJohn's thoughts from the past. He now suggested that, the children andSarah safe in his keeping, John should shut up the house and go away. To his surprise John jumped at the proposal, was ready there and thento put it into effect. Yes, said he, he would start the very nextmorning, and with no more than a blanket on his back, would wander ahundred odd miles into the bush, sleeping out under the stars at night, and day by day increasing the distance between himself and the scene ofhis loss. And now up he sprang, in a sudden fury to be gone. WarningSarah into the background, Mahony helped him get together a fewnecessaries, and then walked him to a hotel. Here he left him sleepingunder the influence of a drug, and next day saw him off on his trampnorthwards, over the Great Divide. 

John's farewell words were: "Take the keys of the house with you, anddon't give them up to me under a month, at least. "

That day's coach was full; they had to wait for seats till thefollowing afternoon. The delay was not unwelcome to Mahony; it gavePolly time to get the letter he had written her the night before. Afterleaving John, he set about raising money for the extra fares and otherunforeseen expenses: at the eleventh hour, Sarah informed him thattheir young brother Jerry had landed in Melbourne during Emma'sillness, and had been hastily boarded out. Knowing no one else in thecity, Mahony was forced, much as it went against the grain, to turn toHenry Ocock for assistance. And he was effusively received--Ocock triedto press double the sum needed on him. Fortune was no doubt smiling onthe lawyer. His offices had swelled to four rooms, with appropriateclerks in each. He still, however, nursed the scheme of transferringhis business to Ballarat. 

"As soon, that is, as I can hear of suitable premises. I understandthere's only one locality to be considered, and that's the westerntownship. " On which Mahony, whose address was in the outer darkness, repeated his thanks and withdrew. 

He found Jerry's lodging, paid the bill, and took the boy back to St. Kilda--a shy slip of a lad in his early teens, with the colouring andcomplexion that ran in the family. John's coachman, who had shownhimself not indisposed--for a substantial sum, paid in advance--to keepwatch over house and grounds, was installed in an outbuilding, and nextday at noon, after personally aiding Sarah, who was all a-tremble atthe prospect of the bush journey, to pack her own and the children'sclothes, Mahony turned the key in the door of the darkened house. But acouple of weeks ago it had been a proud and happy home. Now it had nomore virtue left in it than a crab's empty shell. 

He had fumed on first learning of Jerry's superfluous presence; butbefore they had gone far he saw that he would have fared ill indeed, had Jerry not been there. Sarah, too agitated that morning to touch abite of food, was seized, not an hour out, with sickness and fainting. There she sat, her eyes closed, her salts to her nose or feebly sippingbrandy, unable to lift a finger to help with the children. The youngerof the two slept most of the way hotly and heavily on Mahony's knee;but the boy, a regular pest, was never for a moment still. In vain didhis youthful uncle pinch his leg each time he wriggled to the floor. Itwas not till a fierce-looking digger opposite took out a jack-knife andthreatened to saw off both his feet if he stirred again, to cut out histongue if he put another question that, scarlet with fear, littleJohnny was tamed. Altogether it was a nightmare of a journey, andMahony groaned with relief when, lamps having for some time twinkledpast, the coach drew up, and Hempel and Long Jim stepped forward withtheir lanterns. Sarah could hardly stand. The children, wrathful atbeing wakened from their sleep, kicked and screamed. 

Chapter VI

For the first time in her young married life, Polly felt vexed with herhusband. 

"Oh, he shouldn't have done that. .. No, really he shouldn't!" shemurmured; and the hand with the letter in it drooped to her lap. 

She had been doing a little surreptitious baking in Richard's absence, and without a doubt was hot and tired. The tears rose to her eyes. Deserting her pastry-board she retreated behind the woodstack and satdown on the chopping-block; and then, for some minutes, the sky wasblotted out. She felt quite unequal, in her present condition, tofacing Sarah, who was so sensitive, so easily shocked; and she wasdeeply averse from her fine-lady sister discovering the straitness ofRichard's means and home. 

But it was hard for Polly to secure a moment's privacy. 

"An' so this is w'ere you're 'idin', is it?" said Long Jimsnappishly--he had been opening a keg of treacle and held a sticky plugin his hand. "An' me runnin' my pore ol' legs off arter you!" AndHempel met her on her entry with: "No further bad news, I 'ope andtrust, ma'am?"--Hempel always retained his smooth servility of manner. "The shopman PAR EXCELLENCE, my dear!" Richard was used to say of him. 

Polly reassured her attendants, blew her nose, re-read her letter; andother feelings came uppermost. She noticed how scribbly the writingwas--Richard had evidently been hard pushed for time. There was anapologetic tone about it, too, which was unlike him. He was probablywondering what she would say; he might even be making himselfreproaches. It was unkind of her to add to them. Let her think ratherof the sad state poor John had been found in, and of his two motherlessbabes. As for Sarah, it would never have done to leave her out. 

Wiping her eyes Polly untied her cooking-apron and set to reviewing herresources. Sarah would have to share her bed, Richard to sleep on thesofa. The children . .. And here she knitted her brows. Then going intothe yard, she called to Tom Ocock, who sat whittling a stick in frontof his father's house; and Tom went down to Main Street for her, andbought a mattress which he carried home on his shoulder. This shespread on the bedroom floor, Mrs. Hemmerde having already given bothrooms a sound scouring, just in case a flea or a spider should be lyingperdu. After which Polly fell to baking again in good earnest; for thetravellers would be famished by the time they arrived. 

Towards ten o'clock Tom, who was on the look-out, shouted that thecoach was in, and Polly, her table spread, a good fire going, steppedto the door, outwardly very brave, inwardly all a-flutter. Directly, however, she got sight of the forlorn party that toiled up the slope:Sarah clinging to Hempel's arm, Mahony bearing one heavy child, and--could she believe her eyes?--Jerry staggering under the other: herbashfulness was gone. She ran forward to prop poor Sarah on her freeside, to guide her feet to the door; and it is doubtful whether littlePolly had ever spent a more satisfying hour than that which followed. 

Her husband, watching her in silent amaze, believed she thoroughlyenjoyed the fuss and commotion. 

There was Sarah, too sick to see anything but the bed, to undress, tomake fomentations for, to coax to mouthfuls of tea and toast. There wasJerry to feed and send off, with the warmest of hugs, to share TomOcock's palliasse. There were the children . .. Well, Polly's first planhad been to put them straight to bed. But when she came to peel offtheir little trousers she changed her mind. 

"I think, Mrs. Hemmerde, if you'll get me a tub of hot water, we'lljust pop them into it; they'll sleep so much better, " she said . .. Notquite truthfully. Her private reflection was: "I don't think Sarah canonce have washed them properly, all that time. "

The little girl let herself be bathed in her sleep; but young Johnstood and bawled, digging fat fists into slits of eyes, while Pollyscrubbed at his massy knees, the dimpled ups and downs of which lookedas if they had been worked in by hand. She had never seen her brother'schildren before and was as heartily lost in admiration of their plump, well-formed bodies, as her helper of the costliness of their outfit. 

"Real Injun muslin, as I'm alive!" ejaculated the woman, on fishing outtheir night-clothes. "An' wid the sassiest lace for trimmin'!--Och, thepoor little motherless angels!--Stan' quiet, you young divil you, an'lemme button you up!"

Clean as lily-bells, the pair were laid on the mattress-bed. 

"At least they can't fall out, " said Polly, surveying her work with asigh of content. 

Every one else having retired, she sat with Richard before the fire, waiting for his bath-water to reach the boil. He was anxious to knowjust how she had fared in his absence, she to hear the full story ofhis mission. He confessed to her that his offer to load himself up withthe whole party had been made in a momentary burst of feeling. Afterwards he had repented his impulsiveness. 

"On your account, love. Though when I see how well you've managed--youdear, clever little woman!"

And Polly consoled him, being now come honestly to the stage of: "But, Richard, what else could you do?"

"What, indeed! I knew Emma had no relatives in Melbourne, and whoJohn's intimates might be I had no more idea than the man in the moon. "

"John hasn't any friends. He never had. "

"As for leaving the children in Sarah's charge, if you'll allow me tosay so, my dear, I consider your sister Sarah the biggest goose of afemale it has ever been my lot to run across. "

"Ah, but you don't really know Sarah yet, " said Polly, and smiled alittle, through the tears that had ripen to her eyes at the tale ofJohn's despair. 

What Mahony did not mention to her was the necessity he had been underof borrowing money; though Polly was aware he had left home with but amodest sum in his purse. He wished to spare her feelings. Polly had acurious delicacy--he might almost call it a manly delicacy--with regardto money; and the fact that John had not offered to put hand to pocket;let alone liberally flung a blank cheque at his head, would, Mahonyknew, touch his wife on a tender spot. Nor did Polly herself askquestions. Richard made no allusion to John having volunteered to bearexpenses, so the latter had evidently not done so. What a pity! Richardwas so particular himself, in matters of this kind, that he might writeher brother down close and stingy. Of course John's distressed state ofmind partly served to excuse him. But she could not imagine thecalamity that would cause Richard to forget his obligations. 

She slid her hand into her husband's and they sat for a while insilence. Then, half to herself, and out of a very different train ofthought she said: "Just fancy them never crying once for their mother. "

* * * * *

"Talking of friends, " said Sarah, and fastidiously cleared her throat. "Talking of friends, I wonder now what has become of one of those younggentlemen I met at your wedding. He was . .. Let me see . .. Why, Ideclare if I haven't forgotten his name!"

"Oh, I know who you mean--besides there was only one, Sarah, " Mahonyheard his wife reply, and therewith fall into her sister's trap. "Youmean Purdy--Purdy Smith--who was Richard's best man. "

"Smith?" echoed Sarah. "La, Polly! Why don't he make it Smythe?"

It was a warm evening some three weeks later. The store was closed tocustomers; but Mahony had ensconced himself in a corner of it with abook: since the invasion, this was the one place in which he could makesure of finding quiet. The sisters sat on the log-bench before thehouse; and, without seeing them, Mahony knew to a nicety how they wereemployed. Polly darned stockings, for John's children; Sarah wastatting, with her little finger stuck out at right angles to the rest. Mahony could hardly think of this finger without irritation: it seemedto sum up Sarah's whole outlook on life. 

Meanwhile Polly's fresh voice went on, relating Purdy's fortunes. "Hetook part, you know, in the dreadful affair on the Eureka lastChristmas, when so many poor men were killed. We can speak of it, nowthey've all been pardoned; but then we had to be very careful. Well, hewas shot in the ankle, and will always be lame from it. "

"What!--go hobbling on one leg for the remainder of his days? Oh, mydear!" said Sarah, and laughed. 

"Yes, because the wound wasn't properly attended to--he had to hideabout in the bush, for ever so long. Later on he went to the Beamishes, to be nursed. But by that time his poor leg was in a very bad state. You know he is engaged--or very nearly so--to Tilly Beamish. "

"What?" said Sarah once more. "That handsome young fellow engaged toone of those vulgar creatures?"

"Oh, Sarah . .. Not really vulgar. It isn't their fault they didn't havea better education. They lived right up-country, where there were noschools. Tilly never saw a town till she was sixteen; but she can sitany horse. --Yes, we hope very much Purdy will soon settle down andmarry her--though he left the Hotel again without proposing. " And Pollysighed. 

"There he shows his good taste, my dear. "

"Oh, I'm sure he's fond of Tilly. It's only that his life is sounsettled. He's been a barman at Euroa since then; and the last weheard of him, he was shearing somewhere on the Goulburn. He doesn'tseem able to stick to anything. "

"And a rolling stone gathers no moss!" gave back Sarahsententiously--and in fancy Mahony saw the cut-and-dried nod with whichshe accompanied the words. 

Here Hempel passed through the store, clad in his Sunday best, his hairplastered flat with bear's-grease. 

"Going out for a stroll?" asked his master. 

"That was my h'intention, sir. I don't think you'll find I've left anyof my dooties undone. "

"Oh, go, by all means!" said Mahony curtly, nettled at having hisharmless query misconstrued. It pointed a suspicion he had had, oflate, that a change was coming over Hempel. The model employee was ashade less prompt than heretofore to fly at his word, and once or twiceseemed actually to be studying his own convenience. Without knowingwhat the matter was, Mahony felt it politic not to beover-exacting--even mildly to conciliate his assistant. It would puthim in an awkward fix, now that he was on the verge of winding upaffairs, should Hempel take it in his head to leave him in the lurch. 

The lean figure moved on and blocked the doorway. Now there was asudden babble of cheepy voices, and simultaneously Sarah cried: "Wherehave you been, my little cherubs? Come to your aunt, and let her kissyou!"

But the children, who had frankly no great liking for Aunt Sarah, would, Mahony knew, turn a deaf ear to this display of opportunism andmake a rush for his wife. Laying down his book he ran out. "Polly . .. Cautious!"

"It's all right, Richard, I'm being careful. " Polly had let her mendingfall, and with each hand held a flaxen-haired child at arm's length. "Johnny, dirty boy! what HAVE you been up to?"

"He played he was a digger and sat down in a pool--I couldn't get himto budge, " answered Jerry, and drew his sleeve over his perspiringforehead. 

"Oh fy, for shame!"

"Don' care!" said John, unabashed. 

"Don' tare!" echoed his roly-poly sister, who existed but as his shadow. 

"Don't-care was made to care, don't-care was hung!" quoted Aunt Sarahin her severest copybook tones. 

Turning his head in his aunt's direction young John thrust forth abright pink tongue. Little Emma was not behindhand. 

Polly jumped up, dropping her work to the ground. "Johnny, I shallpunish you if ever I see you do that again. Now, Ellen shall put you tobed instead of Auntie. "--Ellen was Mrs. Hemmerde's eldest, and Polly'sfirst regular maidservant. 

"Don' care, " repeated Johnny. "Ellen plays pillers. "

"Edn pays pidders, " said the echo. 

Seizing two hot, pudgy hands Polly dragged the pair indoors--thoughthey held back mainly on principle. They were not affectionatechildren; they were too strong of will and set of purpose for that; butif they had a fondness for anyone it was for their Aunt Polly: she wasruler over a drawerful of sugar-sticks, and though she scolded shenever slapped. 

While this was going on Hempel stood, the picture of indecision, andeased now one foot, now the other, as if his boots pinched him. 

At length he blurted out: "I was wondering, ma'am--ahem! MissTurnham--if, since it is an agreeable h'evening, you would care to takea walk to that 'ill I told you of?"

"Me take a walk? La, no! Whatever put such an idea as that into yourhead?" cried Sarah; and tatted and tatted, keeping time with a prettylittle foot. 

"I thought per'aps . .. " said Hempel meekly. 

"I didn't make your thoughts, Mr. Hempel, " retorted Sarah, layingstress on the aspirate. 

"Oh no, ma'am. I 'ope I didn't presume to suggest such a thing"; andwith a hangdog air Hempel prepared to slink away. 

"Well, well!" said Sarah double quick; and ceasing to jerk hercrochet-needle in and out, she nimbly rolled up her ball of thread. "Since you're so insistent . .. And since, mind you, there's no societyworth calling such, on these diggings. .. . " The truth was, Sarah sawthat she was about to be left alone with Mahony--Jerry had saunteredoff to meet Ned--and this TETE-A-TETE was by no means to her mind. Shestill bore her brother-in-law a grudge for his high-handed treatment ofher at the time of John's bereavement. "As if I had been one of thedomestics, my dear--a paid domestic! Ordered me off to the butcher's inlanguage that fairly shocked me. "

Mahony turned his back and strolled down to the river. He did not knowwhich was more painful to witness: Hempel's unmanly cringing, or theair of fatuous satisfaction that succeeded it. When he returned, thepair was just setting out; he watched Sarah, on Hempel's arm, pickingshort steps in dainty latchet-shoes. 

As soon as they were well away he called to Polly. 

"The coast's clear. Come for a stroll. "

Polly emerged, tying her bonnet-strings. "Why, where's Sarah? Oh . .. Isee. Oh, Richard, I hope she didn't put on that--"

"She did, my dear!" said Mahony grimly, and tucked his wife's handunder his arm. 

"Oh, how I wish she wouldn't!" said Polly in a tone of concern. "Shedoes get so stared at--especially of an evening, when there are so manyrude men about. But I really don't think she minds. For she HAS abonnet in her box all the time. " Miss Sarah was giving Ballarat foodfor talk, by appearing on her promenades in a hat: a large, flat, mushroom hat. 

"I trust my little woman will never put such a ridiculous object on herhead!"

"No, never . .. At least, not unless they become quite the fashion, "answered Polly. "And I don't think they will. They look too odd. "

"Another thing, love, " continued Mahony, on whom a sudden light haddawned as he stood listening to Sarah's trumpery. "I fear your sisteris trifling with the feelings of our worthy Hempel. "

Polly, who had kept her own counsel on this matter, went crimson. "Oh, do you really think so, Richard?" she asked evasively. "I hope not. Forof course nothing could come of it. Sarah has refused the most eligibleoffers. "

"Ah, but there are none here to refuse. And if you don't mind my sayingso, Poll, anything in trousers seems fish to her net!"

On one of their pacings they found Mr. Ocock come out to smoke anevening pipe. The old man had just returned from a flying visit toMelbourne. He looked glum and careworn, but livened up at the sight ofPolly, and cracked one of the mouldy jokes he believed beneficial to ayoung woman in her condition. Still, the leading-note in his mood wasmelancholy; and this, although his dearest wish was on the point ofbeing fulfilled. 

"Yes, I've got the very crib for 'Enry at last, doc. , Billy de laPoer's liv'ry-stable, top o' Lydiard Street. We sol' poor Billy upyesterday. The third smash in two days that makes. Lord! I dunno whereit'll end. "

"Things are going a bit quick over there. There's been too muchbuilding. "

"They're at me to build, too--'Enry is. But I says no. This place isgood enough for me. If 'e's goin' to be ashamed of 'ow 'is fatherlives, 'e'd better stop away. I'm an ol' man now, an' a poor one. Whatshould I want with a fine noo 'ouse? An' 'oo should I build it for, even if I 'ad the tin? For them two good-for-nothin's in there? Not ifI know it!"

"Mr. Ocock, you wouldn't believe how kind and clever Tom's been athelping with the children, " said Polly warmly. 

"Yes, an' at bottle-washin' and sweepin' and cookin' a pasty. But afemale 'ud do it just as well, " returned Tom's father with a snort ofcontempt. 

"Poor old chap!" said Mahony, as they passed out of earshot. "So eventhe great Henry's arrival is not to be without its drop of gall. "

"Surely he'll never be ashamed of his father?"

"Who knows! But it's plain he suspects the old boy has made his pileand intends him to fork out, " said Mahony carelessly; and, with this, dismissed the subject. Now that his own days in the colony werenumbered, he no longer felt constrained to pump up a spurious interestin local affairs. He consigned them wholesale to that limbo in which, for him, they had always belonged. 

The two brothers came striding over the slope. Ned, clad in blue sergeshirt and corduroys, laid an affectionate arm round Polly's shoulder, and tossed his hat into the air on hearing that the "Salamander, " as hecalled Sarah, was not at home. 

"For I've tons to tell you, Poll old girl. And when milady sits thereturning up her nose at everything a chap says, somehow the spunk goesout of one. "

Polly had baked a large cake for her darling, and served out generousslices. Then, drawing up a chair she sat down beside him, to drink inhis news. 

From his place at the farther end of the table Mahony studied thetrio--these three young faces which were so much alike that they mighthave been different readings of one and the same face. Polly, by reasonof her woman's lot, looked considerably the oldest. Still, thelamplight wiped out some of the shadows, and she was never moregirlishly vivacious than with Ned, entering as she did with zest intohis plans and ideas--more sister now than wife. And Ned showed at hisbest with Polly: he laid himself out to divert her; forgot to brag orto swear; and so natural did it seem for brother to open his heart tosister that even his egoistic chatter passed muster. As for youngJerry, who in a couple of days was to begin work in the same claim asNed, he sat round-eyed, his thoughts writ large on his forehead. Mahonytranslated them thus: how in the world I could ever have sat prim andproper on the school-bench, when all this--change, adventure, romance--was awaiting me? Jerry was only, Mahony knew, to push awheelbarrow from hole to water and back again for many a week to come;but for him it would certainly be a golden barrow, and laden with gold, so greatly had Ned's tales fired his imagination. 

The onlooker felt odd man out, debarred as he was by his profounderexperience from sharing in the young people's light-legged dreams. Hetook up his book. But his reading was cut into by Ned's sprightlyaccount of the Magpie rush; by his description of an engine at work onthe Eureka, and of the wooden airpipes that were being used toventilate deep-sinkings. There was nothing Ned did not know, and couldnot make entertaining. One was forced, almost against one's will, tolisten to him; and on this particular evening, when he was neithersponging, nor acting the Big Gun, Mahony toned down his first sweepingjudgment of his young relative. Ned was all talk; and what impressedone so unfavourably--his grumbling, his extravagant boastfulness--wasthe mere thistledown of the moment, puffed off into space. It matteredlittle that he harped continually on "chucking up" his job. Two yearshad passed since he came to Ballarat, and he was still working for hirein somebody else's hole. He still groaned over the hardships of thelife, and still toiled on--and all the rest was just the froth andbraggadocio of aimless youth. 

Chapter VII

Not twenty-four hours later, Sarah had an accident to her MACHOIRE andreturned post-haste to Melbourne. 

"A most opportune breakage!" said Mahony, and laughed. 

That day at the dinner-table he had given his sister-in-law a piece ofhis mind. Sarah had always resented the name bestowed on her by herparents, and was at present engaged in altering it, in giving it, so tospeak, a foreign tang: henceforth she was to be not Sarah, but Sara(spoken Sahra). As often as Polly's tongue tripped over the unfamiliarsyllable, Sara gently but firmly put her right; and Polly correctedherself, even begged pardon for her stupidity, till Mahony could bearit no longer. Throwing politeness to the winds, he twitted Sara withher finical affectations, her old-maidish ways, the morning sloth thatexpected Polly, in her delicate state of health, to carry abreakfast-tray to the bedside: cast up at her, in short, all that hadmade him champ and fret in silence. Sara might, after a fitting periodof the huff, have overlooked the rest; but the "old-maidish" she couldnot forgive. And directly dinner was over, the mishap to her mouthpiecewas made known. 

Too much in awe of Mahony to stand up to him--for when he was angry, hewas very angry--Sara retaliated by abusing him to Polly as she packedher trunk. 

"Manners, indeed! To turn and insult a visitor at his own table! Andwho and what is he, I should like to know, to speak to me so? Nothingbut a common storekeeper. My dear, you have my deepest sympathy. It's aDREADFUL life for you. Of course you keep everything as nice aspossible, under the circumstances. But the surroundings, Polly! . .. Andthe store . .. And the want of society. I couldn't put up with it, notfor a week!"

Polly, sitting on the side of the tester-bed and feeling very cast downat Sara's unfriendly departure, shed a few tears at this. For part ofwhat her sister said was true: it had been wrong of Richard to be rudeto Sara while the latter was a guest in his house. But she defended himwarmly. "I couldn't be happier than I am; Richard's the best husband inthe world. As for his being common, Sara, you know he comes of a muchbetter family than we do. "

"My dear, common is as common does; and a vulgar calling ends byvulgarising those who have the misfortune to pursue it. But there'sanother reason, Polly, why it is better for me to leave you. There arecertain circumstances, my dear, in which, to put it mildly, it isAWKWARD for two people of OPPOSITE sexes to go on living under the sameroof. "

"Sarah!--I mean Sara--do you really mean to say Hempel has made you aproposal?" cried Polly, wide-eyed in her tears. 

"I won't say, my dear, that he has so far forgotten himself as toactually offer marriage. But he has let me see only too plainly whathis feelings are. Of course, I've kept him in his place--thepreposterous creature! But all the same it's not COMME IL FAUT anylonger for me to be here. "

"Did she say where she was going, or what she intended to do?" Mahonyinquired of his wife that night as she bound the strings of hernightcap. 

No, she hadn't, Polly admitted, rather out of countenance. But thenSara was like that--very close about her own affairs. "I think she'sperhaps gone back to her last situation. She had several letters whileshe was here, in that lady's hand. People are always glad to get herback. Not many finishing governesses can teach all she can"--and Pollychecked off Sara's attainments on the fingers of both hands. "She won'tgo anywhere under two hundred a year. "

"A most accomplished person, your sister!" said Mahony sleepily. "Still, it's very pleasant to be by ourselves again--eh, wife?"

An even more blessed peace shortly descended on the house; for the timewas now come to get rid of the children as well. Since nothing had beenheard of John, they were to be boarded out over Polly's illness. Through the butcher's lady, arrangements were made with a trooper'swife, who lived outside the racket and dust of the township, and had awhole posse of little ones of her own. --"Bless you! half-a-dozen morewouldn't make any difference to me. There's the paddock for 'em to runwild in. " This was the best that could be done for the children. Pollypacked their little kit, dealt out a parting bribe of barley-sugar, andsaw them hoisted into the dray that would pass the door of theirdestination. 

Once more husband and wife sat alone together, as in the days beforeJohn's domestic catastrophe. And now Mahony said tentatively: "Don'tyou think, love, we could manage to get on without that old Beamishwoman? I'll guarantee to nurse you as well as any female alive. "

The question did not come as a surprise to Polly; she had already putit to herself. After the affair with Sara she awaited her new visitorin fear and trembling. Sara had at least stood in awe of Richard andheld her tongue before him; Mrs. Beamish prided herself on being afraidof nobody, and on always speaking her mind. And yet, even whileagreeing that it would be well to put "mother" off, Polly drooped herwings. At a time like this a woman was a woman. It seemed as if eventhe best of husbands did not quite understand. 

"Just give her the hint we don't want her, " said Mahony airily. 

But "mother" was not the person to take a hint, no matter how broad. Itwas necessary to be blunt to the point of rudeness; and Polly spent adifficult hour over the composition of her letter. She might have savedher pains. Mrs. Beamish replied that she knew her darling littlePolly's unwillingness to give trouble; but it was not likely she wouldnow go back on her word: she had been packed and ready to start for thepast week. Polly handed the letter to her husband, and did not say whatshe thought she read out of it, namely that "mother, " who so seldomcould be spared from home, was looking forward with pleasure to hertrip to Ballarat. 

"I suppose it's a case of making the best of a bad job, " sighed Mahony;and having one day drawn Mrs. Beamish, at melting point, from theinside of a crowded coach, he loaded Long Jim with her bags and bundles. 

His aversion was not lightened by his subsequently coming on his wifein the act of unpacking a hamper, which contained half a ham, a stonejar of butter, some home-made loaves of bread, a bag of vegetables anda plum pudding. "Good God! does the woman think we can't give herenough to eat?" he asked testily. He had all the poor Irishman'sdistrust of a gift. 

"She means it kindly, dear. She probably thought things were stillscarce here; and she knew I wouldn't be able to do much cooking, "pleaded Polly. And going out to the kitchen she untied the last parcel, in which was a big round cheese, by stealth. 

She had pulled Mrs. Beamish over the threshold, had got her into thebedroom and shut the door, before any of the "ohs" and "ahs" she sawpainted on the broad, rubicund face could be transformed into words. And hugs and kisses over, she bravely seized the bull by the horns andbegged her guest not to criticise house or furnishings in front ofRichard. 

It took Mrs. Beamish a minute or two to grasp her meaning. Then, shesaid heartily: "There, there, my duck, don't you worry! I'll be as mumas mum. " And in a whisper: "So, 'e's got a temper, Polly, 'as 'e? Butthis I will say: if I'd known this was all 'e 'ad to h'offer you, I'd'a' said, stop w'ere you are, my lamb, in a comfortable, 'appy 'ome. "

"Oh, I AM happy, mother dear, indeed I am!" cried Polly. "I've neverregretted being married--never once!"

"There, there, now!"

"And it's only . .. I mean . .. This is the best we can afford in themeantime, and if I am satisfied . .. " floundered Polly, dismayed to hearher words construed into blame of her husband. "It's only that itupsets Richard if people speak slightingly of our house, and thatupsets me--and I musn't be worried just now, you know, " she added witha somewhat shaky smile. 

"Not a word will I say, ducky, make yer pore little mind easy aboutthat. Though such a poky little 'en-coop of a place I never wasin!"--and, while tying her cap-strings, Mrs. Beamish swept the littlebedroom and its sloping roof with a withering glance. "I was 'orrified, girls, simply 'ORRIFIED!" she related the incident to her daughters. "An' I up an' told 'er so--just like me, you know. Not room enough toswing a cat in, and 'im sittin' at the 'ead of the table as 'igh an'mighty as a dook! You can thank yer stars, you two, 'e didn't take oneo' you instead o' Polly. " But this was chiefly by way of aconsolation-prize for Tilly and Jinny. 

"An' now, my dear, tell me EVERYTHING. " With these words, Mrs. Beamishspread her skirts and settled down to a cosy chat on the subject ofPolly's hopes. 

But like the majority of her sex she was an adept at dividing herattention; and while making delicate inquiries of the young wife, shewas also travelling her shrewd eye round the little bedchamber, spyingout and appraising: not one of poor Polly's makeshifts escaped her. Theresult of her inspection was to cause her to feel justly indignant withMahony. The idea! Him to rob them of Polly just to dump her down in aplace like this! She would never be able to resist telling him what shethought of him. 

Here, however, she reckoned without Polly. Polly was sharp enough todoubt "mother's" ability to hold her tongue; and saw to it that Richardand she were not left alone together. And of an evening when talklanguished, she would beg her husband to read to them from the BALLARATSTAR, until, as often as not, Mrs. Beamish fell asleep. Frequently, too, she persuaded him to go out and take a hand in a newlyformed whistclub, or discuss politics with a neighbour. 

Mahony went willingly enough; his home was less home than ever sincethe big woman's intrusion. Even his food lost its savour. Mrs. Beamishhad taken over the cooking, and she went about it with an air thatimplied he had not had a decent bite to eat since his marriage. 

"There! what do you say to that now? That's something LIKE a pudding!"and a great plum-duff was planked triumphantly down in the middle ofthe dinner-table. "Lor, Polly! your bit of a kitchen . .. In thisweather . .. I'm fair dished. " And the good woman mopped her streamingface and could herself eat nothing. 

Mahony much preferred his wife's cooking, which took account of histastes--it was done, too, without any fuss--and he persisted inupholding Polly's skill, in face of Mrs. Beamish's good-natureddisbelief. Polly, on edge, lest he should openly state his preference, nervously held out her plate. 

"It's so good, mother, I must have a second helping, " she declared; andthen, without appetite in the cruel, midday heat, did not know what todo with the solid slab of pudding. Pompey and Palmerston got into theway of sitting very close to her chair. 

She confided to Richard that Mrs. Beamish disapproved of his eveningoutings. "Many an 'usband takes to goin' out at such a time, my dear, an' never gets back the 'abit of stoppin' at 'ome. So just you becareful, ducky!" This was a standing joke between them. Mahony wouldwink at Polly when he put his hat on, and wear it rakishly askew. 

However, he quite enjoyed a crack with the postmaster or thetown-surveyor, at this juncture. Colonial politics were moreinteresting than usual. The new Constitution had been proclaimed, and avaliant effort was being made to form a Cabinet; to induce, that was, asufficient number of well-to-do men to give up time to the service oftheir country. It looked as if the attempt were going to fail, just ason the goldfields the Local Courts, by which since the Stockade thediggers governed themselves, were failing, because none could afford tospend his days sitting in them. 

Yet however high the discussion ran, he kept one ear turned towards hishome. Here, things were at a standstill. Polly's time had come andgone--but there was no end set to their suspense. It was blazing hotnow in the little log house; walls and roof were black with flies;mosquitoes made the nights hideous. Even Polly lost patience withherself when, morning after morning, she got up feeling as well asever, and knowing that she had to steer through another difficult day. 

It was not the suspense alone: the strain of keeping the peace wasgrowing too much for her. 

"Oh, DON'T quarrel with her, Richard, for my sake, " she begged herhusband one night. "She means so well. And she can't help being likeshe is--she has always been accustomed to order Mr. Beamish about. ButI wish she had never, never come, " sobbed poor Polly. And Mahony, in asudden flash of enlightenment, put his arms round her, and made humblepromises. Not another word should cross his lips! "Though I'd likenothing so well as to throw her out, and her bags and bundles afterher. Come, laugh a little, my Polly. Think of the old lady flying downthe slope, with her packages in a shower about her head!"

Rogers, M. D. , looked in whenever he passed. At this stage he was of thejocular persuasion. "Still an unwelcome visitor, ma'am? No littletidbit of news for me to-day?" There he sat, twiddling his thumbs, reiterating his singsong: "Just so!" and looking wise as an owl. Mahonyknew the air--had many a time seen it donned to cloak perplexity--andcovert doubts of Rogers' ability began to assail him. But then he fellmentally foul of every one he came in touch with, at present: Ned, forthe bare-faced fashion in which he left his cheerfulness on thedoor-mat; Mrs. Beamish for the eternal "Pore lamb!" with which shebeplastered Polly, and the antiquated reckoning-table she embarrassedthem by consulting. 

However, this state of things could not last for ever, and at dawn, onehot January day, Polly was taken ill. 

The early hours promised well. But the morning wore on, turned tomidday, then to afternoon, and matters still hung fire. While towardssix o'clock the patient dismayed them by sitting up in bed, saying shefelt much better, and asking for a cup of tea. This drew: "Ah, my porelamb, you've got to feel worse yet afore you're better!" from Mrs. Beamish. 

It ended in Rogers taking up his quarters there, for the night. 

Towards eleven o'clock Mahony and he sat, one on each side of thetable, in the little sitting-room. The heat was insupportable and allthree doors and the window were propped open, in the feeble hope ofcreating a draught. The lamp had attracted a swarm of flying things:giant moths beat their wings against the globe, or fell singed andsizzling down the chimney; winged-ants alighted with a click upon thetable; blowflies and mosquitoes kept up a dizzy hum. 

From time to time Mahony rose and stole into the bedroom, where Mrs. Beamish sat fanning the pests off Polly, who was in a feverish doze. Leaning over his wife he let his finger lie on her wrist; and, backagain in the outer room, he bit nervously at his little-finger nail--anold trick of his when in a quandary. He had curtly refused a game ofbezique; so Rogers had produced a pack of cards from his ownpocket--soiled, frayed cards, which had likely done service on many asimilar occasion--and was whiling the time away with solitaire. To sitthere watching his slow manipulation of the cards, his patentintentness on the game; to listen any longer to the accursed din of thegnats and flies passed Mahony's powers of endurance. Abruptly shovingback his chair, he went out into the yard. 

This was some twenty paces across--from the row of old kerosene-tinsthat constituted his flower-garden, past shed and woodstack to thepost-and-rail fence. How often he walked it he did not know; but whenhe went indoors again, his boots were heavy with mud. For a briefsummer storm had come up earlier in the evening. A dense black pall ofcloud had swept like a heavy curtain over the stars, to the tune offlash and bang. Now, all was clear and calm again; the white star-dustof the Milky Way powdered the sky just overhead; and though the heatwas still intense, the air had a fragrant smell of saturated dust andrain-soaked earth--he could hear streamlets of water trickling down thehillside to the river below. 

Out there in the dark, several things became plain to him. He saw thathe had not had any real confidence in Rogers from the start; while theeffect of the evening spent at close quarters had been to sink hisopinion to nothing. Rogers belonged to an old school; his method was tosit by and let nature take its course--perhaps just this slowness tomove had won him a name for extreme care. His old fogyism showed upunmistakably in a short but heated argument they had had on the subjectof chloroform. He cited such hoary objections to the use of the newanaesthetic in maternity cases as Mahony had never expected to hearagain: the therapeutic value of pain; the moral danger the patient ranin yielding up her will ("What right have we to bid a fellow-creaturesacrifice her consciousness?") and the impious folly of interferingwith the action of a creative law. It had only remained for him toquote Genesis, and the talking serpent!

Had the case been in his own hands he would have intervened before now. Rogers, on the contrary, was still satisfied with the shape ofaffairs--or made pretence to be. For, watching lynx-eyed, Mahonyfancied each time the fat man propelled his paunch out of the sickroomit was a shade less surely: there were nuances, too, in the way hepronounced his vapid: "As long as our strength is well maintained . .. Well maintained. " Mahony doubted Polly's ability to bear much more; andhe made bold to know his own wife's constitution best. Rogers wasshilly-shallying: what if he delayed too long and Polly slipped throughhis hands? Lose Polly? Good God! the very thought turned him cold. Andalive to his finger-tips with the superstition of his race, heimpetuously offered up his fondest dream to those invisible powers thatsat aloft, waiting to be appeased. If this was to be the price exactedof him--the price of his escape from exile--then. .. Then . .. 

To come back to the present, however, he was in an awkward position: hewas going to be forced to take Polly's case out of the hands of the manto whom he had entrusted it. Such a step ran counter to all the stiffrules of conduct, the punctilios of decorum, laid down by the mostcode-ridden profession in the world. 

But a fresh visit to Polly, whose pulse had grown markedly softer, putan end to his scruples. 

Stalking into the sitting-room he said without preamble: "In my opinionany further delay will mean a risk to my wife. I request you to operateimmediately. "

Rogers blinked up from his cards, surprise writ across his ruddycountenance. He pushed his spectacles to his forehead. "Eh? What? Well, well . .. Yes, the time is no doubt coming when we shall have to lendMother Nature a hand. "

"Coming? It's come . .. And gone. Are you blind, man?"

Rogers had faced many an agitated husband in his day. "Now, now, Mr. Mahony, " he said soothingly, and laid his last two cards in line. "Youmust allow me to be the judge of that. Besides, " he added, as he tookoff his glasses to polish them on a red bandanna; "besides, I shouldhave to ask you to go out and get some one to assist me. "

"I shall assist you, " returned Mahony. 

Rogers smiled his broad, fat smile. "Easier said than done, my goodsir! . .. Easier said than done. "

Mahony considerately turned his back; and kept it turned. Emptying apitcher of water into a basin he began to lather his hands. "I am aqualified medical man. Of the same university as yourself. I studiedunder Simpson. " It cost him an effort to get the words out. But, byspeaking, he felt that he did ample penance for the fit of tetchy pridewhich, in the first instance, had tied his tongue. 

Rogers was dumbfounded. 

"Well, upon my word!" he ejaculated, letting his hands with glasses andhandkerchief fall to the table. "God bless my soul! why couldn't yousay so before? And why the deuce didn't you yourself attend--"

"We can go into all that afterwards. "

But Rogers was not one of those who could deal rapidly with theunexpected: he continued to vent his surprise, and to shoot distrustfulglances at his companion. He was flurried, too, at being driven forwardquicker than he had a mind to go, and said sulkily that Mahony musttake full responsibility for what they were about to do. Mahony hardlyheard him; he was looking at the instruments laid out on the table. Hisfingers itched to close round them. 

"I'll prepare my wife, " he said briskly. And going into the bedroom hebent over the pillow. It was damp with the sweat that had dripped fromPolly's head when the pains were on her. 

"'Ere, you girl, get in quick now with your bucket and cloth, and givethat place a good clean-up afore that pore lamb opens 'er eyes again. I'm cooked--that's what I am!" and sitting heavily down on thekitchen-chair, Mrs. Beamish wiped her face towards the four points ofthe compass. 

Piqued by an unholy curiosity young Ellen willingly obeyed. But aminute later she was back, having done no more than set her pail downinside the bedroom door. "Oh, sure, Mrs. Beamish, and I can't do't!"she cried shrilly. "It's jus' like Andy Soakes's shop . .. When they'vebin quarterin' a sheep. "

"I'll QUARTER you, you lazy trollop, you!" cried Mrs. Beamish, risingto her aching legs again; and her day-old anxiety found vent in ahearty burst of temper. "I'll teach you!" pulling, as she spoke, thefloorcloth out of the girl's hand. "Such airs and graces! Why, sooneror later, milady, you've got to go through it yourself. "

"ME . .. ? Catch me!" said Ellen, with enormous emphasis. "D'yer mean tosay that's 'ow . .. 'ow the children always come?"

"Of course it is, you mincing Nanny-hen!--every blessed child thatwalks. And I just 'ope, " said Mrs. Beamish, as she marched off herselfwith brush and scrubber: "I 'ope, now you know it, you'll 'ave a littlemore love and gratitoode for your own mother than ever you 'ad before. "

"Oh lor!" said the girl. "Oh, lor!" And plumping down on thechopping-block she snatched her apron to her face and began to cry. 

Chapter VIII

Two months passed before Mahony could help Polly and Mrs. Beamish intothe coach bound for Geelong. 

It had been touch and go with Polly; and for weeks her condition hadkept him anxious. With the inset of the second month, however, sheseemed fairly to turn the corner, and from then on made a steadyrecovery, thanks to her youth and an unimpaired vitality. 

He had hurried the little cradle out of sight. But Polly was quick tomiss it, and quite approved of its having been given to a needyexpectant mother near by. Altogether she bore the thwarting of herhopes bravely. 

"Poor little baby, I should have been very fond of it, " was all shesaid, when she was well enough to fold and pack away the tiny garmentsat which she had stitched with such pleasure. 

It was not to Mahony's mind that she returned with Mrs. Beamish--butwhat else could be done? After lying a prisoner through the hot summer, she was sadly in need of a change. And Mrs. Beamish promised her a dietof unlimited milk and eggs, as well as the do nothing life thatbefitted an invalid. Just before they left, a letter arrived from Johndemanding the keys of his house, and proposing that Polly should cometo town to set it in order for him, and help him to engage ahousekeeper. A niggardly--a truly "John-ish"--fashion of giving aninvitation, thought Mahony, and was not for his wife accepting it. ButPolly was so pleased at the prospect of seeing her brother that heended by agreeing to her going on to Melbourne as soon as she hadthoroughly recuperated. 

Peace between him and Mrs. Beamish was dearly bought up to the last;they barely avoided a final explosion. At the beginning of her thirdmonth's absence from home the good woman grew very restive, and sighedaloud for the day on which she would be able to take her departure. 

"I expec' my bein' away like this'll run clean into a fifty-poun'note, " she said one evening. "When it comes to managin' an 'ouse, thosetwo girls of mine 'aven't a h'ounce o' gumption between them. "

It WAS tactless of her, even Polly felt that; though she couldsympathise with the worry that prompted the words. As for Mahony, hadhe had the money to do it, he would have flung the sum named straightat her head. 

"She must never come again, " said Polly to herself, as she bent overthe hair-chain she was making as a gift for John. "It is a pity, but itseems as if Richard can't get on with those sort of people. "

In his relief at having his house to himself, Mahony accepted evenPolly's absence with composure. To be perpetually in the company ofother people irked him beyond belief. A certain amount of privacy wasas vital to him as sleep. 

Delighting in his new-found solitude, he put off from day to day thedisagreeable job of winding up his affairs and discovering how much--orhow little--ready money there would be to set sail with. Another thing, some books he had sent home for, a year or more ago, came to hand atthis time, and gave him a fresh pretext for delay. There were eight ornine volumes to unpack and cut the pages of. He ran from one toanother, sipping, devouring. Finally he cast anchor in a collectededition of his old chief's writings on obstetrics--slipped in, this, asa gift from the sender, a college chum--and over it, his feet on thetable, his dead pipe in the corner of his mouth, Mahony sat for thebetter part of the night. 

The effect of this master-mind on his was that of a spark on tinder. Under the flash, he cursed for the hundredth time the folly he had beenguilty of in throwing up medicine. It was a vocation that had fittedhim as coursing fits a hound, or house-wifery a woman. The only excusehe could find for his apostasy was that he had been caught in anepidemic of unrest, which had swept through the country, upsetting thebalance of men's reason. He had since wondered if the Great Exhibitionof '51 had not had something to do with it, by unduly whetting people'simaginations; so that but a single cry of "Gold!" was needed, to loosethe spirit of vagrancy that lurks in every Briton's blood. His case hadperhaps been peculiar in this: no one had come forward to warn ordissuade. His next relatives--mother and sisters--were, he thought, glad to know him well away. In their eyes he had lowered himself bytaking up medicine; to them it was still of a piece with barber's poleand cupping-basin. Before his time no member of the family had enteredany profession but the army. Oh, that infernal Irish pride! . .. AndIrish poverty. It had choke-damped his youth, blighted the prospects ofhis sisters. He could remember, as if it were yesterday, the jibes andfleers called forth by the suit of a wealthy Dublin brewer, who hadbeen attracted--by sheer force of contrast, no doubt--to the elder ofthe two swan-necked, stiff-backed Miss Townshend-Mahonys, with theirlong, thin noses, and the ingrained lines that ran from the curlednostrils to the corners of their supercilious mouths, describing asneer so deep that at a distance it was possible to mistake it for asmile. "Beer, my dear, indeed and there are worse things in the worldthan beer!" he heard his mother declare in her biting way. "By allmeans take him! You can wash yourself in it if water gets scarce, andI'll place my kitchen orders with you. " Lucinda, who had perhapssniffed timidly at release, burnt crimson: thank you! she would rathereat rat-bane. --He supposed they pinched and scraped along as ofold--the question of money was never broached between him and them. Prior to his marriage he had sent them what he could; but that littlewas in itself an admission of failure. They made no inquiries about hismode of life, preferring it to remain in shadow; enough for them thathe had not amassed a fortune. Had that come to pass, they might havepardoned the rude method of its making--in fancy he listened to thewitty, cutting, self-derisive words, in which they would have alludedto his success. 

Lying back in his chair he thought of them thus, without unkindliness, even with a dash of humour. That was possible, now that knocking aboutthe world had rubbed off some of his own corners. In his young days, he, too, had been hot and bitter. What, however, to another might haveformed the chief crux in their conduct--it was by squandering suchmoney as there was, his own portion among it, on his scamp of an elderbrother, that they had forced him into the calling they despised--thishad not troubled him greatly. For medicine was the profession on whichhis choice would anyhow have fallen. And to-night the book that laybefore him had infected him with the old enthusiasm. He re-lived thosedays when a skilfully handled case of PLACENTA PREVIA, or a successfuldelivery in the fourth position, had meant more to him than the Chargeof the Light Brigade. 

Fresh from this dip into the past, this foretaste of the future, heturned in good heart to business. An inventory had to be taken; damagedgoods cleared out; a list of bad and less bad debts drawn up: he andHempel were hard at work all next day. The result was worse even thanhe had expected. His outlay that summer--ever since the day on which hehad set off to the aid of his bereaved relative--had been enormous. Trade had run dry, and throughout Polly's long illness he had dippedblindly into his savings. He could never have said no to Mrs. Beamishwhen she came to him for money--rather would he have pawned the coatoff his back. And she, good woman, was unused to cheeseparing. Hismen's wages paid, berths booked, the numerous expenses bound up with adeparture defrayed, he would have but a scanty sum in hand with whichto start on the other side. 

For himself he was not afraid; but he shrank from the thought of Pollyundergoing privations. So far, they had enjoyed a kind of frugalcomfort. But should he meet with obstacles at the outset: if patientswere laggardly and the practice slow to move, or if he himself fellill, they might have a spell of real poverty to face. And it was underthe goad of this fear that he hit on a new scheme. Why not leave Pollybehind for a time, until he had succeeded in making a home forher?--why not leave her under the wing of brother John? John stoodurgently in need of a head for his establishment, and who so wellsuited for the post as Polly? Surely, if it were put before him, Johnmust jump at the offer! Parting from Polly, and were it only for alittle while, would be painful; but, did he go alone, he would be freeto do his utmost--and with an easy mind, knowing that she lacked noneof the creature-comforts. Yes, the more he considered the plan, thebetter he liked it. The one flaw in his satisfaction was the thoughtthat if their child had lived, no such smooth and simple arrangementwould have been possible. He could not have foisted a family on Turnham. 

Now he waited with impatience for Polly to return--his reasonablelittle Polly! But he did not hurry her. Polly was enjoying her holiday. Having passed to Melbourne from Geelong she wrote:

JOHN IS SO VERY KIND. HE DOESN'T OF COURSE GO OUT YET HIMSELF, BUT IWAS PRESENT WITH SOME FRIENDS OF HIS AT A VERY ELEGANT SOIREE. JOHNGAVE ME A HEADDRESS COMPOSED OF BLACK PEARLS AND FROSTED LEAVES. HEMEANS TO GO IN FOR POLITIES AS SOON AS HIS YEAR OF MOURNING IS UP. 

Mahony replied:

ENJOY YOURSELF, MY HEART, AND SET ALL THE SIGHTS YOU CAN. 

While into more than one of his letters he slipped a banknote. 

FOR YOU KNOW I LIKE YOU TO PAY YOUR OWN WAY AS FAR AS POSSIBLE. 

And at length the day came when he could lift his wife out of thecoach. She emerged powdered brown with dust and very tired, butradiantly happy: it was a great event in little Polly's life, thishomecoming, and coming, too, strong and well. The house was a livelyplace that afternoon: Polly had so much to tell that she sat holdingher bonnet for over an hour, quite unable to get as far as the bedroom;and even Long Jim's mouth went up at the corners instead of down; forPolly had contrived to bring back a little gift for every one. And inpresenting these, she found out more of what people were thinking andfeeling than her husband had done in all the eight weeks of her absence. 

Mahony was loath to damp her pleasure straightway; he bided his time. He could not know that Polly also had been laying plans, and that shewatched anxiously for the right moment to unfold them. 

The morning after her return, she got a lift in the baker's cart anddrove out to inspect John's children. What she saw and heard on thisvisit was disquieting. The children had run wild, were grown dirty, sly, untruthful. Especially the boy. --"A young Satan, and that's afact, Mrs. Mahony! What he needs is a man's hand over him, and a goodhidin' six days outer seven. "

It was not alone little Johnny's misconduct, however, that made Pollybreak silence. An incident occurred that touched her still more nearly. 

Husband and wife sat snug and quiet as in the early days of theirmarriage. Autumn had come round and a fire burnt in the stove, beforewhich Pompey snorted in his dreams. But, for all the cosy tranquillity, Polly was not happy; and time and again she moistened and bit at thetip of her thread, before pointing it through her needle. For the bookopen before Richard, in which he was making notes as he read, was--theBible. Bending over him to drop a kiss on the top of his head, Pollyhad been staggered by what she saw. Opposite the third verse of thefirst chapter of Genesis: "And God said, Let there be light: and therewas light, " he had written: "Three days before the sun!" Her heartseemed to shrivel, to grow small in her breast, at the thought of herhusband being guilty of such impiety. Ceasing her pretence at sewing, she walked out of the house into the yard. Standing there under thestars she said aloud, as if some one, THE One, could hear her: "Hedoesn't mean to do wrong. .. . I KNOW he doesn't!" But when shere-entered the room he was still at it. His beautiful writing, reducedto its tiniest, wound round the narrow margins. 

Deeply red, Polly took her courage in both hands, and struck a blow forthe soul whose salvation was more to her than her own. "Richard, do youthink that . .. Is . .. Is right?" she asked in a low voice. 

Mahony raised his head. "Eh?--what, Pollykin?"

"I mean, do you think you ought . .. That it is right to do what you aredoing?"

The smile, half-tender, half-quizzical that she loved, broke over herhusband's face. He held out his hand. "Is my little wife troubled?"

"Richard, I only mean. .. "

"Polly, my dear, don't worry your little head over what you don'tunderstand. And have confidence in me. You know I wouldn't do anythingI believed to be wrong?"

"Yes, indeed. And you are really far more religious than I am. "

"One can be religious and yet not shut one's eyes to the truth. It'sSaint Paul, you know, who says: we can do nothing against the Truth butfor the Truth. And you may depend on it, Polly, the All-Wise wouldnever have given us the brains He has, if He had not intended us to usethem. Now I have long felt sure that the Bible is not wholly what itclaims to be--direct inspiration. "

"Oh, Richard!" said Polly, and threw an anxious glance over hershoulder. "If anyone should hear you!"

"We can't afford to let our lives be governed by what other peoplethink, Polly. Nor will I give any man the right to decide for me whatmy share of the Truth shall be. "

On seeing the Bible closed Polly breathed again, at the same timepromising herself to take the traitorous volume into safe-keeping, thatno third person's eye should rest on it. Perhaps, too, if it were putaway Richard would forget to go on writing in it. He had probably begunin the first place only because he had nothing else to do. In the storehe sat and smoked and twirled his thumbs--not half a dozen customerscame in, in the course of the day. If he were once properly occupiedagain, with work that he liked, he would not be tempted to put hisgifts to such a profane use. Thus she primed herself for speaking. Fornow was the time. Richard was declaring that trade had gone to thedogs, his takings dropped to a quarter of what they had formerly been. This headed just where she wished. But Polly would not have been Polly, had she not glanced aside for a moment, to cheer and console. 

"It's the same everywhere, Richard. Everybody's complaining. And thatreminds me, I forgot to tell you about the Beamishes. They're in greattrouble. You see, a bog has formed in front of the Hotel, and thetraffic goes round another way, so they've lost most of their custom. Mr. Beamish never opens his mouth at all now, and mother is fearfullyworried. That's what was the matter when she was here--only she was tookind to say so. "

"Hard lines!"

"Indeed it is. But about us; I'm not surprised to hear trade is dull. Since I was over in the western township last, no less than six newGeneral Stores have gone up--I scarcely knew the place. They've all gotbig plate-glass windows; and were crowded with people. "

"Yes, there's a regular exodus up west. But that doesn't alter thefact, wife, that I've made a very poor job of storekeeping. I shallleave here with hardly a penny to my name. "

"Yes, but then, Richard, " said Polly, and bent over her strip ofneedlework, "you were never cut out to be a storekeeper, were you?"

"I was not. And I verily believe, if it hadn't been for that oldsober-sides of a Hempel, I should have come a cropper long ago. "

"Yes, and Hempel, " said Polly softly; "Hempel's been wanting to leavefor ever so long. "

"The dickens he has!" cried Mahony in astonishment. "And me humming andhawing about giving him notice! What's the matter with him? What's hehad to complain of?"

"Oh, nothing like that. He wants to enter the ministry. A helper'sneeded at the Baptist Chapel, and he means to apply for the post. Yousee, he's saved a good deal, and thinks he can study to be a ministerat the same time. "

"Study for his grave, the fool! So that's it, is it? Well, well! itsaves trouble in the end. I don't need to bother my head now overwhat's to become of him . .. Him or anyone else. My chief desire is tosay good-bye to this hole for ever. There's no sense, Polly, in mydawdling on. Indeed, I haven't the money to do it. So I've arranged, mydear, with our friend Ocock to come in and sell us off, as soon as youcan get our personal belongings put together. "

Here Polly raised her head as if to interrupt; but Mahony, full of whathe had to say, ignored the movement, and went on speaking. He did notwish to cause his wife uneasiness, by dwelling on his difficulties; butsome explanation was necessary to pave the way for his proposal thatshe should remain behind, when he left the colony. He spent all hiseloquence in making this sound natural and attractive. But it was hard, when Polly's big, astonished eyes hung on his face. "Do you think, formy sake, you could be brave enough?" he wound up, rather unsurely. "Itwouldn't be for long, love, I'm certain of that. Just let me set footin England once more!"

"Why . .. Why, yes, dear Richard, I . .. I think I could, if you reallywished it, " said Polly in a small voice. She tried to seem reasonable;though black night descended on her at the thought of parting, andthough her woman's eyes saw a hundred objections to the plan, which hishad overlooked. (For one thing, John had just installed Sara ashousekeeper, and Sara would take it very unkindly to be shown thedoor. ) "I THINK I could, " she repeated. "But before you go on, dear, Ishould like to ask YOU something. "

She laid down her needlework; her heart was going pit-a-pat. "Richard, did you ever. .. I mean have you never thought of . .. Of taking up yourprofession again--I mean here--starting practice here?--No, wait aminute! Let me finish. I . .. I . .. Oh, Richard!" Unable to find words, Polly locked her fingers under the tablecloth and hoped she was notgoing to be so silly as to cry. Getting up, she knelt down before herhusband, laying her hands on his knees. "Oh, Richard, I wish youwould--HOW I wish you would!"

"Why, Polly!" said Mahony, surprised at her agitation. "Why, my dear, what's all this?--You want to know if I never thought of setting up inpractice out here? Of course I did . .. In the beginning. You don'tthink I'd have chosen to keep a store, if there'd been any otheropening for me? But there wasn't, child. The place was overrun. Never amedico came out and found digging too much for him, but he fell back indespair on his profession. I didn't see my way to join their starvationband. "

"Yes, THEN, Richard!--but now?" broke in Polly. "Now, it's quite, quitedifferent. Look at the size Ballarat has grown--there are more thanforty thousand people settled on it; Mr. Ocock told me so. And youknow, dear, doctors have cleared out lately, not come fresh. There wasthat one, I forget his name, who drank himself to death; and the two, you remember, who were sold up just before Christmas. " But this was anunfortunate line of argument to have hit on, and Polly blushed andstumbled. 

Mahony laughed at her slip, and smoothed her hair. "Typical fates, love! They mustn't be mine. Besides, Polly, you're forgetting the mainthing--how I hate the place, and how I've always longed to get away. "

"No, I'm not. But please let me go on. --You know, Richard, every onebelieves some day Ballarat will be the chief city--bigger even thanGeelong or Melbourne. And then to have a good practice here would meanever such a lot of money. I'm not the only person who thinks so. There's Sara, and Mrs. Beamish--I know, of course, you don't care muchwhat they say; but still--" Polly meant: still, you see, I have publicopinion on my side. As, however, once more words failed her, shehastened to add: "John, too, is amazed to hear you think of going hometo bury yourself in some little English village. He's sure there'd be asplendid opening for you here. John thinks very, very highly of you. Hetold me he believes you would have saved Emma's life, if you had beenthere. "

"I'm much obliged to your brother for his confidence, " said Mahonydryly; "but--"

"Wait a minute, Richard! You see, dear, I can't help feeling myselfthat you ought not to be too hasty in deciding. Of course, I know I'myoung, and haven't had much experience, but . .. You see, you're KNOWNhere, Richard, and that's always something; in England you'd be aperfect stranger. And though you may say there are too many doctors onthe Flat, still, if the place goes on growing as it is doing, there'llsoon be room for more; and then, if it isn't you, it'll just be someone else. And that DOES seem a pity, when you are so clever--so much, much cleverer than other people! Yes, I know all about it; Mrs. Beamishtold me it was you I owed my life to, not Dr. Rogers"--at which Mahonywinced, indignant that anyone should have betrayed to Polly how neardeath she had been. "Oh, I DO want people to know you for what youreally are!" said little Polly. 

"Pussy, I believe she has ambitions for her husband, " said Mahony toPalmerston. 

"Of course I have. You say you hate Ballarat, and all that, but haveyou ever thought, Richard, what a difference it would make if you werein a better position? You think people look down on you, because you'rein trade. But if you were a doctor, there'd be none of that. You'd callyourself by your full name again, and write it down on the visitinglist at Government House, and be as good as anybody, and be asked intosociety, and keep a horse. You'd live in a bigger house, and have aroom to yourself and time to read and write. I'm quite sure you'd makelots of money and soon be at the top of the tree. And after all, dearRichard, I don't want to go home. I would much rather stay here andlook after Jerry, and dear Ned, and poor John's children, " said Polly, falling back as a forlorn hope on her own preference. 

"Why, what a piece of special pleading!" cried Mahony, and leaningforward, he kissed the young flushed face. 

"Don't laugh at me. I'm in earnest. "

"Why, no, child. But Polly, my dear, even if I were tempted for amoment to think seriously of what you say, where would the money comefrom? Fees are high, it's true, if the ball's once set a-rolling. Buttill then? With a jewel of a wife like mine, I'd be a scoundrel to takerisks. "

Polly had been waiting for this question. On hearing it, she sat backon her heels and drew a deep breath. The communication she had now tomake him was the hub round which all turned. Should he refuse toconsider it. .. . Plucking at the fringe of the tablecloth, she broughtout, piecemeal, the news that John was willing to go surety for themoney they would need to borrow for the start. Not only that: heoffered them a handsome sum weekly to take entire charge of hischildren. --"Not here, in this little house--I know that wouldn't do, "Polly hastened to throw in, forestalling the objection she read inRichard's eyes. Now did he not think he should weigh an offer of thiskind very carefully? A name like John's was not to be despised; mostpeople in their position would jump at it. "I understand somethingabout it, " said the little woman, and sagely nodded her head. "For whenI was in Geelong, Mr. Beamish tried his hardest to raise some money andcouldn't, his sureties weren't good enough. " Mahony had not the heartto chide her for discussing his private affairs with her brother. Indeed, he rather admired the businesslike way she had gone about it. And he admitted this, by ceasing to banter and by calling her attentionto the various hazards and inconveniences the step would entail. 

Polly heard him out in silence. Enough for her, in the beginning, thathe did not decline off-hand. They had a long talk, the end of which wasthat he promised to sleep over John's proposal, and delay fixing thedate of the auction till the morning. 

Having yielded this point Mahony kissed his wife and sent her to bed, himself going out with the dog for his usual stroll. 

It was a fine night--moonless, but thick with stars. So much, at least, could be said in favour of the place: there was abundant sky-room; yougot a clear half of the great vault at once. How he pitied, on such anight, the dwellers in old, congested cities, whose view of the starryfield was limited to a narrow strip, cut through house-tops. 

Yet he walked with a springless tread. The fact was, certain of hiswife's words had struck home; and in the course of the past year he hadlearnt to put considerable faith in Polly's practical judgment. As hewound his way up the little hill to which he had often carried hisperplexities, he let his pipe go out, and forgot to whistle Pompey offbutcher's garbage. 

Sitting down on a log he rested his chin in his hands. Below himtwinkled the sparse lights of the Flat; shouts and singing rose fromthe circus. --And so John would have been willing to go surety for him!Let no one say the unexpected did not happen. All said and done, theywere little more than strangers to each other, and John had no notionwhat his money-making capacities as a doctor might be. It was true, Polly had been too delicate to mention whether the affair had comeabout through her persuasions or on John's own initiative. John mighthave some ulterior motive up his sleeve. Perhaps he did not want tolose his sister . .. Or was scheming to bind a pair of desirables fastto this colony, the welfare of which he had so much at heart. Again, itmight be that he wished to buy off the memory of that day on which hehad stripped his soul naked. Simplest of all, why should he not bemerely trying to pay back a debt? He, Mahony, might shrink from lyingunder an obligation to John, but, so far, the latter had not scrupledto accept favours from him. But that was always the way with your richmen; they were not troubled by paltry pride; for they knew it waspossible to acquit themselves of their debts at a moment's notice, andwith interest. This led him to reflect on the great help to him theloan of his wealthy relative's name would be: difficulties would meltbefore it. And surely no undue risk was involved in the use of it?Without boasting, he thought he was better equipped, both by aptitudeand training, than the ruck of colonial practitioners. Did he enter thelists, he could hardly fail to succeed. And out here even a moderatesuccess spelled a fortune. Gained double-quick, too. After which thelucky individual sold out and went home, to live in comfort. Yes, thatwas a point, and not to be overlooked. No definite surrender of one'shopes was called for; only a postponement. Ten years might do it--meatyyears, of course, the best years of one's life--still . .. . It wouldmean very hard work; but had he not just been contemplating, withperfect equanimity, an even more arduous venture on the other side?What a capricious piece of mechanism was the human brain!

Another thought that occurred to him was that his services might provemore useful to this new country than to the old, where able menabounded. He recalled many good lives and promising cases he had hereseen lost and bungled. To take the instance nearest home--Polly'sconfinement. Yes, to show his mettle to such as Rogers; to earn respectwhere he had lived as a mere null--the idea had an insidiousfascination. And as Polly sagely remarked: if it were not he, it wouldbe some one else; another would harvest the KUDOS that might have beenhis. For the rough-and-ready treatment--the blue pills and blackdraughts--that had satisfied the early diggers had fallen intodisrepute; medical skill was beginning to be appreciated. If this wenton, Ballarat would soon stand on a level with any city of its size athome. But even as it was, he had never been quite fair to it; he hadseen it with a jaundiced eye. And again he believed Polly hit the nailon the head, when she asserted that the poor position he had occupiedwas responsible for much of his dislike. 

But there was something else at work in him besides. Below the surfacean admission awaited him, which he shrank from making. All these prosand cons, these quibbles and hair-splittings were but a misfit attemptto cloak the truth. He might gull himself with them for a time: in hisheart he knew that he would yield--if yield he did--because he was bynature only too prone to follow the line of least resistance. What hehad gone through to-night was no new experience. Often enough afterfretting and fuming about a thing till it seemed as if nothing underthe sun had ever mattered so much to him, it could happen that hesuddenly threw up the sponge and bowed to circumstance. His vitalityexhausted itself beforehand--in a passionate aversion, a torrent ofwords--and failed him at the critical moment. It was a weakness in hisblood--in the blood of his race. --But in the present instance, he hadan excuse for himself. He had not known--till Polly came out with herbrother's offer--how he dreaded having to begin all over again inEngland, an utter stranger, without influence or recommendations, andwith no money to speak of at his back. 

But now he owned up, and there was no more need of shift or subterfuge:now it was one rush and hurry to the end. He had capitulated; athin-skinned aversion to confronting difficulties, when he saw thechance of avoiding them, had won the day. He intended--had perhaps thewhole time intended--to take the hand held out to him. After all, whynot? Anyone else, as Polly said, would have jumped at John's offer. Healone must argue himself blue in the face over it. 

But as he sat and pondered the lengthy chain of circumstance--Polly'sshare in it, John's, his own, even the part played by incorporealthings--he brought up short against the word "decision". He mightflatter himself by imagining he had been free to decide; in realitynothing was further from the truth. He had been subtly and slily guidedto his goal--led blindfold along a road that not of his choosing. Everything and every one had combined to constrain him: his favours toJohn, the failure of his business, Polly's inclinations andpersuasions, his own fastidious shrinkings. So that, in the end, all hehad had to do was to brush aside a flimsy gossamer veil, which hungbetween him and his fate. Was it straining a point to see in the wholeaffair the workings of a Power outside himself--against himself, in sofar as it took no count of his poor earth-blind vision?

Well, if this were so, better still: his ways were in God's hand. Andafter all, what did it matter where one strove to serve one'sMaker--east or west or south or north--and whether the stars overheadwere grouped in this constellation or in that? Their light was a pledgethat one would never be overlooked or forgotten, traced by the hand ofHim who had promised to note even a sparrow's fall. And here he spokealoud into the darkness the ancient and homely formula that is man'sstand-by in face of the untried, the unknown. 

"If God wills. .. . God knows best. "

Part III

Chapter I

The house stood not far from the Great Swamp. It was of weather-board, with a galvanised iron roof, and might have been built from a child'sdrawing of a house: a door in the centre, a little window on eitherside, a chimney at each end. Since the ground sloped downwards, thefront part rested on piles some three feet high, and from the ruttyclay-track that would one day be a street wooden steps led up to thedoor. Much as Mahony would have liked to face it with a verandah, hedid not feel justified in spending more than he could help. And Pollynot only agreed with him, but contrived to find an advantage in theplainer style of architecture. "Your plate will be better seen, Richard, right on the street, than hidden under a verandah. " But thenPolly was overflowing with content. Had not two of the roomsfireplaces? And was there not a wash-house, with a real copper in it, behind the detached kitchen? Not to speak of a spare room!--To the rearof the house a high paling-fence enclosed a good-sized yard. Mahonydreamed of a garden, Polly of keeping hens. 

There were no two happier people on Ballarat that autumn than theMahonys. To and fro they trudged down the hill, across the Flat, overthe bridge and up the other side; first, through a Sahara of dust, then, when the rains began, ankle-deep in gluey red mud. And thebuilding of the finest mansion never gave half so much satisfaction asdid that of this flimsy little wooden house, with its thinlath-and-plaster walls. In fancy they had furnished it and lived in it, long before it was even roofed in. Mahony sat at work in hissurgery--it measured ten by twelve--Polly at her Berlin-woolwork in theparlour opposite: "And a cage with a little parrot in it, hanging atthe window. "

The preliminaries to the change had gone smoothly enough--Mahony couldnot complain. Pleasant they had not been; but could the arranging andclinching of a complicated money-matter ever be pleasant? He had had tosubmit to hearing his private affairs gone into by a stranger; to makeclear to strangers his capacity for earning a decent income. 

With John's promissory letter in his pocket, he had betaken himself toHenry Ocock's office. 

This, notwithstanding its excellent position on the brow of the westernhill, could not deny its humble origin as a livery-barn. The entry wasby a yard; and some of the former horse-boxes had been rudely knockedtogether to provide accommodation. Mahony sniffed stale dung. 

In what had once been the harness-room, two young men sat at work. 

"Why, Tom, my lad, you here?"

Tom Ocock raised his freckled face, from the chin of which sproutedsome long fair hairs, and turned red. 

"Yes, it's me. Do you want to see 'En--" at an open kick from hisbrother--"Mr. Ocock?"

"If you please. "

Informed by Grindle that the "Captain" was at liberty, Mahony passed toan inner room where he was waved to a chair. In answer to his statementthat he had called to see about raising some money, Ocock returned an:"Indeed? Money is tight, sir, very tight!" his face instantly taking onthe blank-wall solemnity proper to dealings with this world's mainasset. 

Mahony did not at once hand over John's way-soothing letter. He thoughthe would first test the lawyer's attitude towards him in person--aspecies of self-torment men of his make are rarely able to withstand. He spoke of the decline of his business; of his idea of setting up as adoctor and building himself a house; and, as he talked, he read hisanswer pat and clear in the ferrety eyes before him. There was a boredtolerance of his wordiness, an utter lack of interest in the concernsof the petty tradesman. 

"H'm. " Ocock, lying back in his chair, was fitting five outstretchedfingers to their fellows. "All very well, my good sir, but may I ask ifyou have anyone in view as a security?"

"I have. May I trouble you to glance through this?" and triumphantlyMahony brandished John's letter. 

Ocock raised his brows. "What? Mr. John Turnham? Ah, very good . .. Verygood indeed!" The brazen-faced change in his manner would have made acat laugh; he sat upright, was interested, courteous, alert. "Quite inorder! And now, pray, how much do we need?"

Unadvised, he had not been able, said Mahony, to determine the sum. SoOcock took pencil and paper, and, prior to running off a reckoning, puthim through a sharp interrogation. Under it Mahony felt as though hisclothing was being stripped piece by piece off his back. At one momenthe stood revealed as mean and stingy, at another as an unpracticalspendthrift. More serious things came out besides. He began to see, under the limelight of the lawyer's inquiry, in what a muddle-headedfashion he had managed his business, and how unlikely it was he couldever have made a good thing of it. Still worse was his thoughtlessfolly in wedding and bringing home a young wife without, in thissettlement where accident was rife, where fires were of nightlyoccurrence, insuring against either fire or death. Not that Ocockbreathed a hint of censure: all was done with a twist of the eye, apurse of the lip; but it was enough for Mahony. He sat there, feelinglike an eel in the skinning, and did not attempt to keep pace with thelawyer, who hunted figures into the centre of a woolly maze. 

The upshot of these calculations was: he would need help to the tune ofsomething over one thousand pounds. As matters stood at present onBallarat, said Ocock, the plainest house he could build would cost himeight hundred; and another couple of hundred would go in furnishing;while a saddle-horse might be put down at fifty pounds. On Turnham'sletter he, Ocock, would be prepared to borrow seven hundred forhim--and this could probably be obtained at ten per cent on a mortgageof the house; and a further four hundred, for which he would have topay twelve or fifteen. Current expenses must be covered by the residueof this savings, and by what he was able to make. They would includethe keep of the horse, and the interest on the borrowed money, whichmight be reckoned roughly at a hundred and twenty per annum. Inaddition, he would be well advised to insure his life for five to sevenhundred pounds. 

The question also came up whether the land he had selected for buildingon should be purchased or not. He was for doing so, for settling thewhole business there and then. Ocock, however, took the opposite view. Considering, said he, that the site chosen was far from the centre ofthe town, Mahony might safely postpone buying in the meanwhile. Therehad been no government land-sales of late, and all main-road frontageshad still to come under the hammer. As occupier, when the time arrived, he would have first chance at the upset price; though then, it wastrue, he would also be liable for improvements. The one thing he mustbeware of was of enclosing too small a block. 

Mahony agreed--agreed to everything: the affair seemed to have passedout of his hands. A sense of dismay invaded him while he listened tothe lawyer tick off the obligations and responsibilities he was lettinghimself in for. A thousand pounds! He to run into debt for such a sum, who had never owed a farthing to anyone! He fell to doubting whether, after all, he had made choice of the easier way, and lapsed into agloomy silence. 

Ocock on the other hand warmed to geniality. 

"May I say, doctor, how wise I think your decision to come over tous?"--He spoke as if Ballarat East were in the heart of the Russiansteppes. "And that reminds me. There's a friend of mine. .. . I may beable at once to put a patient in your way. "

Mahony walked home in a mood of depression which it took all Polly'sarts to dispel. 

Under its influence he wrote an outspoken letter to Purdy--but with novery satisfactory result. It was like projecting a feeler for sympathyinto the void, so long was it since they had met, and so widely had hisfriend's life branched from his. 

Purdy's answer--it was headed "The Ovens"--did not arrive till severalweeks later, and was mainly about himself. 

IN A WAY I'M WITH YOU, OLD PILL-BOX, he wrote. YOU'LL CUT A JOLLY SIGHTBETTER FIGURE AS AN M. D. THEN EVER YOU'VE DONE BEHIND A COUNTER. BUT IDON'T KNOW THAT I'D CARE TO STAKE MY LAST DOLLAR ON YOU ALL THE SAME. WHAT DOES MRS. POLLY SAY?--AS FOR ME, OLD BOY, SINCE YOU'RE GOOD ENOUGHTO ASK, WHY THE LESS SAID THE BETTER. ONE OF THESE DAYS A POOR WORN OLDSHICER'LL COME CRAWLING ROUND TO YOUR BACK DOOR TO SEE IF YOU'VE ANYCAST-OFF DUDS YOU CAN SPARE HIM. SERIOUSLY, DICK, OLD MAN, I'MSTONY-BROKE ONCE MORE AND THE LORD ONLY KNOWS HOW I'M GOING TO WINTHROUGH. 

In the course of that winter, custom died a natural death; and one day, the few oddments that remained having been sold by auction, Mahony andhis assistant nailed boards horizontally across the entrance to thestore. The day of weighing out pepper and salt was over; never againwould the tinny jangle of the accursed bell smite his ears. The nextthing was that Hempel packed his chattels and departed for his new walkin life. Mahony was not sorry to see him go. Hempel's thoughts hadsoared far above the counter; he was arrived at the stage of: "I'm justas good as you!" which everyone here reached sooner or later. 

"I shall always be pleased to hear how you are getting on. "

Mahony spoke kindly, but in a tone which, as Polly who stood by, verywell knew, people were apt to misunderstand. 

"I should think so!" she chimed in. "I shall feel very hurt indeed, Hempel, if you don't come and see us. "

With regard to Long Jim, she had a talk with her husband one night asthey went to bed. 

"There really won't be anything for him to do in the new house. Noheavy crates or barrels to move about. And he doesn't know a thingabout horses. Why not let him go home?--he does so want to. What wouldyou say, dear, to giving him thirty pounds for his passage-money and atrifle in his pocket? It would make him very happy, and he'd be offyour hands for good. --Of course, though, just as you think best. "

"We shall need every penny we can scrape together, for ourselves, Polly. And yet, my dear, I believe you're right. In the new house, asyou say, he'll be a mere encumbrance. As for me, I'd be only toothankful never to hear his cantankerous old pipe again. I don't knownow what evil genius prompted me to take him in. "

"Evil genius, indeed!" retorted Polly. "You did it because you're adear, good, kind-hearted man. "

"Think so, wifey? I'm inclined to put it down to sheer dislike ofbotheration--Irish inertia . .. The curse of our race. "

"Yes, yes, I knoo you'd be wantin' to get rid o' me, now you're goin'up in the world, " was Long Jim's answer when Polly broached her schemefor his benefit. "Well, no, I won't say anythin' against you, Mrs. Mahony; you've treated me square enough. But doc. , 'e's always thought'imself a sight above one, an' when 'e does, 'e lets you feel it. "

This was more than Polly could brook. "And sighing and groaning as youhave done to get home, Jim! You're a silly, ungrateful old man, even tohint at such a thing. "

"Poor old fellow, he's grumbled so long now, that he's forgotten how todo anything else, " she afterwards made allowance for him. And added, pierced by a sudden doubt: "I hope his wife will still be used to it, or . .. Or else . .. "

And now the last day in the old house was come. The furniture, stackedin the yard, awaited the dray that was to transport it. Hardly worthcarrying with one, thought Mahony, when he saw the few poor sticksexposed to the searching sunlight. Pipe in mouth he mooned about, feeling chiefly amazed that he could have put up, for so long, with themiserable little hut which his house, stripped of its trimmings, provedto be. 

His reflections were cut short by old Ocock, who leaned over the fenceto bid his neighbours good-bye. 

"No disturbance! Come in, come in!" cried Mahony, with the ratherspurious heartiness one is prone to throw into a final invitation. AndPolly rose from her knees before a clothes-basket which she was fillingwith crockery, and bustled away to fetch the cake she had baked forsuch an occasion. 

"I'll miss yer bright little face, that I will!" said Mr. Ocock, as hemunched with the relish of a Jerry or a Ned. He held his slice of cakein the hollow of one great palm, conveying with extreme care the pieceshe broke off to his mouth. 

"You must come and see us, as soon as ever we're settled. "

"Bless you! You'll soon find grander friends than an old chap like me. "

"Mr. Ocock! And you with three sons in the law!"

"Besides, mark my words, it'll be your turn next to build, " Mahonyremoved his pipe to throw in. "We'll have you over with us yet. "

"And what a lovely surprise for Miss Amelia when she arrives, to find abran'-new house awaiting her. "

"Well, that's the end of this little roof-tree, " said Mahony. --Theloaded dray had driven off, the children and Ellen perched on top ofthe furniture, and he was giving a last look round. "We've spent somevery happy days under it, eh, my dear?"

"Oh, very, " said Polly, shaking out her skirts. "But we shall be justas happy in the new one. "

"God grant we may! It's not too much to hope I've now seen all thedowns of my life. I've managed to pack a good many into thirty shortyears. -- And that reminds me, Mrs. Townshend-Mahony, do you know youwill have been married to me two whole years, come next Friday?"

"Why, so we shall!" cried Polly, and was transfixed in the act of tyingher bonnet-strings. "How time does fly! It seems only the other day Isaw this room for the first time. I peeped in, you know, while you werefetching the box. DO you remember how I cried, Richard? I was afraid ofa spider or something. " And the Polly of eighteen looked back, with amotherly amusement, at her sixteen-year-old eidolon. "But now, dear, ifyou're ready . .. Or else the furniture will get there before we do. We'd better take the short cut across Soldiers' Hill. That's the cat inthat basket, for you to carry, and here's your microscope. I've got thedecanter and the best teapot. Shall we go?"

Chapter II

And now for a month or more Mahony had been in possession of a roomthat was all his own. Did he retire into it and shut the door, he couldmake sure of not being disturbed. Polly herself tapped before entering;and he let her do so. Polly was dear; but dearer still was hislong-coveted privacy. 

He knew, too, that she was happily employed; the fitting-up andfurnishing of the house was a job after her own heart. She had provedboth skilful and economical at it: thanks to her, they had used a barethree-quarters of the sum allotted by Ocock for the purpose--and thiswas well; for any number of unforeseen expenses had cropped up at thelast moment. Polly had a real knack for making things "do". Old emptyboxes, for instance, underwent marvellous transformations at herhands--emerged, clad in chintz and muslin, as sofas and toilet-tables. She hung her curtains on strings, and herself sewed the seams of theparlour carpet, squatting Turk-fashion on the floor, and working away, with a great needle shaped like a scimitar, till the perspiration randown her face. It was also she who, standing on the kitchen-table, putup the only two pictures they possessed, Ned and Jerry giving opinionson the straightness of her eye, from below: a fancy picture of theBattle of Waterloo in the parlour; a print of "Harvey Discovering theCirculation of the Blood" on the surgery wall. 

From where he sat Mahony could hear the voices of the children--John'schildren--at play. They frolicked with Pompey in the yard. He couldendure them, now that he was not for ever tumbling over them. Yes, oneand all were comfortably established under the new roof--with theexception of poor Palmerston the cat. Palmerston had declined torecognise the change, and with the immoderate homing-instinct of hiskind had returned night after night to his old haunts. For some timeMahony's regular evening walk was back to the store--a road he wouldotherwise not have taken; for it was odious to him to see Polly's neatlittle appointments going to rack and ruin, under the tenancy of adirty Irish family. There he would find the animal sitting, inmelancholy retrospect. Again and again he picked him up and carried himhome; till that night when no puss came to his call, and Palmerston, the black and glossy, was seen no more: either he had fallen down ashaft, or been mangled by a dog, or stolen, cats still fetching a highprice on Ballarat. 

The window of Mahony's room faced a wide view: not a fence, hardly abit of scrub or a tuft of grass-tree marked the bare expanse of unevenground, now baked brown as a piecrust by the December sun. He lookedacross it to the cemetery. This was still wild and unfenced--just apatch of rising ground where it was permissible to bury the dead. Onlythe day before--the second anniversary of the Eureka Stockade--he hadwatched some two to three hundred men, with crepe on their hats andsleeves, a black-draped pole at their head, march there to do homage totheir fallen comrades. The dust raised by the shuffling of these manyfeet had accompanied the procession like a moving cloud; had lingeredin its rear like the smoke from a fire. Drays and lorries crawled forever laboriously along it, seeming glued to the earth by the monstroussticky heat of the veiled sun. Further back rose a number of baldhills--rounded, swelling hills, shaped like a woman's breasts. Andbehind all, pale china-blue against the tense white sky, was theembankment of the distant ranges. Except for these, an ugly, uninvitingoutlook, and one to which he seldom lifted his eyes. 

His room pleased him better. Polly had stretched a bright green druggeton the floor; the table had a green cloth on it; the picture showed upwell against the whitewashed wall. Behind him was a large dealcupboard, which held instruments and drugs. The bookshelves with theirprecious burden were within reach of his hand; on the top shelf he hadstacked the boxes containing his botanical and other specimens. 

The first week or so there was naturally little doing: a sprained wristto bandage, a tooth to draw, a case of fly-blight. To keep himself fromgrowing fidgety, he overhauled his minerals and butterflies, andrenewed faded labels. This done, he went on to jot down some ideas hehad, with regard to the presence of auriferous veins in quartz. It wasnow generally agreed that quartz was the matrix; but on the question ofhow the gold had found its way into the rock, opinions were sharplydivided. The theory of igneous injection was advanced by some; othersinclined to that of sublimation. Mahony leaned to a combination of thetwo processes, and spent several days getting his thoughts in order;while Polly, bursting with pride, went about on tiptoe audibly hushingthe children: their uncle was writing for the newspapers. 

Still no patients worth the name made their appearance. To fend off theblack worry that might get the better of him did he sit idle, he nextdrew his Bible to him, and set about doing methodically what he had sofar undertaken merely by fits and starts--deciding for himself to whatdegree the Scriptures were inspired. Polly was neither proud nor happywhile this went on, and let the children romp unchecked. At present itwas not so much the welfare of her husband's soul she feared for: Godmust surely know by this time what a good man Richard was; he had nothis equal, she thought, for honesty and uprightness; he was kind to thepoor and the sick, and hadn't missed a single Sunday at church, sincetheir marriage. But all that would not help, if once he got thereputation of being an infidel. Then, nobody would want him as a doctorat all. 

Casually begun, Mahony's studies soon absorbed him to the exclusion ofeverything else. 

Brought up in the cast-iron mould of Irish Protestantism, to which, being of a sober and devout turn of mind, he had readily submitted, hehad been tossed, as a youthful student, into the freebooting Edinburghof the forties. Edinburgh was alive in those days to her verypaving-stones; town and university combined to form a hotbed ofintellectual unrest, a breeding-ground for disturbing possibilities. The "development theory" was in the air; and a book that appearedanonymously had boldly voiced, in popular fashion, Maillet's dream andthe Lamarckian hypothesis of a Creation undertaken once and for all, inplace of a continuous creative intenention. This book, opposing naturallaw to miracle, carried complete conviction to the young and eager. Audacious spirits even hazarded the conjecture that primitive lifeitself might have originated in a natural way: had not, but recently, an investigator who brought a powerful voltaic battery to bear on asaturated solution of silicate of potash, been startled to find, as theresult of his experiment, numberless small mites of the species ACARUSHORRIDUS? Might not the marvel electricity or galvanism, in action onalbumen, turn out to be the vitalising force? To the orthodoxzoologist, phytologist and geologist, such a suggestion savoured ofmadness; they either took refuge in a contemptuous silence, orcondescended only to reply: Had one visited the Garden of Eden duringCreation, one would have found that, in the morning, man was not, whilein the evening he was!--morning and evening bearing their newlyestablished significance of geological epochs. The famous tracing ofthe Creator's footsteps, undertaken by a gifted compromiser, was feltby even the most bigoted to be a lame rejoinder. His ASTEROLEPSIS, thegiant fossil-fish from the Old Red Sandstone, the antiquity of whichshould show that the origin of life was not to be found solely in"infusorial points, " but that highly developed forms were among theearliest created--this single prop was admittedly not strong enough tocarry the whole burden of proof. No, the immutability of species hadbeen seriously impugned, and bold minds asked themselves why a singleact of creation, at the outset, should not constitute as divine anorigin of life as a continued series of "creative fiats. "

Mahony was one of them. The "development theory" did not repel him. Hecould see no impiety in believing that life, once established on theearth, had been left to perfect itself. Or hold that this wouldrepresent the Divine Author of all things as, after one master-stroke, dreaming away eternal ages in apathy and indifference. Why should theperfect functioning of natural law not be as convincing an expressionof God's presence as a series of cataclysmic acts of creation?

None the less it was a time of crisis, for him, as for so many. For, ifthis were so, if science spoke true that, the miracle of life seta-going, there had been no further intervention on the part of theCreator, then the very head-and-corner stone of the Christian faith, the Bible itself, was shaken. More, much more would have to go than theMosaic cosmogony of the first chapter of Genesis. Just as the Elohisticaccount of creation had been stretched to fit the changed views ofgeologists, so the greater part of the scriptural narratives stood inneed of a wider interpretation. The fable of the Eternal's personalmediation in the affairs of man must be accepted for what it was--abeautiful allegory, the fondly dreamed fulfilment of a world-olddesire. And bringing thus a sharpened critical sense to bear on theScriptures, Mahony embarked on his voyage of discovery. Before him, butmore as a warning than a beacon, shone the example of a famous Germansavant, who, taking our Saviour's life as his theme, demolished thesacred idea of a Divine miracle, and retold the Gospel story from arationalistic standpoint. A savagely unimaginative piece of work this, thought Mahony, and one that laid all too little weight on the deeps ofpoetry, the mysteries of symbols, and the power the human mind drewfrom these, to pierce to an ideal truth. His own modest efforts wouldbe of quite another kind. 

For he sought, not to deny God, but to discover Him anew, by freeingHim from the drift of error, superstition and dead-letterism which thecenturies had accumulated about Him. Far was it from His servant's mindto wish to decry the authority of the Book of Books. This he believedto consist, in great part, of inspired utterances, and, for the rest, to be the wisest and ripest collection of moral precept and examplethat had come down to us from the ages. Without it, one would berudderless indeed--a castaway in a cockleshell boat on a furioussea--and from one's lips would go up a cry like to that wrung from afamous infidel: "I am affrighted and confounded with the forlornsolitude in which I am placed by my philosophy . .. Begin to fancymyself in the most deplorable condition imaginable, environed by thedeepest darkness. "

No, Mahony was not one of those who held that the Christian faith, thatfine flower of man's spiritual need, would suffer detriment by thediscarding of a few fabulous tales; nor did he fear lest his own faithshould become undermined by his studies. For he had that in him whichtold him that God was; and this instinctive certainty would persist, hebelieved, though he had ultimately to admit the whole fabric ofChristianity to be based on the Arimathean's dream. It had alreadysurvived the rejection of externals: the surrender of forms, theassurance that ceremonials were not essential to salvation belonged tohis early student-days. Now, he determined to send by the board thelast hampering relics of bigotry and ritual. He could no longer concedethe tenets of election and damnation. God was a God of mercy, not theblind, jealous Jahveh of the Jews, or the inhuman Sabbatarian of anarrow Protestantism. And He might be worshipped anywhere or anyhow: inany temple built to His name--in the wilderness under the open sky--insilent prayer, or according to any creed. 

In all this critical readjustment, the thought he had to spare for hisfellow-men was of small account: his fate was not bound to theirs bythe altruism of a later generation. It was a time of intenseindividualism; and his efforts towards spiritual emancipation were madeon his own behalf alone. The one link he had with his fellows--if linkit could be termed--was his earnest wish to avoid giving offence: neverwould it have occurred to him to noise his heterodoxy abroad. Nor didhe want to disturb other people's convictions. He respected those whocould still draw support from the old faith, and, moreover, had not aparticle of the proselytiser in him. He held that religion was either amatter of temperament, or of geographical distribution; felt tolerantlyinclined towards the Jews, and the Chinese; and did not even smile atprocessions to the Joss-house, and the provisioning of those silentones who needed food no more. 

But just as little as he intermeddled with the convictions of otherswould he brook interference with his own. It was the concern of nothird person what paths he followed in his journeyings after thetruth--in his quest for a panacea for the ills and delusions of life. For, call it what he would--Biblical criticism, scientificinquiry--this was his aim first and last. He was trying to pierce thesecret of existence--to rede the riddle that has never beensolved. --What am I? Whence have I come? Whither am I going? Whatmeaning has the pain I suffer, the evil that men do? Can evil beincluded in God's scheme?--And it was well, he told himself, as hepressed forward, that the flame in him burnt unwaveringly, whichassured him of his kinship with the Eternal, of the kinship of allcreated things; so unsettling and perplexing were the conclusions atwhich he arrived. 

Summoned to dinner, he sat at table with stupid hands and evasive eyes. Little Johnny, who was, as Polly put it, "as sharp as mustard, " wasprompt to note his uncle's vacancy. 

"What you staring at, Nunkey?" he demanded, his mouth full ofroly-pudding, which he was stuffing down with all possible dispatch. 

"Hush, Johnny. Don't tease your uncle. "

"What do you mean, my boy?"

"I mean . .. " Young John squeezed his last mouthful over his windpipeand raised his plate. "I mean, you look just like you was seein' aemeny. --More puddin', Aunt Polly!"

"What does the child mean? An anemone?"

"NO!" said John with the immense contempt of five years. "I didn't sayanner emeny. " Here, he began to tuck in anew, aiding the slow work ofhis spoon with his more habile fingers. "A emeny's d emeny. Like on depickshur in Aunt Polly's room. One . .. One's de English, an' one's deemeny. "

"It's the Battle of Waterloo, " explained Polly. "He stands in front ofit every day. "

"Yes. An' when I'm a big man, I'm goin' to be a sojer, an' wear a redcoat, an' make 'bung'!" and he shot an imaginary gun at his sister, whosquealed and ducked her head. 

"An ancient wish, my son, " said Mahony, when Johnny had been reprovedand Trotty comforted. "Tom-thumbs like you have voiced it since theworld--or rather since war first began. "

"Don't care. Nunkey, why is de English and why is de emeny?"

But Mahony shrank from the gush of whats and whys he would let loose onhimself, did he attempt to answer this question. "Come, shall unclemake you some boats to sail in the wash-tub?"

"Wiv a mast an' sails an' everyfing?" cried John wildly; and throwinghis spoon to the floor, he scrambled from his chair. "Oh yes, Nunkey--dear Nunkey!"

"Dea Unkey!" echoed the shadow. 

"Oh, you cupboard lovers, you!" said Mahony as, order restored andsticky mouths wiped, two pudgy hands were thrust with a new kindnessinto his. 

He led the way to the yard; and having whittled out for the childrensome chips left by the builders, he lighted his pipe and sat down inthe shade of the house. Here, through a veiling of smoke, which hungmotionless in the hot, still air, he watched the two eager littlemortals before him add their quota to the miracle of life. 

Chapter III

Polly had no such absorbing occupation to tide her over these emptydays of waiting; and sometimes--especially late in the afternoon, whenher household duties were done, the children safely at play--she foundit beyond her power to stitch quietly at her embroidery. Letting thecanvas fall to her knee, she would listen, listen, listen till theblood sang in her ears, for the footsteps and knocks at the door thatnever came. And did she draw back the window-curtain and look out, there was not a soul to be seen: not a trace of the string ofprosperous, paying patients she had once imagined winding their way tothe door. 

And meanwhile Richard was shut up in his room, making those dreadfulnotes in the Bible which it pinched her heart even to think of. Hereally did not seem to care whether he had a practice or not. All thenew instruments, got from Melbourne, lay unused in their casings; andthe horse was eating its head off, at over a pound a week, in thelivery-barn. Polly shrank from censuring her husband, even in thought;but as she took up her work again, and went on producing in wools agreen basket of yellow fruit on a magenta ground, she could not helpreflecting what she would have done at this pass, had she been a man. She would have announced the beginning of her practice in big lettersin the STAR, and she would have gone down into the township and mixedwith people and made herself known. With Richard, it was almost as ifhe felt averse from bringing himself into public notice. 

Only another month now, and the second instalment of interest wouldfall due. Polly did not know exactly what the sum was; but she did knowthe date. The first time, they had had no difficulty in meeting thebill, owing to their economy in furnishing. But what about this one, and the next again? How were payments to be made, and kept up, if thepatients would not come?

She wished with all her heart that she was ten years older. For whatcould a person who was only eighteen be supposed to understand ofbusiness? Richard's invariable answer, did she venture a word, was notto worry her little head about such things. 

When, however, another week had dribbled away in the same fashion, Polly began to be afraid the date of payment had slipped his memoryaltogether. She would need to remind him of it, even at the risk ofvexing him. And having cast about for a pretext to intrude, she decidedto ask his advice on a matter that was giving her much uneasiness;though, had he been REALLY busy, she would have gone on keeping it toherself. 

It related to little Johnny. 

Johnny was a high-spirited, passionate child, who needed most carefulhandling. At first she had managed him well enough. But ever since hisfive months' boarding-out, he had fallen into deceitful ways; and thehabit of falsehood was gaining on him. Bad by nature, Polly felt surethe child was not; but she could not keep him on the straight path nowhe had discovered that a lie might save him a punishment. He was not tobe shamed out of telling it; and the only other cure Polly knew of waswhipping. She whipped him; and provoked him to fury. 

A new misdeed on his part gave her the handle she sought. Johnny hadsurreptitiously entered her pantry and stolen a plateful of cakes. Taxed with the theft he denied it; and cornered, laid, Adam-like, theblame on his companion, asserting that Trotty had persuaded him to takethe goodies; though bewildered innocence was writ all over the baby'schubby face. 

Mahony had the young sinner up before him. But he was able neither totouch the child's heart, nor to make him see the gravity of what he haddone: never being allowed inside the surgery, John could now not takehis eyes off the wonderful display of gold and purple and red moths, which were pinned, with outstretched wings, to a sheet of cork. Hestood o-mouthed and absentminded, and only once shot a blue glance athis uncle to say: "But if dey're so baddy . .. Den why did God MAKE liesan' de debble?"--which intelligent query hit the nail of one ofMahony's own misgivings on the head. 

No real depravity, was his verdict. Still, too much of a handful, itwas plain, for Polly's inexperience. "A problem for John himself totackle, my dear. Why should we have to drill a non-existent moralityinto his progeny? Besides, I'm not going to have you blamed for badresults, later on. " He would write to John there and then, and requestthat Johnny be removed from their charge. 

Polly was not prepared for this summary solution of her dilemma, andbegan to regret having brought it up; though she could not but agreewith Richard that it would never do for the younger child to becorrupted by a bad example. However she kept her wits about her. DidJohn take the boy away, said she, she was afraid she would have to askfor a larger housekeeping allowance. The withdrawal of the money forJohnny's board would make a difference to their income. 

"Of course, " returned Mahony easily, and was about to dismiss thesubject. 

But Polly stood her ground. "Talking of money, Richard, I don't knowwhether you remember . .. You've been so busy . .. That it's only about afortnight now till the second lot of interest falls due. "

"What!--a fortnight?" exclaimed her husband, and reached out for analmanack. "Good Lord, so it is! And nothing doing yet, Polly . .. Absolutely nothing!"

"Well, dear, you can't expect to jump into a big practice all at once, can you? But you see, I think the trouble is, not nearly enough peopleknow you've started. " And a little imploringly, and veryapologetically, Polly unfolded her artless schemes forself-advertisement. 

"Wife, I've a grave suspicion!" said Mahony, and took her by the chin. "While I've sat here with my head in the clouds, you've been worryingover ways and means, and over having such an unpractical old dreamerfor a husband. Now, child, that won't do. I didn't marry to have mygirl puzzling her little brains where her next day's dinner was to comefrom. Away with you, to your stitching! Things will be all right, trustto me. "

And Polly did trust him, and was so satisfied with what she hadeffected that, raising her face for a kiss, she retired with an easymind to overhaul Johnny's little wardrobe. 

But the door having clicked behind her, Mahony's air of forcedassurance died away. For an instant he hesitated beside the table, onwhich a rampart of books lay open, then vigorously clapped each volumeto and moved to the window, chewing at the ends of his beard. A timelyinterruption! What the dickens had he been about, to forget himself inthis fool's paradise, when the crassest of material anxieties--that ofpounds, shillings and pence--was crouched, wolf-like, at his door?

That night he wakened with a jerk from an uneasy sleep. Though at noonthe day before, the thermometer had registered over a hundred in theshade, it was now bitterly cold, and these abrupt changes oftemperature always whipped up his nerves. Even after he had piled hisclothes and an opossum-rug on top of the blankets, he could not dropoff again. He lay staring at the moonlit square of the window, andthinking the black thoughts of night. 

What if he could not manage to work up a practice? . .. Found itimpossible to make a living? His plate had been on the door for closeon two months now, and he had barely a five-pound note to show for it. What was to be done? Here Polly's words came back to him with newstress. "Not nearly enough people know you've started. " That wasit!--Polly had laid her finger on the hitch. The genteel manners of theold country did not answer here; instead of sitting twiddling histhumbs, waiting for patients to seek him out, he ought to have adoptedthe screaming methods of advertisement in vogue on Ballarat. To havehad "Holloway's Pills sold here!" "Teeth extracted painlessly!" "Curesguaranteed!" painted man-high on his outside house-wall. To have goneup and down and round the township; to have been on the spot whenaccidents happened; to have hobnobbed with Tom, Dick and Harry in barsand saloons. And he saw a figure that looked like his the centre of aboisterous crowd; saw himself slapped on the back by dirty hands, shouting and shouted to drinks. He turned his pillow, to drive theimage away. Whatever he had done or not done, the fact remained that acouple of weeks hence he had to make up the sum of over thirty pounds. And again he discerned a phantom self, this time a humble supplicantfor an extension of term, brought up short against Ocock's stonyvisage, flouted by his cocksy clerk. Once more he turned his pillow. These quarterly payments, which dotted all his coming years, were likelittle rock-islands studding the surface of an ocean, and telling ofthe sunken continent below: this monstrous thousand odd pounds he hadbeen fool enough to borrow. Never would he be able to pay off such asum, never again be free from the incubus of debt. Meanwhile, not theground he stood on, not the roof over his head could actually be calledhis own. He had also been too pushed for money, at the time, to takeOcock's advice and insure his life. 

These thoughts spun themselves to a nightmare-web, in which he was thehapless fly. Putting a finger to his wrist, he found he had the pulseof a hundred that was not uncommon to him. He got out of bed, to dowsehis head in a basin of water. Polly, only half awake, sat up and said:"What's the matter, dear? Are you ill?" In replying to her he disturbedthe children, the door of whose room stood ajar; and by the time quietwas restored, further sleep was out of the question. He dressed andquitted the house. 

Day was breaking; the moon, but an hour back a globe of polishedsilver, had now no light left in her, and stole, a misty ghost, acrossthe dun-coloured sky. A bank of clouds that had had their night-camp onthe summit of Mount Warrenheip was beginning to disperse; and the airhad lost its edge. He walked out beyond the cemetary, then sat down ona tree-stump and looked back. The houses that nestled on the slope weregrowing momently whiter; but the Flat was still sunk in shadow andhaze, making old Warrenheip, for all its half-dozen miles of distance, seem near enough to be touched by hand. But even in full daylight thiswoody peak had a way of tricking the eye. From the brow of the westernhill, with the Flat out of sight below, it appeared to stand at thevery foot of those streets that headed east--first of one, then ofanother, moving with you as you changed position, like the eyes of aportrait that follow you wherever you go. --And now the sky was streakedwith crimson-madder; the last clouds scattered, drenched in orange androse, and flames burned in the glass of every window-pane. Up came thetip of the sun's rim, grew to a fiery quarter, to a half; till, bounding free from the horizon, it began to mount and to lose its girthin the immensity of the sky. 

The phantasms of the night yielded like the clouds to its power. He wasstill reasonably young, reasonably sound, and had the better part of alifetime before him. Rising with a fresh alacrity, he whistled to hisdog, and walked briskly home to bath and breakfast. 

But that evening, at the heel of another empty day, his nervousrestlessness took him anew. From her parlour Polly could hear the thudof his feet, going up and down, up and down his room. And it was shewho was to blame for disturbing him!

"Yet what else could I do?"

And meditatively pricking her needle in and out of the window-curtain, Polly fell into a reverie over her husband and his ways. How strangeRichard was . .. How difficult! First, to be able to forget all abouthow things stood with him, and then to be twice as upset as otherpeople. 

John demanded the immediate delivery of his young son, undertaking soonto knock all nasty tricks out of him. On the day fixed for Johnny'sdeparture husband and wife were astir soon after dawn. Mahony was tohave taken the child down to the coach-office. But Johnny had beenawake since two o'clock with excitement, and was now so fractious thatPolly tied on her bonnet and accompanied them. She knew Richard'shatred of a scene. 

"You just walk on, dear, and get his seat, " she said, while she draggedthe cross, tired child on her hand to the public-house, where even atthis hour a posse of idlers hung about. 

And she did well to be there. Instantly on arriving Johnny set up awail, because there was talk of putting him inside the vehicle; andthis persisted until the coachman, a goat-bearded Yankee, came to therescue and said he was darned if such a plucky young nipper shouldn'tget his way: he'd have the child tied on beside him on the box-seat--beblowed if he wouldn't! But even this did not satisfy Johnny; and whileMahony went to procure a length of rope, he continued to prance roundhis aunt and to tug ceaselessly at her sleeve. 

"Can I dwive, Aunt Polly, can I dwive? Ask him, can I dwive!" heroared, beating her skirts with his fists. He was only silenced by thedriver threatening to throw him as a juicy morsel to the gang ofbushrangers who, sure as blazes, would be waiting to stick the coach updirectly it entered the bush. 

Husband and wife lingered to watch the start, when the champing horsestook a headlong plunge forward and, together with the coach, wereswallowed up in a whirlwind of dust. A last glimpse discovered Johnny, pale and wide-eyed at the lurching speed, but sitting bravely erect. 

"The spirit of your brother in that child, my dear!" said Mahony asthey made to walk home. 

"Poor little Johnny, " and Polly wiped her eyes. "If only he was goingback to a mother who loved him, and would understand. "

"I'm sure no mother could have done more for him than you, love. "

"Yes, but a real mother wouldn't need to give him up, however naughtyhe had been. "

"I think the young varmint might have shown some regret at parting fromyou, after all this time, " returned her husband, to whom it wasoffensive if even a child was lacking in good feeling. "He never turnedhis head. Well, I suppose it's a fact, as they say, that the naturalchild is the natural barbarian. "

"Johnny never meant any harm. It was I who didn't know how to managehim, " said Polly staunchly. --"Why, Richard, what IS the matter?" Forletting her arm fall Mahony had dashed to the other side of the road. 

"Good God, Polly, look at this!"

"This" was a printed notice, nailed to a shed, which announced that asale of frontages in Mair and Webster Streets would shortly be held. 

"But it's not our road. I don't understand. "

"Good Lord, don't you see that if they're there already, they'll be outwith us before we can say Jack Robinson? And then where shall I be?"gave back Mahony testily. 

"Let us talk it over. But first come home and have breakfast. Then . .. Yes, then, I think you should go down and see Mr. Henry, and hear whathe says. "

"You're right. I must see Ocock. --Confound the fellow! It's he who haslet me in for this. "

"And probably he'll know some way out. What else is a lawyer for, dear?"

"Quite true, my Polly. None the less, it looks as if I were in for arun of real bad luck, all along the line. "

Chapter IV

One hot morning some few days later, Polly, with Trotty at her side, stood on the doorstep shading her eyes with her hand. She was on thelook-out for her "vegetable man, " who drove in daily from the Springswith his greenstuff. He was late as usual: if Richard would only lether deal with the cheaper, more punctual Ah Sing, who was at thismoment coming up the track. But Devine was a reformed character: after, as a digger, having squandered a fortune in a week, he had given up thedrink and, backed by a hard-working, sober wife, was now trying to earna living at market-gardening. So he had to be encouraged. 

The Chinaman jog-trotted towards them, his baskets a-sway, his mouthstretched to a friendly grin. "You no want cabbagee to-day? Me gotvelly good cabbagee, " he said persuasively and lowered his pole. 

"No thank you, John, not to-day. Me wait for white man. "

"Me bling pleasant for lilly missee, " said the Chow; and unknotting adirty nosecloth, he drew from it an ancient lump of candied ginger. "Lilly missee eatee him . .. Oh, yum, yum! Velly good. My word!"

But Chinamen to Trotty were fearsome bogies, corresponding to theswart-faced, white-eyed chimney-sweeps of the English nursery. She hidbehind her aunt, holding fast to the latter's skirts, and only stealingan occasional peep from one saucer-like blue eye. 

"Thank you, John. Me takee chowchow for lilly missee, " said Polly, whohad experience in disposing of such savoury morsels. 

"You no buy cabbagee to-day?" repeated Ah Sing, with the catlikepersistence of his race. And as Polly, with equal firmness andgood-humour, again shook her head, he shouldered his pole and departedat a half-run, crooning as he went. 

Meanwhile at the bottom of the road another figure had come into view. It was not Devine in his spring-cart; it was some one on horseback, wasa lady, in a holland habit. The horse, a piebald, advanced at a soberpace, and--"Why, good gracious! I believe she's coming here. "

At the first of the three houses the rider had dismounted, and knockedat the door with the butt of her whip. After a word with the woman whoopened, she threw her riding-skirt over one arm, put the other throughthe bridle, and was now making straight for them. 

As she drew near she smiled, showing a row of white teeth. "Does Dr. Mahony live here?"

Misfortune of misfortunes!--Richard was out. 

But almost instantly Polly grasped that this would tell in his favour. "He won't be long, I know. "

"I wonder, " said the lady, "if he would come out to my house when hegets back? I am Mrs Glendinning--of Dandaloo. "

Polly flushed, with sheer satisfaction: Dandaloo was one of the largeststations in the neighbourhood of Ballarat. "Oh, I'm certain he will, "she answered quickly. 

"I am so glad you think so, " said Mrs. Glendinning. "A mutual friend, Mr. Henry Ocock, tells me how clever he is. "

Polly's brain leapt at the connection; on the occasion of Richard'slast visit the lawyer had again repeated the promise to put a patientin his way. Ocock was one of those people, said Richard, who onlyremembered your existence when he saw you. --Oh, what a blessing indisguise had been that troublesome old land sale!

The lady had stooped to Trotty, whom she was trying to coax from herlurking-place. "What a darling! How I envy you!"

"Have you no children?" Polly asked shyly, when Trotty's relationshiphad been explained. 

"Yes, a boy. But I should have liked a little girl of my own. Boys areso difficult, " and she sighed. 

The horse nuzzling for sugar roused Polly to a sense of her remissness. "Won't you come in and rest a little, after your ride?" she asked; andwithout hesitation Mrs. Glendinning said she would like to, very muchindeed; and tying the hone to the fence, she followed Polly into thehouse. 

The latter felt proud this morning of its apple-pie order. She drew upthe best armchair, placed a footstool before it and herself carried ina tray with refreshments. Mrs. Glendinning had taken Trotty on her lap, and given the child her long gold chains to play with. Polly thoughther the most charming creature in the world. She had a slender waist, and an abundant light brown chignon, and cheeks of a beautiful pink, inwhich two fascinating dimples came and went. The feather from herriding-hat lay on her neck. Her eyes were the colour of forget-me-nots, her mouth was red as any rose. She had, too, so sweet and natural amanner that Polly was soon chatting frankly about herself and her life, Mrs. Glendinning listening with her face pressed to the spun-glass ofTrotty's hair. 

When she rose, she clasped both Polly's hands in hers. "You dear littlewoman. .. May I kiss you? I am ever so much older than you. "

"I am eighteen, " said Polly. 

"And I on the shady side of twenty-eight!"

They laughed and kissed. "I shall ask your husband to bring you out tosee me. And take no refusal. AU REVOIR!" and riding off, she turned inthe saddle and waved her hand. 

For all her pleasurable excitement Polly did not let the grass growunder her feet. There being still no sign of Richard--he had gone toSoldiers' Hill to extract a rusty nail from a child's foot--Ellen wassent to summon him home; and when the girl returned with word that hewas on the way, Polly dispatched her to the livery-barn, to order thehorse to be got ready. 

Richard took the news coolly. "Did she say what the matter was?"

No, she hadn't; and Polly had not liked to ask her; it could surely benothing very serious, or she would have mentioned it. 

"H'm. Then it's probably as I thought. Glendinning's failing is wellknown. Only the other day, I heard that more than one medical man haddeclined to have anything further to do with the case. It's a long wayout, and fees are not always forthcoming. HE doesn't ask for a doctor, and, womanlike, she forgets to pay the bills. I suppose they thinkthey'll try a greenhorn this time. "

Pressed by Polly, who was curious to learn everything about her newfriend, he answered: "I should be sorry to tell you, my dear, how manybottles of brandy it is Glendinning's boast he can empty in a week. "

"Drink? Oh, Richard, how terrible! And that pretty, pretty woman!"cried Polly, and drove her thoughts backwards: she had seen no hint oftragedy in her caller's lovely face. However, she did not wait toponder, but asked, a little anxiously: "But you'll go, dear, won't you?"

"Go? Of course I shall! Beggars can't be choosers. " "Besides, you know, you MIGHT be able to do something where other people have failed. "

Mahony rode out across the Flat. For a couple of miles his route wasone with the Melbourne Road, on which plied the usual motley traffic. Then, branching off at right angles, it dived into the bush--in thiscase a scantly wooded, uneven plain, burnt tobacco-brown and hard asiron. 

Here went no one but himself. He and the mare were the sole livingcreatures in what, for its stillness, might have been a paintedlandscape. Not a breath of air stirred the weeping grey-green foliageof the gums; nor was there any bird-life to rustle the leaves, or peck, or chirrup. Did he draw rein, the silence was so intense that he couldalmost hear it. 

On striking the outlying boundary of Dandaloo, he dismounted to slip arail. After that he was in and out of the saddle, his way leadingthrough numerous gateless paddocks before it brought him up to thehomestead. 

This, a low white wooden building, overspread by a broad verandah--froma distance it looked like an elongated mushroom--stood on a hill. Atthe end, the road had run alongside a well-stocked fruit andflower-garden; but the hillside itself, except for a gravelled walk infront of the house, was uncultivated--was given over to dead thistlesand brown weeds. 

Fastening his bridle to a post, Mahony unstrapped his bag ofnecessaries and stepped on to the verandah. A row of French windowsstood open; but flexible green sun-blinds hid the rooms from view. Thefront door was a French window, too, differing from the rest only inits size. There was neither bell nor knocker. While he was rapping withthe knuckles on the panel, one of the blinds was pushed aside and Mrs. Glendinning came out. 

She was still in hat and riding-habit; had herself, she said, reachedhome but half an hour ago. Summoning a station-hand to attend to thehorse, she raised a blind and ushered Mahony into the dining-room, where she had been sitting at lunch, alone at the head of a largetable. A Chinaman brought fresh plates, and Mahony was invited to drawup his chair. He had an appetite after his ride; the room was cool anddark; there were no flies. 

Throughout the meal, the lady kept up a running fire of talk--thegraceful chitchat that sits so well on pretty lips. She spoke of thecoming Races; of the last Government House Ball; of the untimely deathof Governor Hotham. To Mahony she instinctively turned a different sideout, from that which had captured Polly. With all her well-bred ease, there was a womanly deference in her manner, a readiness to be swayed, to stand corrected. The riding-dress set off her figure; and herdelicate features were perfectly chiselled. ("Though she'll be floridbefore she's forty. ")

Some juicy nectarines finished, she pushed back her chair. "And now, doctor, will you come and see your patient?"

Mahony followed her down a broad, bare passage. A number of roomsopened off it, but instead of entering one of these she led him out toa back verandah. Here, before a small door, she listened with benthead, then turned the handle and went in. 

The room was so dark that Mahony could see nothing. Gradually he madeout a figure lying on a stretcher-bed. A watcher sat at the bedside. The atmosphere was more than close, smelt rank and sour. His firstrequest was for light and air. 

It was the wreck of a fine man that lay there, strapped over the chest, bound hand and foot to the framework of the bed. The forehead, on whichthe hair had receded to a few mean grey wisps, was high and domed, thefeatures were straight with plenty of bone in them, the shouldersbroad, the arms long. The skin of the face had gone a mahogany brownfrom exposure, and a score of deep wrinkles ran out fan-wise from thecorners of the closed lids. Mahony untied the dirty towels that formedthe bandages--they had cut ridges in the limbs they confined--and tookone of the heavy wrists in his hand. 

"How long has he lain like this?" he asked, as he returned the arm toits place. 

"How long is it, Saunderson?" asked Mrs. Glendinning. She had sat downon a chair at the foot of the bed; her skirts overflowed the floor. 

The watcher guessed it would be since about the same time yesterday. 

"Was he unusually violent on this occasion?--for I presume such attacksare not uncommon with him, " continued Mahony, who had meanwhile made asuperficial examination of the sick man. 

"I am sorry to say they are only too common, doctor, " replied thelady. --"Was he worse than usual this time, Saunderson?" she turnedagain to the man; at which fresh proof of her want of knowledge Mahonymentally raised his eyebrows. 

"To say trewth, I never see'd the boss so bad before, " answeredSaunderson solemnly, grating the palms of the big red hands that hungdown between his knees. "And I've helped him through the jumps more'nonce. It's my opinion it would ha' been a narrow squeak for him thistime, if me and a mate hadn't nipped in and got these bracelets on him. There he was, ravin' and sweatin' and cursin' his head off, grey asdeath. Hell-gate, he called it, said he was devil's-porter athell-gate, and kept hollerin' for napkins and his firesticks. Poor ol'boss! It WAS hell for him and no mistake!"

By dint of questioning Mahony elicited the fact that Glendinning hadbeen unseated by a young horse, three days previously. At the time, noheed was paid to the trifling accident. Later on, however, complainingof feeling cold and unwell, he went to bed, and after lying wakeful forsome hours was seized by the horrors of delirium. 

Requesting the lady to leave them, Mahony made a more detailedexamination. His suspicions were confirmed: there was internal troubleof old standing, rendered acute by the fall. Aided by Saunderson, heworked with restoratives for the best part of an hour. In the end hehad the satisfaction of seeing the coma pass over into a natural repose. 

"Well, he's through this time, but I won't answer for the next, " hesaid, and looked about him for a basin in which to wash his hands. "Can't you manage to keep the drink from him?--or at least to limithim?"

"Nay, the Almighty Himself couldn't do that, " gave back Saunderson, bringing forward soap and a tin dish. 

"How does it come that he lies in a place like this?" asked Mahony, ashe dried his hands on a corner of the least dirty towel, and glancedcuriously round. The room--in size it did not greatly exceed that of aship's-cabin--was in a state of squalid disorder. Besides a deal tableand a couple of chairs, its main contents were rows and piles of oldpaper-covered magazines, the thick brown dust on which showed that theyhad not been moved for months--or even years. The whitewashed wallswere smoke-tanned and dotted with millions of fly-specks; the driedcorpses of squashed spiders formed large black patches; all fourcorners of the ceiling were festooned with cobwebs. 

Saunderson shrugged his shoulders. "This was his den when he first wasmanager here, in old Morrison's time, and he's stuck to it ever since. He shuts himself up in here, and won't have a female cross thethreshold--nor yet Madam G. Herself. "

Having given final instructions, Mahony went out to rejoin the lady. 

"I will not conceal from you that your husband is in a very precariouscondition. "

"Do you mean, doctor, he won't live long?" She had evidently been lyingdown: one side of her face was flushed and marked. Crying, too, or hewas much mistaken: her lids were red-rimmed, her shapely featuresswollen. 

"Ah, you ask too much of me; I am only a woman; I have no influenceover him, " she said sadly, and shook her head. 

"What is his age?"

"He is forty-seven. "

Mahony had put him down for at least ten years older, and said so. Butthe lady was not listening: she fidgeted with her lace-edgedhandkerchief, looked uneasy, seemed to be in debate with herself. Finally she said aloud: "Yes, I will. " And to him: "Doctor, would youcome with me a moment?"

This time she conducted him to a well-appointed bedchamber, off whichgave a smaller room, containing a little four-poster draped in dimity. With a vague gesture in the direction of the bed, she sank on a chairbeside the door. 

Drawing the curtains Mahony discovered a fair-haired boy of some eightor nine years old. He lay with his head far back, his mouth wideopen--apparently fast asleep. 

But the doctor's eye was quick to see that it was no natural sleep. "Good God! who is responsible for this?"

Mrs. Glendinning held her handkerchief to her face. "I have never toldany one before, " she wept. "The shame of it, doctor . .. Is more than Ican bear. "

"Who is the blackguard? Come, answer me, if you please!"

"Oh, doctor, don't scold me. .. I am so unhappy. " The pretty facepuckered and creased; the full bosom heaved. "He is all I have. Andsuch a bright, clever little fellow! You will cure him for me, won'tyou?"

"How often has it happened?"

"I don't know . .. About five or six times, I think . .. Perhaps more. There's a place not far from here where he can get it . .. An oldhut-cook my husband dismissed once, in a fit of temper--he has oh sucha temper! Eddy saddles his pony and rides out there, if he's notwatched; and then . .. Then, they bring him back . .. Like this. "

"But who supplies him with money?"

"Money? Oh, but doctor, he can't be kept without pocket-money! He hasalways had as much as he wanted. --No, it is all my husband'sdoing, "--and now she broke out in one of those shameless confessions, from which the medical adviser is never safe. "He hates me; he is onlyhappy if he can hurt me and humiliate me. I don't care what becomes ofhim. The sooner he dies the better!"

"Compose yourself, my dear lady. Later you may regret such hastywords. --And what has this to do with the child? Come, speak out. Itwill be a relief to you to tell me. "

"You are so kind, doctor, " she sobbed, and drank, with hystericalgurglings, the glass of water Mahony poured out for her. "Yes, I willtell you everything. It began years ago--when Eddy was only a tot injumpers. It used to amuse my husband to see him toss off a glass ofwine like a grown-up person; and it WAS comical, when he sipped it, andsmacked his lips. But then he grew to like it, and to ask for it, andbe cross when he was refused. And then. .. Then he learnt how to get itfor himself. And when his father saw I was upset about it, he egged himon--gave it to him on the sly. --Oh, he is a bad man, doctor, a BAD, cruel man! He says such wicked things, too. He doesn't believe in God, or that it is wrong to take one's own life, and he says he never wantedchildren. He jeers at me because I am fond of Eddy, and because I go tochurch when I can, and says . .. Oh, I know I am not clever, but I amnot quite such a fool as he makes me out to be. He speaks to me as if Iwere the dirt under his feet. He can't bear the sight of me. I haveheard him curse the day he first saw me. And so he's only too glad tobe able to come between my boy and me . .. In any way he can. "

Mahony led the weeping woman back to the dining-room. There he satlong, patiently listening and advising; sat, till Mrs. Glendinning haddried her eyes and was her charming self once more. 

The gist of what he said was, the boy must be removed from home atonce, and placed in strict, yet kind hands. 

Here, however, he ran up against a weak maternal obstinacy. "Oh, but Icouldn't part from Eddy. He is all I have. .. . And so devoted to hismammy. "

As Mahony insisted, she looked the picture of helplessness. "But Ishould have no idea how to set about it. And my husband would put everypossible obstacle in the way. "

"With your permission I will arrange the matter myself. "

"Oh, how kind you are!" cried Mrs. Glendinning again. "But mind, doctor, it must be somewhere where Eddy will lack none of the comfortshe is accustomed to, and where his poor mammy can see him whenever shewishes. Otherwise he will fret himself ill. "

Mahony promised to do his best to satisfy her, and declining, verycurtly, the wine she pressed on him, went out to mount his horse whichhad been brought round. 

Following him on to the verandah, Mrs. Glendinning became once more thepretty woman frankly concerned for her appearance. "I don't know how Ilook, I'm sure, " she said apologetically, and raised both hands to herhair. "Now I will go and rest for an hour. There is to be opossumingand a moonlight picnic to-night at Warraluen. " Catching Mahony's eyefixed on her with a meaning emphasis, she changed colour. "I cannot sitat home and think, doctor. I MUST distract myself; or I should go mad. "

When he was in the saddle she showed him her dimples again, and hersmall, even teeth. "I want you to bring your wife to see me next timeyou come, " she sad, patting the horse's neck. "I took a great fancy toher--a sweet little woman!"

But Mahony, jogging downhill, said to himself he would think twicebefore introducing Polly there. His young wife's sunny, girlish outlookshould not, with his consent, be clouded by a knowledge of the sordidthings this material prosperity hid from view. A whited sepulchreseemed to him now the richly appointed house, the well-stocked gardens, the acres on acres of good pasture-land: a fair outside when, within, all was foul. He called to mind what he knew by hearsay of the owner. Glendinning was one of the pioneer squatters of the district, had heldthe run for close on fifteen years. Nowadays, when the land round wasentirely taken up, and a place like Ballarat stood withinstone's-throw, it was hard to imagine the awful solitude to which theearly settlers had been condemned. Then, with his next neighbour milesand miles away, Melbourne, the nearest town, a couple of days' ridethrough trackless bush, a man was a veritable prisoner in this desertof paddocks, with not a soul to speak to but rough station-hands, andnothing to occupy his mind but the damage done by summer droughts andwinter floods. No support or comradeship in the wife either--this poorpretty foolish little woman: "With the brains of a pigeon!" Glendinninghad the name of being intelligent: was it, under these circumstances, matter for wonder that he should seek to drown doubts, memories, inevitable regrets; should be led on to the bitter discovery thatforgetfulness alone rendered life endurable? Yes, there was somethingsinister in the dead stillness of the melancholy bush; in the harsh, merciless sunlight of the late afternoon. 

A couple of miles out his horse cast a shoe, and it was evening beforehe reached home. Polly was watching for him on the doorstep, in atwitter lest some accident had happened or he had had a brush withbushrangers. 

"It never rains but it pours, dear!" was her greeting: he had beentwice sent for to the Flat, to attend a woman in labour. --And withbarely time to wash the worst of the ride's dust off him, he had topick up his bag and hurry away. 

Chapter V

"A very striking-looking man! With perfect manners--and beautifulhands. "

Her head bent over her sewing, Polly repeated these words to herselfwith a happy little smile. They had been told her, in confidence, byMrs. Glendinning, and had been said by this lady's best friend, Mrs. Urquhart of Yarangobilly: on the occasion of Richard's second call atDandaloo, he had been requested to ride to the neighbouring station tovisit Mrs. Urquhart, who was in delicate health. And of course Pollyhad passed the flattering opinion on; for, though she was rather a goodhand at keeping a secret--Richard declared he had never known abetter--yet that secret did not exist--or up till now had notexisted--which she could imagine herself keeping from him. 

For the past few weeks these two ladies had vied with each other insinging Richard's praises, and in making much of Polly: the second timeMrs. Glendinning called she came in her buggy, and carried off Polly, and Trotty, too, to Yarangobilly, where there was a nestful of littleones for the child to play with. Another day a whole brakeful of livelypeople drove up to the door in the early morning, and insisted on Pollyaccompanying them, just as she was, to the Racecourse on the road toCreswick's Creek. And everybody was so kind to her that Polly heartilyenjoyed herself, in spite of her plain print dress. She won a pair ofgloves and a piece of music in a philippine with Mr Urquhart, a jolly, carroty-haired man, beside whom she sat on the box-seat coming home;and she was lucky enough to have half-a-crown on one of the winners. Animpromptu dance was got up that evening by the merry party, in a hallin the township; and Polly had the honour of a turn with Mr. HenryOcock, who was most affable. Richard also looked in for an hour towardsthe end, and valsed her and Mrs. Glendinning round. 

Polly had quite lost her heart to her new friend. At the outset Richardhad rather frowned on the intimacy--but then he was a person given totaking unaccountable antipathies. In this case, however, he had toyield; for not only did a deep personal liking spring up between thetwo women, but a wave of pity swept over Polly, blinding her to moresubtle considerations. Before Mrs. Glendinning had been many times atthe house, she had poured out all her troubles to Polly, impelledthereto by Polly's quick sympathy and warm young eyes. Richard hadpurposely given his wife few details of his visits to Dandaloo; butMrs. Glendinning knew no such scruples, and cried her eyes out onPolly's shoulder. 

What a dreadful man the husband must be! "For she really is the dearestlittle woman, Richard. And means so well with every one--I've neverheard her say a sharp or unkind word. --Well, not very clever, perhaps. But everybody can't be clever, can they? And she's good--which isbetter. The only thing she seems a teeny-weeny bit foolish about is herboy. I'm afraid she'll never consent to part with him. "--Polly saidthis to prepare her husband, who was in correspondence on the subjectwith Archdeacon Long and with John in Melbourne. Richard was puttinghimself to a great deal of trouble, and would naturally be vexed ifnothing came of it. 

Polly paid her first visit to Dandaloo with considerable trepidation. For Mrs. Urquhart, who herself was happily married--although, it wastrue, her merry, red-haired husband had the reputation of being aLITTLE too fond of the ladies, and though he certainly did not makesuch a paying concern of Yarangobilly as Mr. Glendinning ofDandaloo--Mrs. Urquhart had whispered to Polly as they sat chatting onthe verandah: "Such a DREADFUL man, my dear! . .. A perfect brute! Poorlittle Agnes. It is wonderful how she keeps her spirits up. "

Polly, however, was in honour bound to admit that to her the owner ofDandaloo had appeared anything but the monster report made him out tobe. He was perfectly sober the day she was there, and did not touchwine at luncheon; and afterwards he had been most kind, taking her withhim on a quiet little broad-backed mare to an outlying part of thestation, and giving her several hints how to improve her seat. He wascertainly very haggard-looking, and deeply wrinkled, and at table hishand shook so that the water in his glass ran over. But all this onlymade Polly feel sorry for him, and long to help him. 

"My dear, you ARE favoured! I never knew James make such an offerbefore, " whispered Mrs. Glendinning, as she pinned her ampleriding-skirt round her friend's slim hips. 

The one thing about him that disturbed Polly was his manner towards hiswife: he was savagely ironic with her, and trampled hobnailed on hertimid opinions. But then Agnes didn't know how to treat him, Polly soonsaw that: she was nervous and fluttery--evasive, too; and once duringlunch even told a deliberate fib. Slight as was her acquaintance withhim, Polly felt sure this want of courage must displease him; for therewas something very simple and direct about his own way of speaking. 

"My dear, why don't you stand up to him?" asked little Polly. 

"Dearest, I dare not. If you knew him as I do, Polly. .. . He TERRIFIESme. --Oh, what a lucky little woman you are . .. To have a husband likeyours. "

Polly had recalled these words that very morning as she stood to watchRichard ride away: never did he forget to kiss her good-bye, or to turnand wave to her at the foot of the road. Each time she admired afreshthe figure he cut on horseback: he was so tall and slender, and sat sostraight in his saddle. Now, too, he had yielded to her persuasions andshaved off his beard; and his moustache and side-whiskers were like hishair, of an extreme, silky blond. Ever since the day of their firstmeeting at Beamish's Family Hotel, Polly had thought her husband thehandsomest man in the world. And the best, as well. He had hispeculiarities, of course; but so had every husband; and it was part ofa wife's duty to study them, to adapt herself to them, or to endeavourto tone them down. And now came these older, wiser ladies and confirmedher high opinion of him. Polly beamed with happiness at this juncture, and registered a silent vow always to be the best of wives. 

Not like--but here she tripped and coloured, on the threshold of herthought. She had recently been the recipient of a very distressingconfidence; one, too, which she was not at liberty to share, even withRichard. For, after the relief of a thorough-paced confession, Mrs. Glendinning had implored her not to breathe a word to him--"I couldnever look him in the face again, love!" Besides, the affair was ofsuch a painful nature that Polly felt little desire to draw Richardinto it; it was bad enough that she herself should know. The thing wasthis: once when Polly had stayed overnight at Dandaloo AgnesGlendinning in a sudden fit of misery had owned to her that she caredfor another person more than for her own husband, and that her feelingswere returned. 

Shocked beyond measure, Polly tried to close her friend's lips. "Idon't think you should mention any names, Agnes, " she cried. "Afterwards, my dear, you might regret it. "

But Mrs. Glendinning was hungry for the luxury of speech--not even toLouisa Urquhart had she broken silence, she wept; and that, for thesake of Louisa's children--and she persisted in laying her heart bare. And here certain vague suspicions that had crossed Polly's mind on thenight of the impromptu ball--they were gone again, in an instant, quickas thistledown on the breeze--these suddenly returned, life-size andweighty; and the name that was spoken came as no surprise to her. Yes, it was Mr. Henry Ocock to whom poor Agnes was attached. There had beena mutual avowal of affection, sobbed the latter; they met as often ascircumstances permitted. Polly was thunder-struck: knowing Agnes as shedid, she herself could not believe any harm of her; but she shudderedat the thought of what other people--Richard, for instance--would say, did they get wind of it. She implored her friend to caution. She oughtnever, never to see Mr. Ocock. Why did she not go away to Melbourne fora time? And why had he come to Ballarat?

"To be near me, dearest, to help me if I should need him. --Oh, youcan't think what a comfort it is, Polly, to feel that he IS here--sogood, and strong, and clever!--Yes, I know what you mean . .. But thisis quite, quite different. Henry does not expect me to be clever, too--does not want me to be. He prefers me as I am. He dislikes cleverwomen . .. Would never marry one. And we SHALL marry, darling, someday--when . .. "

Henry Ocock! Polly tried to focus everything she knew of him, all herfleeting impressions, in one picture--and failed. He had made himselfvery agreeable, the single time she had met him; but. .. . There wasRichard's opinion of him: Richard did not like him or trust him; hethought him unscrupulous in business, cold and self-seeking. Poor, poorlittle Agnes! That such a misfortune should befall just her! Strangerstill that she, Polly, should be mixed up in it. 

She had, of course, always known from books that such things didhappen; but then they seemed quite different, and very far away. Herthoughts at this crisis were undeniably woolly; but the gist of themwas, that life and books had nothing in common. For in stories thewoman who forgot herself was always a bad woman; whereas not theharshest critic could call poor Agnes bad. Indeed, Polly felt that evenif some one proved to her that her friend had actually done wrong, shewould not on that account be able to stop caring for her, or feelingsorry for her. It was all very uncomfortable and confusing. 

While these thoughts came and went, she half sat, half knelt, a pair ofscissors in her hand. She was busy cutting out a dress, and no tablebeing big enough for the purpose, had stretched the material on theparlour floor. This would be the first new dress she had had since hermarriage; and it was high time, considering all the visiting and goingabout that fell to her lot just now. Sara had sent the pattern up fromMelbourne, and John, hearing what was in the wind, had most kindly andgenerously made her a present of the silk. Polly hoped she would notbungle it in the cutting; but skirts were growing wider and wider, andJohn had not reckoned with quite the newest fashion. 

Steps in the passage made her note subconsciously that Ned hadarrived--Jerry had been in the house for the past three weeks, with asprained wrist. And at this moment her younger brother himself enteredthe room, Trotty throned on his shoulder. 

Picking his steps round the sea of stuff, Jerry sat down and loweredTrotty to his knee. "Ned's grizzling for tea. "

Polly did not reply; she was laying an odd-shaped piece of paper nowthis way, now that. 

For a while Jerry played with the child. Then he burst out: "I say, Poll!" And since Polly paid no heed to his apostrophe:

"Richard says I can get back to work to-morrow. "

"That's a good thing, " answered his sister with an air of abstraction:she had solved her puzzle to within half a yard. 

Jerry cast a boyishly imploring glance at her back, and rubbed his chinwith his hand. "Poll, old girl--I say, wouldn't you put in a word forme with Richard? I'm hanged if I want to go back to the claim. I'm sickto death of digging. "

At this Polly did raise her head, to regard him with grave eyes. "What!tired of work already, Jerry? I don't know what Richard will say tothat, I'm sure. You had better speak to him yourself. "

Again Jerry rubbed his chin. "That's just it--what's so beastly hard. Iknow he'll say I ought to stick to it. "

"So do I. "

"Well, I'd rather groom the horse than that. "

"But think how pleased you were at first!"

Jerry ruefully admitted it. "One expects to dig out gold like spuds;while the real thing's enough to give you the blight. As for stopping awages-man all my life, I won't do it. I might just as well go home andwork in a Lancashire pit. "

"But Ned--"

"Oh, Ned! Ned walks about with his head in the clouds. He's alwaysblowing of what he's GOING to do, and gets his steam off that way. I'mdifferent. "

But Jerry's words fell on deaf ears. A noise in the next room wasengaging Polly's whole attention. She heard a burr of suppressedlaughter, a scuffle and what sounded like a sharp slap. Jumping up shewent to the door, and was just in time to see Ellen whisk out of thedining-room. 

Ned sat in an armchair, with his feet on the chimney-piece. "I had thegirl bring in a log, Poll, " he said; and looked back and up at hissister with his cheery smile. Standing behind him, Polly laid her handon his hair. "I'll go and see after the tea. " Ned was so unconcernedthat she hesitated to put a question. 

In the kitchen she had no such tender scruples; nor was she imposed onby the exaggerated energy with which Ellen bustled about. "What wasthat noise I heard in the dining-room just now?" she demanded. 

"Noise? I dunno, " gave back the girl crossly without facing her. 

"Nonsense, Ellen! Do you think I didn't hear?"

"Oh, get along with you! It was only one of Ned's jokes. " And going onher knees, Ellen set to scrubbing the brick floor with a hiss and ascratch that rendered speech impossible. Polly took up the ladentea-tray and carried it into the dining-room. Richard had come home, and the four drew chairs to the table. 

Mahony had a book with him; he propped it open against thebutter-cooler, and snatched sentences as he ate. It fell to Ned to keepthe ball rolling. Polly was distraite to the point of going wrong inher sugars; Jerry uneasy at the prospect of coming in conflict with hisbrother-in-law, whom he thought the world of. 

Ned was as full of talk as an egg of meat. The theme he dwelt longeston was the new glory that lay in store for the Ballarat diggings. Atpresent these were under a cloud. The alluvial was giving out, and thecosts and difficulties of boring through the rock seemed insuperable. One might hear the opinion freely expressed that Ballarat's day aspremier goldfield was done. Ned set up this belief merely for thepleasure of demolishing it. He had it at first hand that greatcompanies were being formed to carry on operations. These would reckontheir areas in acres instead of feet, would sink to a depth of aquarter of a mile or more, raise washdirt in hundreds of tons per day. One such company, indeed, had already sprung into existence, out onGolden Point; and now was the time to nip in. If he, Ned, had thebrass, or knew anybody who'd lend it to him, he'd buy up all the shareshe could get. Those who followed his lead would make their fortunes. "Isay, Richard, it'ud be something for you. "

His words evoked no response. Sorry though I shall be, thought Polly, dear Ned had better not come to the house so often in future. I wonderif I need tell Richard why. Jerry was on pins and needles, and even putTrotty ungently from him: Richard would be so disgusted by Ned'sblatherskite that he would have no patience left to listen to him. 

Mahony kept his nose to his book. As a matter of principle. He made arule of believing, on an average, about the half of what Ned said. Toappear to pay attention to him would spur him on to more flagrantover-statements. 

"D'ye hear, Richard? Now's your chance, " repeated Ned, not to be done. "A very different thing this, I can tell you, from running round dosingpeople for the collywobbles. I know men who are raising the splosh anyway they can to get in. "

"I dare say. There's never been any lack of gamblers on Ballarat, " saidMahony dryly, and passed his cup to be refilled. 

Pig-headed fool! was Ned's mental retort, as he sliced a chunk ofrabbit-pie. "Well, I bet you'll feel sore some day you didn't take myadvice, " he said aloud. 

"We shall see, my lad, we shall see!" replied Mahony. "In the meantime, let me inform you, I can make good use of every penny I have. So ifyou've come here thinking you can wheedle something out of me, you'remistaken. " He could seldom resist tearing the veil from Ned's grosshints and impostures. 

"Oh no, Richard dear!" interpolated Polly, in her role ofkeeper-of-the-peace. 

Ned answered huffily: "'Pon my word, I never met such a fellow as you, for thinking the worst of people. "

The thrust went home. Mahony clapped his book to. "You lay yourselfopen to it, sir! If I'm wrong, I beg your pardon. But for goodness'sake, Ned, put all these trashy ideas of making a fortune out of yourmind. Digging is played out, I tell you. Decent people turned theirbacks on it long ago. "

"That's what I think, too, " threw in Jerry. 

Mahony bit his lip. "Come, come, now, what do you know about it?"

Jerry flushed and floundered, till Polly came to his aid. "He's beenwanting to speak to you, Richard. He hates the work as much as you did. "

"Well, he has a tongue of his own. --Speak for yourself, my boy!"

Thus encouraged, Jerry made his appeal; and fearing lest Richard shouldthrow him, half-heard, into the same category as Ned, he worded it verytersely. Mahony, who had never given much heed to Jerry--no onedid--was pleased by his straightforward air. Still, he did not knowwhat could be done for him, and said so. 

Here Polly had an inspiration. "But I think I do. I remember Mr. Ococksaying to me the other day he must take another boy into the business, it was growing so--the fourth, this will make. I don't know if he'ssuited yet, but even if he is, he may have heard of something else. --Only you know, Jerry, you mustn't mind WHAT it is. After tea I'll puton my bonnet and go down to the Flat with you. And Ned shall come, too, " she added, with a consoling glance at her elder brother: Ned hadextended his huff to his second slice of pie, which lay untouched onhis plate. 

"Somebody has always got something up her sleeve, " said Mahonyaffectionately, when Polly came to him in walking costume. "None theless, wife, I shouldn't be surprised if those brothers of yours gave ussome trouble, before we're done with them. "

Chapter VI

In the weeks and months that followed, as he rode from one end ofBallarat to the other--from Yuille's Swamp in the west, as far east asthe ranges and gullies of Little Bendigo--it gradually became plain toMahony that Ned's frothy tales had some body in them after all. Thecharacter of the diggings was changing before his very eyes. Nowadays, except on an outlying muddy flat or in the hands of the retrogradeChinese, tubs, cradles, and windlasses were rarely to be met with. Engine-sheds and boiler-houses began to dot the ground; here and therea tall chimney belched smoke, beside a lofty poppet-head or an aerialtrolley-line. The richest gutters were found to take their rise belowthe basaltic deposits; the difficulties and risks of rock-mining hadnow to be faced, and the capitalist, so long held at bay, at lengthmade free of the field. Large sums of money were being subscribed; and, where these proved insufficient, the banks stepped into the breach withsubsidies on mortgages. The population, in whose veins the gold-feverstill burned, plunged by wholesale into the new hazard; and under thewooden verandahs of Bridge Street a motley crew of jobbers and brokerscame into existence, who would demonstrate to you, a la Ned, how youmight reap a fortune from a claim without putting in an hour's work onit--without even knowing where it was. 

A temptation, indeed! . .. But one that did not affect him. Mahony letthe reins droop on his horse's neck, and the animal picked its wayamong the impedimenta of the bush road. It concerned only those who hadmoney to spare. Months, too, must go by before, from even the mostpromising of these co-operative affairs, any return was to be expected. As for him, there still came days when he had not a five-pound note tohis name. It had been a delusion to suppose that, in accepting John'soffer, he was leaving money-troubles behind him. Despite Polly'sthrift, their improved style of life cost more than he had reckoned;the patients, slow to come, were slower still to discharge their debts. Moreover, he had not guessed how heavily the quarterly payments ofinterest would weigh on him. With as good as no margin, with the fateof every shilling decided beforehand, the saving up of thirty oddpounds four times a year was a veritable achievement. He was always ina quake lest he should not be able to get it together. No one suspectedwhat near shaves he had--not even Polly. The last time hardly borethinking about. At the eleventh hour he had unexpectedly found himselfseveral pounds short. He did not close an eye all night, and got up inthe morning as though for his own execution. Then, fortune favouredhim. A well-to-do butcher, his hearty: "What'll yours be?" at thenearest public-house waved aside, had settled his bill off-hand. Mahonycould still feel the sudden lift of the black fog-cloud that hadenveloped him--the sense of bodily exhaustion that had succeeded to theintolerable mental strain. 

For the coming quarter-day he was better prepared--if, that was, nothing out of the way happened. Of late he had been haunted by thefear of illness. The long hours in the saddle did not suit him. Heought to have a buggy, and a second horse. But there could be noquestion of it in the meantime, or of a great deal else besides. Hewanted to buy Polly a piano, for instance; all her friends had pianos;and she played and sang very prettily. She needed more dresses andbonnets, too, than he was able to allow her, as well as a change to theseaside in the summer heat. The first spare money he had should gotowards one or the other. He loved to give Polly pleasure; never wassuch a contented little soul as she. And well for him that it was so. To have had a complaining, even an impatient wife at his side, justnow, would have been unbearable. But Polly did not know what impatiencemeant; her sunny temper, her fixed resolve to make the best ofeverything was not to be shaken. 

Well, comforts galore should be hers some day, he hoped. The practicewas shaping satisfactorily. His attendance at Dandaloo had proved a keyto many doors: folk of the Glendinnings' and Urquharts' standing couldmake a reputation or mar it as they chose. It had got abroad, he knew, that at whatever hour of the day or night he was sent for, he could berelied on to be sober; and that unfortunately was not always the casewith some of his colleagues. In addition his fellow-practitionersshowed signs of waking up to his existence. He had been called inlately to a couple of consultations; and the doyen of the profession onBallarat, old Munce himself, had praised his handling of a difficultcase of version. 

The distances to be covered--that was what made the work stiff. And hecould not afford to neglect a single summons, no matter where it ledhim. Still, he would not have grumbled, had only the money not been sohard to get in. But the fifty thousand odd souls on Ballarat formed, even yet, anything but a stable population: a patient you attended oneday might be gone the next, and gone where no bill could reach him. Orhe had been sold off at public auction; or his wooden shanty had goneup in a flare--hardly a night passed without a fire somewhere. In theseand like accidents the unfortunate doctor might whistle for his fee. Itseldom happened nowadays that he was paid in cash. Money was growing asscarce here as anywhere else. Sometimes, it was true, he might havepocketed his fee on the spot, had he cared to ask for it. But thepresenting of his palm professionally was a gesture that was deniedhim. And this stand-offishness drove from people's minds the thoughtthat he might be in actual need of money. Afterwards he sat at home andracked his brains how to pay butcher and grocer. Others of thefraternity were by no means so nice. He knew of some who would not stira yard unless their fee was planked down before them--old stagersthese, who at one time had been badly bitten and were now growncynically distrustful. Or tired. And indeed who could blame a man forhesitating of a pitch-dark night in the winter rains, or on a blazingsummer day, whether or no he should set out on a twenty-mile ride forwhich he might never see the ghost of a remuneration?

Reflecting thus, Mahony caught at a couple of hard, spicy, grey-greenleaves, to chew as he went: the gums, on which the old bark hung inribbons, were in flower by now, and bore feathery yellow blossoms sideby side with nutty capsules. His horse had been ambling forwardunpressed. Now it laid its ears flat, and a minute later its master'sslower senses caught the clop-clop of a second set of hoofs, the noiseof wheels. Mahony had reached a place where two roads joined, and saw acovered buggy approaching. He drew rein and waited. 

The occupant of the vehicle had wound the reins round the emptylamp-bracket, and left it to the sagacity of his horse to keep thefamiliar track, while he dozed, head on breast, in the corner. Theanimal halted of itself on coming up with its fellow, and ArchdeaconLong opened his eyes. 

"Ah, good-day to you, doctor!--Yes, as you see, enjoying a little nap. I was out early. "

He got down from the buggy and, with bent knees and his hands in hispockets, stretched the creased cloth of his trousers, where this hadcut into his flesh. He was a big, brawny, handsome man, with a massivenose, a cloven chin, and the most companionable smile in the world. Ashe stood, he touched here a strap, there a buckle on the harness of hischestnut--a well-known trotter, with which he often made a match--andaffectionately clapped the neck of Mahony's bay. He could not keep hishands off a horse. By choice he was his own stableman, and in earlierlife had been a dare-devil rider. Now, increasing weight led him toprefer buggy to saddle; but his recklessness had not diminished. Withthe reins in his left hand, he would run his light, two-wheeled trap upany wooded, boulder-strewn hill and down the other side, just as in hisharum-scarum days he had set it at felled trees, and, if rumour spoketrue, wire-fences. 

Mahony admired the splendid vitality of the man, as well as theindestructible optimism that bore him triumphantly through all thehardships of a colonial ministry. No sick bed was too remote for Long, no sinner sunk too low to be helped to his feet. The leprous Chinamandoomed to an unending isolation, the drunken Paddy, the degraded whitewoman--each came in for a share of his benevolence. He spent thegreater part of his life visiting the outcasts and outposts, beating upthe unbaptised, the unconfirmed, the unwed. But his church did notsuffer. He had always some fresh scheme for this on hand: either he wasgetting up a tea-meeting to raise money for an organ; or a series ofpenny-readings towards funds for a chancel; or he was training with hischoir for a sacred concert. There was a boyish streak in him, too. Hewould enter into the joys of the annual Sunday-school picnic with azest equal to the children's own, leading the way, in shirt-sleeves, atleap-frog and obstacle-race. In doctrine he struck a happy mean betweenlow-church practices and ritualism, preaching short, spirited sermonsto which even languid Christians could listen without tedium; and on aweek-day evening he would take a hand at a rubber of whist orecarte--and not for love--or play a sound game of chess. A man, too, who, refusing to be bound by the letter of the Thirty-nine Articles, extended his charity even to persons of the Popish faith. In short, hewas one of the few to whom Mahony could speak of his own haphazardefforts at criticising the Pentateuch. 

The Archdeacon was wont to respond with his genial smile: "Ah, it's allvery well for you, doctor!--you're a free lance. I am constrained by mycloth. --And frankly, for the rest of us, that kind of thing'stoo--well, too disturbing. Especially when we have nothing better toput in its place. "

Doctor and parson--the latter, considerably over six feet, made Mahony, who was tall enough, look short and doubly slender--walked side by sidefor nearly a mile, flitting from topic to topic: the rivalry thatprevailed between Ballarats East and West; the seditious uprising inIndia, where both had relatives; the recent rains, the prospects forgrazing. The last theme brought them round to Dandaloo and its unhappyowner. The Archdeacon expressed the outsider's surprise at the strengthof Glendinning's constitution, and the lively popular sympathy that wasfelt for his wife. 

"One's heart aches for the poor little lady, struggling to bear up asthough nothing were the matter. Between ourselves, doctor"--and Mr. Long took off his straw hat to let the air play round hishead--"between ourselves, it's a thousand pities he doesn't just popoff the hooks in one of his bouts. Or that some of you medicalgentlemen don't use your knowledge to help things on. "

He let out his great hearty laugh as he spoke, and his companion'sinvoluntary stiffening went unnoticed. But on Mahony voicing hisattitude with: "And his immortal soul, sir? Isn't it the church's dutyto hope for a miracle? . .. Just as it is ours to keep the vital sparkgoing, " he made haste to take the edge off his words. "Now, now, doctor, only my fun! Our duty is, I trust, plain to us both. "

It was even easier to soothe than to ruffle Mahony. "Remember me verykindly to Mrs. Long, will you?" he said as the Archdeacon prepared toclimb into his buggy. "But tell her, too, I owe her a grudge just now. My wife's so lost in flannel and brown holland that I can't get a wordout of her. "

"And mine doesn't know where she'd be, with this bazaar, if it weren'tfor Mrs. Mahony. " Long was husband to a dot of a woman who, havingborne him half a dozen children of his own feature and build, nowworked as parish clerk and district visitor rolled in one; drivingabout in sunbonnet and gardening-gloves behind a pair of creamponies--tiny, sharp-featured, resolute; with little of her husband'slarge tolerance, but an energy that outdid his own, and made her anobject of both fear and respect. "And that reminds me: over at thecross-roads by Spring Hill, I met your young brother-in-law. And hetold me, if I ran across you to ask you to hurry home. Your wife hassome surprise or other in store for you. No, nothing unpleasant! Ratherthe reverse, I believe. But I wasn't to say more. Well, good-day, doctor, good-day to you!"

Mahony smiled, nodded and went on his way. Polly's surprises wereusually simple and transparent things: some one would have made them apresent of a sucking-pig or a bush-turkey, and Polly, knowing hisrelish for a savoury morsel, did not wish it to be overdone: she hadsent similar chance calls out after him before now. 

When, having seen his horse rubbed down, he reached home, he found heron the doorstep watching for him. She was flushed, and her eyes hadthose peculiar high-lights in them which led him jokingly to exhort herto caution: "Lest the sparks should set the house on fire!"

"Well, what is it, Pussy?" he inquired as he laid his bag down and hungup his wide-awake. "What's my little surprise-monger got up her sleeveto-day? Good Lord, Polly, I'm tired!"

Polly was smiling roguishly. "Aren't you going into the surgery, Richard?" she asked, seeing him heading for the dining-room. 

"Aha! So that's it, " said he, and obediently turned the handle. Pollyhad on occasion taken advantage of his absence to introduce some newcomfort or decoration in his room. 

The blind had been let down. He was still blinking in the half-darkwhen a figure sprang out from behind the door, barging heavily againsthim, and a loud voice shouted: "Boh, you old beef-brains! Boh to agoose!"

Displeased at such horseplay, Mahony stepped sharply back--his firstthought was of Ned having unexpectedly returned from Mount Ararat. Thenrecognising the voice, he exclaimed incredulously: "YOU, Dickybird?You!"

"Dick, old man. .. . I say, Dick! Yes, it's me right enough, and not myghost. The old bad egg come back to roost!"

The blind was raised; and the friends, who had last met in the dingybush hut on the night of the Stockade, stood face to face. And nowensued a babel of greeting, a quick fire of question and answer, thetwo voices going in and out and round each other, singly and together, like the voices in a duet. Tears rose to Polly's eyes as she listened;it made her heart glow to see Richard so glad. But when, forgetting herpresence, Purdy cried: "And I must confess, Dick. .. . I took a kiss fromMrs. Polly. Gad, old man, how she's come on!" Polly hastily retired tothe kitchen. 

At table the same high spirits prevailed: it did not often happen thatRichard was brought out of his shell like this, thought Pollygratefully, and heaped her visitor's plate to the brim. His firsthunger stilled, Purdy fell to giving a slapdash account of hisexperiences. He kept to no orderly sequence, but threw them out just asthey occurred to him: a rub with bushrangers in the Black Forest, hisadventures as a long-distance drover in the Mildura, the trials of aweek he had spent in a boiling-down establishment on the Murray: "Wherethe stink wa so foul, you two, that I vomited like a dog every day!"Under the force of this Odyssey husband and wife gradually dropped intosilence, which they broke only by single words of astonishment andsympathy; while the child Trotty spooned in her pudding without seeingit, her round, solemn eyes fixed unblinkingly on this new uncle, whowas like a wonderful story-book come alive. 

In Mahony's feelings for Purdy at this moment, there was none of theold intolerant superiority. He had been dependent for so long on a meresurface acquaintance with his fellows, that he now felt to the full howprecious the tie was that bound him to Purdy. Here came one for whom hewas not alone the reserved, struggling practitioner, the rather moodyman advancing to middle-age; but also the Dick of his boyhood and earlyyouth. 

He had often imagined the satisfaction it would be to confide histroubles to Purdy. Compared, however, with the hardships the latter hadundergone, these seemed of small importance; and dinner passed withoutany allusion to his own affairs. And now the chances of his speakingout were slight; he could have been entirely frank only under the firststimulus of meeting. 

Even when they rose from the table Purdy continued to hold the stage. For he had turned up with hardly a shirt to his back, and had to berigged out afresh from Mahony's wardrobe. It was decided that he shouldremain their guest in the meantime; also that Mahony should call on hisbehalf on the Commissioner of Police, and put in a good word for him. For Purdy had come back with the idea of seeking a job in the BallaratMounted Force. 

When Mahony could no longer put off starting on his afternoon round, Purdy went with him to the livery-barn, limping briskly at his side. Onthe way, he exclaimed aloud at the marvellous changes that had takenplace since he was last in the township. There were half a dozengas-lamps in Sturt Street by this time, the gas being distilled from amixture of oil and gum-leaves. 

"One wouldn't credit it if one didn't see it with one's own peepers!"he cried, repeatedly bringing up short before the plate-glass windowsof the shops, the many handsome, verandahed hotels, the granite frontof Christ Church. "And from what I hear, Dick, now companies havejumped the claims and are deep-sinking in earnest, fortunes'll be madelike one o'clock. "

But on getting home again, he sat down in front of Polly and said, witha businesslike air: "And now tell me all about old Dick! You know, Poll, he's such an odd fish; if he himself doesn't offer to uncork, somehow one can't just pump him. And I want to know everything thatconcerns him--from A to Z. "

Polly could not hold out against this affectionate curiosity. Entrenching her needle in its stuff, she put her work away andcomplied. And soon to her own satisfaction. For the first time in hermarried life she was led to discuss her husband's ways and actions withanother; and, to her amazement, she found that it was easier to talk toPurdy about Richard than to Richard himself. Purdy and she saw thingsin the same light; no rigmarole of explanation was necessary. Now withRichard, it was not so. In conversation with him, one constantly feltthat he was not speaking out, or, to put it more plainly, that he wasgoing on meanwhile with his own, very different thoughts. And behindwhat he did say, there was sure to lurk some imaginary scruple, somerather far-fetched delicacy of feeling which it was hard to get at, andharder still to understand. 

Chapter VII

Summer had come round again, and the motionless white heat of Decemberlay heavy on the place. The low little houses seemed to cower beneathit; and the smoke from their chimneys drew black, perpendicular lineson the pale sky. If it was a misery at this season to traverse theblazing, dusty roads, it was almost worse to be within doors, where thethin wooden walls were powerless to keep out the heat, and flies andmosquitoes raged in chorus. Nevertheless, determined Christmaspreparations went on in dozens of tiny, zinc-roofed kitchens, thetemperature of which was not much below that of the ovens themselves;and kindly, well-to-do people like Mrs. Glendinning and Mrs. Urquhartdrove in in hooded buggies, with green fly-veils dangling from theirbroad-brimmed hats, and dropped a goose here, a turkey there, on theirless prosperous friends. They robbed their gardens, too, of thesummer's last flowers, arum-lilies and brilliant geraniums, to decoratethe Archdeacon's church for the festival; and many ladies spent thewhole day beforehand making wreaths and crosses, and festoons toencircle the lamps. 

No one was busier than Polly. She wanted to give Purdy, who had been onshort commons for so long, a special Christmas treat. She had willinghelpers in him and Jerry: the two of them chopped and stoned andstirred, while she, seated on the block of the woodstack, her head tiedup in an old pillow-case, plucked and singed the goose that had fallento her share. Towards four o'clock on Christmas Day they drew theirchairs to the table, and with loosened collars set about enjoying thegood things. Or pretending to enjoy them. This was Mahony's case; forthe day was no holiday for him, and his head ached from the sun. Attea-time Hempel arrived to pay a call, looking very spruce in a longblack coat and white tie; and close on his heels followed old Mr. Ocock. The latter, having deposited his hat under his seat and tappedseveral pockets, produced a letter, which he unfolded and handed toPolly with a broad grin. It was from his daughter, and contained thenews of his wife's death. "Died o' the grumbles, I lay you! An' thefirst good turn she ever done me. " The main point was that Miss Amelia, now at liberty, was already taking advice about the safest line ofclipper-ships, and asking for a reply BY RETURN to a number ofextraordinary questions. Could one depend on hearing God's Wordpreached of a Sunday? Was it customary for FEMALES to go armed as wellas men? Were the blacks CONVERTED, and what amount of clothing did theywear?

"Thinks she's comin' to the back o' beyond, does Mely!" chuckled theold man, and slapped his thigh at the sudden idea that occurred to himof "takin' a rise out of 'er. " "Won't she stare when she gits 'ere, that's all!"

"Well, now you'll simply HAVE to build, " said Polly, after threateningto write privately to Miss Amelia, to reassure her. Why not move overwest, and take up a piece of ground in the same road as themselves? Butfrom this he excused himself, with a laugh and a spit, on the scorethat no land-sales had yet been held in their neighbourhood: when heDID turn out of his present four walls, which had always been plentygood enough for him, he wanted a place he could "fit up tidy"; which it'ud stick in his throat to do so, if he thought it might any day besold over his head. Mahony winced at this. Then laughed, with anexaggerated carelessness. If, in a country like this, you waited forall to be fixed and sure, you would wait till Domesday. None the less, the thrust rankled. It was a fact that he himself had not spent a souon his premises since they finished building. The thought at the backof HIS mind, too, was, why waste his hard-earned income on improvementsthat might benefit only the next-comer? The yard they sat in, forinstance! Polly had her hens and a ramshackle hen-house; but not aspadeful of earth had been turned towards the wished-for garden. It wasjust the ordinary colonial backyard, fenced round with rude palingswhich did not match, and were mended here and there with bits ofhoop-iron; its ground space littered with a medley of articles forwhich there was no room elsewhere: boards left lying by the builders, empty kerosene-tins, a couple of tubs, a ragged cane-chair, some oldcases. Wash-lines, on which at the moment a row of stockings hung, stretched permanently from corner to corner; and the whole wasdominated by the big round galvanised-iron tank. 

On Boxing Day Purdy got the loan of a lorry and drove a large party, including several children, comfortably placed on straw, hassocks andlow chairs, to the Races a few miles out. Half Ballarat was making inthe same direction; and whoever owned a horse that was sound in thewind and anything of a stepper had entered it for some item on theprogramme. The Grand Stand, a bark shed open to the air on three sides, was resorted to only in the case of a sudden downpour; the occupants ofthe dust-laden buggies, wagonettes, brakes, carts and drays preferredto follow events standing on their seats, and on the boards that servedthem as seats. After the meeting, those who belonged to theUrquhart-Glendinning set went on to Yarangobilly, and danced till longpastmidnight on the broad verandah. It was nearly three o'clock beforePurdy brought his load safely home. Under the round white moon, thelorry was strewn with the forms of sleeping children. 

Early next morning while Polly, still only half awake, was pouring outcoffee and giving Richard who, poor fellow, could not afford to leavehis patients, an account of their doings--with certain omissions, ofcourse: she did not mention the glaring indiscretion Agnes Glendinninghad been guilty of, in disappearing with Mr. Henry Ocock into a darkshrubbery--while Polly talked, the postman handed in two letters, whichwere of a nature to put balls and races clean out of her head. Thefirst was in Mrs. Beamish's ill-formed hand, and told a sorrowful tale. Custom had entirely gone: a new hotel had been erected on the new road;Beamish was forced to declare himself a bankrupt; and in a few days theFamily Hotel, with all its contents, would be put up at public auction. What was to become of them, God alone knew. She supposed she would endher days in taking in washing, and the girls must go out as servants. But she was sure Polly, now so up in the world, with a husband doing sowell, would not forget the old friends who had once been so kind toher--with much more in the same strain, which Polly skipped, in readingthe letter aloud. The long and short of it was: would Polly ask herhusband to lend them a couple of hundred pounds to make a fresh startwith, or failing that to put his name to a bill for the same amount?

"Of course she hasn't an idea we were obliged to borrow moneyourselves, " said Polly in response to Mahony's ironic laugh. "Icouldn't tell them that. "

"No . .. Nor that it's a perpetual struggle to keep the wolf from thedoor, " answered her husband, battering in the top of an egg with theback of his spoon. 

"Oh, Richard dear, things aren't quite so bad as that, " said Pollycheerfully. Then she heaved a sigh. "I know, of course, we can't affordto help them; but I DO feel so sorry for them"--she herself would havegiven the dress off her back. "And I think, dear, if you didn't mindVERY much, we might ask one of the girls up to stay with us . .. Tillthe worst is over. "

"Yes, I suppose that wouldn't be impossible, " said Mahony. "If you'veset your heart on it, my Polly. If, too, you can persuade Master Purdyto forgo the comfort of your good feather-bed. And I'll see if I canwring out a fiver for you to enclose in your letter. "

Polly jumped up and kissed him. "Purdy is going anyhow. He said onlylast night he must look for lodgings near the Police Station. " Here athought struck her; she coloured and smiled. "I'll ask Tilly first, "said she. 

Mahony laughed and shook his finger at her. "The best laid plans o'mice and men! And what's one to say to a match-maker who is stillgrowing out of her clothes?"

At this Polly clapped a hand over his mouth, for fear Ellen should hearhim. It was a sore point with her that she had more than once of latehad to lengthen her dresses. 

As soon as she was alone she sat down to compose a reply to Mrs. Beamish. It was no easy job: she was obliged to say that Richard feltunable to come to their aid; and, at the same time, to avoid touchingon his private affairs; had to disappoint as kindly as she could; to betruthful, yet tactful. Polly wrote, and re-wrote: the business cost herthe forenoon. 

She could not even press Tilly to pack her box and come at once; forher second letter that morning had been from Sara, who wrote that, having decided to shake the dust of the colony off her feet, she wishedto pay them a flying visit before sailing, "POUR FAIRE MES ADIEUX. " Shesigned herself "Your affectionate sister Zara, " and on her arrivalexplained that, tired of continually instructing people in thepronunciation of her name, she had decided to alter the spelling and bedone with it. Moreover, a little bird had whispered in her ear that, under its new form, it fitted her rather "FRENCH" air and looks athousand times better than before. 

Descending from the coach, Zara eyed Polly up and down and vowed shewould never have known her; and, on the way home, Polly more than oncefelt her sister's gaze fixed critically on her. For her part, she wasable to assure Zara that she saw no change whatever in her, since herlast visit--even since the date of the wedding. And this pleased Zaramightily; for as she admitted, in removing hat and mantle, and passingthe damped corner of a towel over her face, she dreaded the ageingeffects of the climate on her fine complexion. Close as ever about herown concerns, she gave no reason for her abrupt determination to leavethe country; but from subsequent talk Polly gathered that, for onething, Zara had found her position at the head of John'sestablishment--"Undertaken in the first place, my dear, at immensepersonal sacrifice!"--no sinecure. John had proved a regular martinet;he had countermanded her orders, interfered about the householdbills--had even accused her of lining her own pocket. As for littleJohnny--the bait originally thrown out to induce her to accept thepost--he had long since been sent to boarding-school. "A thoroughlybad, unprincipled boy!" was Zara's verdict. And when Polly, big withpity, expostulated: "But Zara, he is only six years old!" her sisterretorted with a: "My dear, I know the world, and you don't, " to whichPolly could think of no reply. 

Zara had announced herself for a bare fortnight's stay; but the man whocarried her trunk groaned and sweated under it, and was so insolentabout the size of the coin she dropped in his palm that Polly followedhim by stealth into the passage, to make it up to a crown. As usualZara was attired in the height of fashion. She brought a set of "thehoops" with her--the first to be seen on Ballarat--and once more Pollywas torn between an honest admiration of her sister's daring, and anequally honest embarrassment at the notice she attracted. Zara swam andglided about the streets, to the hilarious amazement of the population;floated feather-light, billowing here, depressing there, with all thewaywardness of a child's balloon; supported--or so it seemed--by two ofthe tiniest feet ever bestowed on mortal woman. Aha! but that was oneof the chief merits of "the hoops, " declared Zara; that, and thepossibility of getting still more stuff into your skirts withoutmaterially increasing their weight. There was something in that, conceded Polly, who often felt hers drag heavy. Besides, as shereminded Richard that night, when he lay alternately chuckling andsnorting at woman's folly, custom was everything. Once they had smiledat Zara appearing in a hat: "And now we're all wearing them. "

Another practical consideration that occurred to her she expressed withsome diffidence. "But Zara, don't you . .. I mean . .. Aren't they verydraughty?"

Zara had to repeat her shocked but emphatic denial in the presence ofMrs. Glendinning and Mrs. Urquhart, both ladies having a mind to bringtheir wardrobes up to date. They agreed that there was much to be saidin favour of the appliance, over and above its novelty. Especiallywould it be welcome at those times when. .. But here the speakersdropped into woman's mysterious code of nods and signs; while Zara, turning modestly away, pretended to count the stitches in acrochet-antimacassar. 

Yes, nowadays, as Mrs. Dr. Mahony, Polly was able to introduce hersister to a society worthy of Zara's gifts; and Zara enjoyed herself sowell that, had her berth not been booked, she might have contemplatedextending her visit. She overflowed with gracious commendation. Thehouse--though, of course, compared with John's splendour, a trifleplain and poky--was a decided advance on the store; Polly herself muchimproved: "You DO look robust, my dear!" And--though Zara held herpeace about this--the fact of Mahony's being from home each day, forhours at a stretch, lent an additional prop to her satisfaction. Underthese conditions it was possible to keep on good terms with herbrother-in-law. 

Zara's natty appearance and sprightly ways made her a favourite withevery one especially the gentlemen. The episcopal bazaar came off atthis time; and Zara had the brilliant idea of a bran-pie. This was thesuccess of the entertainment. From behind the refreshment-stall where, with Mrs. Long, she was pouring out cups of tea and serving cheesecakesand sausage-rolls by the hundred, Polly looked proudly across thebeflagged hall, to the merry group of which her sister was the centre. Zara was holding her own, even with Mr. Henry Ocock; and Mr. Urquharthad constituted himself her right hand. 

"Your sister is no doubt a most fascinating woman, " said Mrs. Urquhartfrom the seat with which she had been accommodated; and heaved a gentlesigh. "How odd that she should never have married!"

"I'm afraid Zara's too particular, " said Polly. "It's not for want ofbeing asked. "

Her eyes met Purdy's as she spoke--Purdy had come up laden with emptycups, a pair of infants' boots dangling round his neck--and theyexchanged smiles; for Zara's latest AFFAIRE DU COEUR was a source ofgreat amusement to them. 

Polly had assisted at the first meeting between her sister and Purdywith very mixed feelings. On that occasion Purdy happened to be inplain clothes, and Zara pronounced him charming. The next day, however, he dropped in clad in the double-breasted blue jacket, the high bootsand green-veiled cabbage-tree he wore when on duty; and thereuponZara's opinion of him sank to null, and was not to be raised even byhim presenting himself in full dress: white-braided trousers, red facedshell jacket, pill-box cap, cartouche box and cavalry sword. "La, Polly! Nothing but a common policeman!" In vain did Polly explain thedifference between a member of the ordinary force and a mounted trooperof the gold-escort; in vain lay stress on Richard's pleasure at seeingPurdy buckle to steady work, no matter what. Zara's thoughts had takenwing for a land where such anomalies were not; where you were not askedto drink tea with the well-meaning constable who led you across acrowded thoroughfare or turned on his bull's eye for you in a fog, preparatory to calling up a hackney-cab. 

But the chilly condescension with which, from now on, Zara treated himdid not seem to trouble Purdy. When he ran in for five minutes of amorning, he eschewed the front entrance and took up his perch on thekitchen-table. From here, while Polly cooked and he nibbled half-bakedpastry, the two of them followed the progress of events in the parlour. 

Zara's arrival on Ballarat had been the cue for Hempel's reappearance, and now hardly a day went by on which the lay-helper did not neglecthis chapel work, in order to pay what Zara called his "DEVOIRS. " Slightwere his pretexts for coming: a rare bit of dried seaweed for bookmark;a religious journal with a turned-down page; a nosegay. And though Zarawould not nowadays go the length of walking out with a dissenter--shepreferred on her airings to occupy the box-seat of Mr. Urquhart'sfour-in-hand--she had no objection to Hempel keeping her company duringthe empty hours of the forenoon when Polly was lost in domestic cares. She accepted his offerings, mimicked his faulty speech, and wascontinually hauling him up the precipice of self-distrust, only to lethim slip back as soon as he reached the top. 

One day Purdy entered the kitchen doubled up with laughter. In passingthe front of the house he had thrown a look in at the parlour-window;and the sight of the prim and proper Hempel on his knees on the woollyhearthrug so tickled his sense of humour that, having spluttered outthe news, back he went to the passage, where he crouched down beforethe parlour-door and glued his eye to the keyhole. 

"Oh, Purdy, no! What if the door should suddenly fly open?"

But there was something in Purdy's pranks that a laughter-lover likePolly could never for long withstand. Here, now, in feigning to imitatethe unfortunate Hempel, he was sheerly irresistible. He clapped hishands to his heart, showed the whites of his eyes, wept, gesticulatedand tore his hair; and Polly, after trying in vain to keep a straightface, sat down and went off into a fit of stifled mirth--and when Pollydid give way, she was apt to set every one round her laughing, too. Ellen's shoulders shook; she held a fist to her mouth. Even littleTrotty shrilled out her tinny treble, without knowing in the least whatthe joke was. 

When the merriment was at its height, the front door opened and inwalked Mahony. An instant's blank amazement, and he had grasped thewhole situation--Richard was always so fearfully quick atunderstanding, thought Polly ruefully. Then, though Purdy jumped to hisfeet and the laughter died out as if by command, he drew his browstogether, and without saying a word, stalked into the surgery and shutthe door. 

Like a schoolboy who has been caned, Purdy dug his knuckles into hiseyes and rubbed his hindquarters--to the fresh delight of Trotty andthe girl. 

"Well, so long, Polly! I'd better be making tracks. The old man's onthe warpath. " And in an undertone: "Same old grouser! Never COULD takea joke. "

"He's tired. I'll make it all right, " gave Polly back. 

--"It was only his fun, Richard, " she pleaded, as she held out a linenjacket for her husband to slip his arms into. 

"Fun of a kind I won't permit in my house. What an example to set thechild! What's more, I shall let Hempel know that he is being made abutt of. And speak my mind to your sister about her heartlessbehaviour. "

"Oh, don't do that, Richard. I promise it shan't happen again. It wasvery stupid of us, I know. But Purdy didn't really mean it unkindly;and he IS so comical when he starts to imitate people. " And Polly wasall but off again, at the remembrance. 

But Mahony, stooping to decipher the names Ellen had written on theslate, did not unbend. It was not merely the vulgar joke that hadoffended him. No, what really rankled was the sudden chill hisunlooked-for entrance had cast over the group; they had scattered andgone scurrying about their business, like a pack of naughty childrenwho had been up to mischief behind their master's back. He was theschoolmaster--the spoilsport. They were all afraid of him. Even Polly. 

But here came Polly herself to say: "Dinner, dear, " in her kindesttone. She also put her arm round his neck and hugged him. "Not crossany more, Richard? I know we behaved disgracefully. " Her touch put thecrown on her words. Mahony drew her to him and kissed her. 

But the true origin of the unpleasantness, Zara, who in her ghoulishdelight at seeing Hempel grovel before her--thus Mahony wordedit--behaved more kittenishly than ever at table: Zara Mahony could notso easily forgive; and for the remainder of her stay his manner to herwas so forbidding that she, too, froze; and to Polly's regret the oldbad relation between them came up anew. 

But Zara was enjoying herself too well to cut her visit short onMahony's account. "Besides, poor thing, " thought Polly, "she has reallynowhere to go. " What she did do was to carry her head very high in herbrother-in-law's presence; to speak at him rather than to him; and inprivate to insist to Polly on her powers of discernment. "You may saywhat you like, my dear--I can see you have a VERY GREAT DEAL to put upwith!"

At last, however, the day of her departure broke, and she went off amida babble of farewells, of requests for remembrance, a fluttering ofpocket-handkerchiefs, the like of which Polly had never known; and tohimself Mahony breathed the hope that they had seen the last of Zara, her fripperies and affectations. "Your sister will certainly fit betterinto the conditions of English life. "

Polly cried at the parting, which might be final; then blew her noseand dried her eyes; for she had a busy day before her. Tilly Beamishhad been waiting with ill-concealed impatience for Zara to vacate thespare room, and was to arrive that night. 

Mahony was not at home to welcome the new-comer, nor could he bepresent at high tea. When he returned, towards nine o'clock, he foundPolly with a very red face, and so full of fussy cares for her guest'scomfort--her natural kindliness distorted to caricature--that she hadnot a word for him. One look at Miss Tilly explained everything, andhis respects duly paid he retired to the surgery, to indulge a smile atPolly's expense. Here Polly soon joined him, Tilly, fatigued by herjourney and by her bounteous meal, having betaken herself early to bed. 

"Ha, ha!" laughed Mahony, not without a certain mischievoussatisfaction at his young wife's discomfiture. "And with the prospectof a second edition to follow!"

But Polly would not capitulate right off. "I don't think it's very kindof you to talk like that, Richard, " she said warmly. "People can't helptheir looks. " She moved about the room putting things straight, andavoiding his eye. "As long as they mean well and are good. .. . But Ithink you would rather no one ever came to stay with us, at all. "

Fixing her with meaning insistence and still smiling, Mahony opened hisarms. The next moment Polly was on his knee, her face hidden in hisshoulder. There she shed a few tears. "Oh, isn't she dreadful? I don'tknow WHAT I shall do with her. She's been serving behind the bar, Richard, for more than a year. And she's come expecting to be takeneverywhere and to have any amount of gaiety. "

At coach-time she had dragged a reluctant Purdy to the office. But assoon as he caught sight of Tilly: "On the box, Richard, beside thedriver, with her hair all towsy-wowsy in the wind--he just said: 'Oh, lor, Polly!' and disappeared, and that was the last I saw of him. Idon't know how I should have got on if it hadn't been for old Mr. Ocock, who was down meeting a parcel. He was most kind; he helped ushome with her carpet-bag, and saw after her trunk. And, oh dear, whatdo you think? When he was going away he said to me in the passage--soloud I'm sure Tilly must have heard him--he said: 'Well! that'ssomething like a figure of a female this time, Mrs. Doc. As fine ayoung woman as ever I see!'"

And Polly hid her face again; and husband and wife laughed in concert. 

Chapter VIII

That night a great storm rose. Mahony, sitting reading after everyoneelse had retired, saw it coming, and lamp in hand went round the houseto secure hasps and catches; then stood at the window to watch thestorm's approach. In one half of the sky the stars were stillpeacefully alight; the other was hidden by a dense cloud, which cameracing along like a giant bat with outspread wings, devouring the starsin its flight. The storm broke; there was a sudden shrill screeching, agrinding, piping, whistling, and the wind hurled itself against thehouse as if to level it with the ground; failing in this, it banged andbattered, making windows and doors shake like loose teeth in theirsockets. Then it swept by to wreak its fury elsewhere, and there was agrateful lull out of which burst a peal of thunder. And now pealfollowed peal, and the face of the sky, with its masses of swirling, frothy cloud, resembled an angry sea. The lightning ripped it in fiercezigzags, darting out hundreds of spectral fangs. It was a magnificentsight. 

Polly came running to see where he was, the child cried, Miss Tillyopened her door by a hand's-breadth, and thrust a red, puffy face, framed in curl-twists, through the crack. Nobody thought of sleep whilethe commotion lasted, for fear of fire: once alight, these exposedlittle wooden houses blazed up like heaps of shavings. The clock-handspointed to one before the storm showed signs of abating. Now, the rainwas pouring down, making an ear-splitting din on the iron roof andleaping from every gutter and spout. It had turned very cold. Mahonyshivered as he got into bed. 

He seemed hardly to have closed an eye when he was wakened by a loudknocking; at the same time the wire of the night-bell was almostwrenched in two. He sat up and looked at his watch. It wanted a fewminutes to three; the rain was still falling in torrents, the windsighed and moaned. Wild horses should not drag him out on such a night!Thrusting his arms into the sleeves of his dressing-gown, he threw upthe parlour window. "Who's there?" The hiss of the rain cut his wordsthrough. 

A figure on the doorstep turned at the sound. "Is this a doctor's? Iwuz sent here. Doctor! for God's sake . .. "

"What is it? Stop a minute! I'll open the door. "

He did so, letting in a blast of wind and a rush of rain that floodedthe oilcloth. The intruder, off whom the water streamed, had to shoutto make himself audible. 

"It's me--Mat Doyle's me name! It's me wife, doctor; she's dying. I'vebin all night on the road. Ah, for the love of--"

"Where is it?" Mahony put his hand to the side of his mouth, to keephis words from flying adrift in the wind. 

"Paddy's Rest. You're the third I've bin to. Not one of the dirtydogs'ull stir a leg! Me girl may die like a rabbit for all theycare. "-- The man's voice broke, as he halloed particulars. 

"Paddy's Rest? On a night like this? Why, the creek will be out. "

"Doctor! you're from th' ould country, I can hear it in your lip. Haven't you a wife, too, doctor? Then show a bit o' mercy to mine!"

"Tut, tut, man, none of that!" said Mahony curtly. "You should havebespoken me at the proper time to attend your wife. --Besides, there'llbe no getting along the road to-night. "

The other caught the note of yielding. "Sure an' you'd go out, doctordear, without thinkin', to save your dog if he was drownin'. I've gotme buggy down there; I'll take you safe. And you shan't regret it; I'llmake it worth your while, by the Lord Harry I will!"

"Pshaw!"--Mahony opened the door of the surgery and struck a match. Itwas a rough grizzled fellow--a "cocky, " on his own showing--whopresented himself in the lamplight. His wife had fallen ill thatafternoon. At first everything seemed to be going well; then she wasseized with fits, had one fit after another, and all but bit her tonguein two. There was nobody with her but a young girl he had fetched froma mile away. He had meant, when her time came, to bring her to theDistrict Hospital. But they had been taken unawares. While he waited hesat with his elbows on his knees, his face between his clenched fists. 

In dressing, Mahony reassured Polly, and instructed her what to say topeople who came inquiring after him; it was unlikely he would be backbefore afternoon. Most of the patients could wait till then. The oneexception, a case of typhoid in its second week, a young Scotchsurgeon, Brace, whom he had obliged in a similar emergency, would nodoubt see for him--she should send Ellen down with a note. And havingpoured Doyle out a nobbler and put a flask in his own pocket, Mahonyreopened the front door to the howl of the wind. 

The lantern his guide carried shed only a tiny circlet of light on theblackness; and the two men picked their steps gingerly along theflooded road. The rain ran in jets off the brim of Mahony's hat, anddown the back of his neck. 

Having climbed into the buggy they advanced at a funeral pace, leavingit to the sagacity of the horse to keep the track. At the creek, sureenough, the water was out, the bridge gone. To reach the next bridge, five miles off, a crazy cross-country drive would have been necessary;and Mahony was for giving up the job. But Doyle would not acknowledgedefeat. He unharnessed the horse, set Mahony on its back, and himselfholding to its tail, forced the beast, by dint of kicking and lashing, into the water; and not only got them safely across, but up the steepsticky clay of the opposite bank. It was six o'clock and a cloudlessmorning when, numb with cold, his clothing clinging to him like wetseaweed, Mahony entered the wooden hut where the real work he had comeout to do began. 

Later in the day, clad in an odd collection of baggy garments, he satand warmed himself in the sun, which was fast drawing up in the form ofa blankety mist the moisture from the ground. He had successfullyperformed, under the worst possible conditions, a ticklish operation;and was now so tired that, with his chin on his chest, he fell fastasleep. 

Doyle wakened him by announcing the arrival of the buggy. The good man, who had more than one nobbler during the morning could not hold histongue, but made still another wordy attempt to express his gratitude. "Whither me girl lives or dies, it'll not be Mat Doyle who forgits whatyou did for him this night, doctor! An' if iver you want a bit o' workdone, or some one to do your lyin' awake at night for you, just yougimme the tip. I don't mind tellin' you now, I'd me shootin'-ironhere"--he touched his right hip--"an' if you'd refused--you was thethird, mind you, --I'd have drilled you where you stood, God damn me ifI wouldn't!"

Mahony eyed the speaker with derision. "Much good that would have doneyour wife, you fathead! Well, well, we'll say nothing to MINE, if youplease, about anything of that sort. "

"No, may all the saints bless 'er and give 'er health! An' as I say, doctor. .. . " In speaking he had drawn a roll of bank-notes from hispocket, and now he tried to stuff them between Mahony's fingers. 

"What's this? My good man, keep your money till it's asked for!" andMahony unclasped his hands, so that the notes fluttered to the ground. 

"Then there let 'em lay!"

But when, in clothes dried stiff as cardboard, Mahony was rollingtownwards--his coachman, a lad of some ten or twelve who handled thereins to the manner born--as they went he chanced to feel in his coatpocket, and there found five ten-pound notes rolled up in a neat bundle. 

The main part of the road was dry and hard again; but all dips andholes were wells of liquid mud, which bespattered the two of them fromtop to toe as the buggy bumped carelessly in and out. Mahony divertedhimself by thinking of what he could give Polly with this sum. It wouldserve to buy that pair of gilt cornices or the heavy gilt-framedpierglass on which she had set her heart. He could see her, pink withpleasure, expostulating: "Richard! What WICKED extravagance!" and hearhimself reply: "And pray may my wife not have as pretty a parlour asher neighbours?" He even cast a thought, in passing, on the pianofortewith which Polly longed to crown the furnishings of her room--though, of course, at least treble this amount would be needed to cover itscost. -- But a fig for such nonsense! He knew but one legitimate use tomake of the unexpected little windfall, and that was, to put it by fora rainy day. "At my age, in my position, I OUGHT to have fifty poundsin the bank!"--times without number he had said this to himself, with agrowing impatience. But he had not yet managed to save a halfpenny. Thrive as the practice might, the expenses of living held even pacewith it. And now, having got its cue, his brain started off again onthe old treadmill, reckoning, totting up, finding totals, or more oftenfailing to find them, till his head was as hot as his feet were cold. To-day he could not think clearly at all. 

Nor the next day either. By the time he reached home he was consciousof feeling very ill: he had lancinating pains in his limbs, a chilldown his spine, an outrageous temperature. To set out again on a roundof visits was impossible. He had just to tumble into bed. 

He got between the sheets with that sense of utter well-being, ofalmost sensual satisfaction, which only one who is shivering with feverknows. And at first very small things were enough to fill him withcontent: the smoothness of the pillow's sleek linen; the shadowy lightof the room after long days spent in the dusty glare outside; thepossibility of resting, the knowledge that it was his duty to rest;Polly's soft, firm hands, which were always of the righttemperature--warm in the cold stage, cool when the fever scorched him, and neither hot nor cold when the dripping sweats came on. But as thefever declined, these slight pleasures lost their hold. Then he wasridden to death by black thoughts. Not only was day being added to day, he meanwhile not turning over a penny; but ideas which he knew to bepreposterous insinuated themselves in his brain. Thus, for hours on endhe writhed under the belief that his present illness was due solely tothe proximity of the Great Swamp, and lay and cursed his folly inhaving chosen just this neighbourhood to build in. Again, there was thecase of typhoid he had been anxious about, prior to his own breakdown:under his LOCUM, peritonitis had set in and carried off the patient. Atthe time he had accepted the news from Polly's lips withindifference--too ill to care. But a little later the knowledge of whatit meant broke over him, and he suffered the tortures of the damned. Not Brace; he alone would be held responsible for the death; andperhaps not altogether unjustly. Lying there, a prey to morbidapprehensions, he rebuilt the case in memory, struggling to recall eachslight variation in temperature, each swift change for better or worse;but as fast as he captured one such detail, his drowsy brain let thelast but one go, and he had to beat it up anew. During the night hegrew confident that the relatives of the dead woman intended to takeaction against him, for negligence or improper attendance. 

An attempt to speak of these devilish imaginings to wife and friend wasa failure. He undertook it in a fit of desperation, when it seemed asif only a strong and well grounded opposition would save his reason. But this was just what he could not get. Purdy, whom he tried first, held the crude notion that a sick person should never be gainsaid; andsoothingly sympathised and agreed, till Mahony could have cried aloudat such blundering stupidity. Polly did better; she contradicted him. But not in the right way. She certainly pooh-poohed his idea of thenearness of Yuille's Swamp making the house unhealthy; but she did notargue the matter, step by step, and CONVINCE him that he was wrong. Shejust laughed at him as at a foolish child, and kissed him, and tuckedhim in anew. And when it came to the typhoid's fatal issue, she had notthe knowledge needed to combat him with any chance of success. Sheheard him anxiously out, and allowed herself to be made quite nervousover a possible fault on his part, so jealous was she for his growingreputation. 

So that in the end it was he who had to comfort her. 

"Don't take any notice of what I say to-day, wife. It's this blessedfever. .. . I'm light-headed, I think. "

But he could hear her uneasily consulting with Purdy in the passage. 

It was not till his pulse beat normally again that he could smile athis exaggerated fears. Now, too, reviving health brought back awholesome interest in everyday affairs. He listened with amusement toPolly's account of the shifts Purdy was reduced to, to enter the houseunseen by Miss Tilly. On his faithful daily call, the young man wouldcreep round by the back door, and Tilly was growing more and more irateat her inability to waylay him. Yes, Polly was rather redly forced toadmit, she HAD abetted him in his evasions. ("You know, Poll, I mightjust as well tie myself up to old Mother B. Herself and be done withit!") Out of sheer pique Tilly had twice now accepted old Mr. Ocock'sinvitation to drive with him. Once, she had returned with a huge bag oflollies; and once, with a face like a turkey-cock. Polly couldn't helpthinking . .. No, really, Richard, she could not! . .. That perhapssomething might COME of it. He should not laugh; just wait and see. 

Many inquiries had been made after him. People had missed their doctor, it seemed, and wanted him back. It was a real red-letter day when hecould snap to the catches of his gloves again, and mount the step of abuggy. 

He had instructed Purdy to arrange for the hire of this vehicle, saddle-work being out of the question for him in the meantime. And onhis first long journey--it led him past Doyle's hut, now, he was sorryto see, in the hands of strangers; for the wife, on the way to making afair recovery, had got up too soon, overtaxed her strength and died, and the broken-hearted husband was gone off no one knew where--on thisdrive, as mile after mile slid from under the wheels, Mahony felt howgrateful was the screen of a hood between him and the sun. 

While he was laid up, the eternal question of how to live on his incomehad left him, relatively speaking, in peace. He had of late adopted thehabit of doing his scraping and saving at the outset of each quarter, so as to get the money due to Ocock put by betimes. His illness hadnaturally made a hole in this; and now the living from hand to mouthmust begin anew. 

With what remained of Doyle's money he proposed to settle his accountat the livery-stable. Then the unexpected happened. Hisreappearance--he looked very thin and washed-out--evidently jogged acouple of sleepy memories. Simultaneously two big bills were paid, oneof which he had entirely given up. In consequence, he again foundhimself fifty pounds to the good. And driving to Ocock's office, onterm day, he resolved to go on afterwards to the Bank of Australasiaand there deposit this sum. 

Grindle, set off by a pair of flaming "sideboards, " himself usheredMahony into the sanctum, and the affair was disposed of in a trice. Ocock was one of the busiest of men nowadays--he no longer needed toinvent sham clients and fictitious interviews--and he utilised the fewodd minutes it took to procure a signature, jot down a note, open adrawer, unlock a tin box to remark abstractedly on the weather and puta polite inquiry: "And your good lady? In the best of health, I trust?"

On emerging from the inner room, Mahony saw that the places formerlyfilled by Tom and Johnny were occupied by strangers; and he waswondering whether it would be indiscreet to ask what had become of thebrothers, when Ocock cut across his intention. "By the way, Jenkins, has that memorandum I spoke of been drawn up?" he turned to a clerk. 

With a sheet of foolscap in his hand, he invited Mahony with a beck ofthe chin to re-enter his room. "Half a moment! Now, doctor, if youhappen to have a little money lying idle, I can put you on to a goodthing--a very good thing indeed. I don't know, I'm sure, whether youkeep an eye on the fluctuations of the share-market. If so, you'll nodoubt have noticed the . .. Let me say the extreme instability of'Porepunkahs. ' After making an excellent start, they have dropped tillthey are now to be had at one-twentieth of their original value. "

He did not take much interest in mining matters was Mahony's reply. However he knew something of the claim in question, if only becauseseveral of his acquaintances had abandoned their shares, in disgust atthe repeated calls and the lack of dividends. 

"Exactly. Well now, doctor, I'm in a position to inform you that'Porepunkahs' will very shortly be prime favourites on the market, selling at many times their original figure--their ORIGINAL figure, sir! No one with a few hundreds to spare could find a betterinvestment. Now is the time to buy. "

A few hundreds! . .. What does he take me for? thought Mahony; anddeclined the transaction off-hand. It was very good of Mr. Ocock tothink of him; but he preferred to keep clear of that kind of thing. 

"Quite so, quite so!" returned Ocock suavely, and dry-washed his handswith the smile Mahony had never learnt to fathom. "Just as you please, of course. --I'll only ask you, doctor, to treat the matter as strictlyconfidential. "

"I suppose he says the same to everyone he tells, " was Mahony's commentas he flicked up his horse; and he wondered what the extent might be ofthe lawyer's personal interest in the "Porepunkah Company. " Probablythe number of shareholders was not large enough to rake up the capital. 

Still, the incident gave him food for thought, and only after closingtime did he remember his intention of driving home by way of the Bank. 

Later in the day he came back on the incident, and pondered his abruptrefusal of Ocock's offer. There was nothing unusual in this: he nevertook advice well; and, was it forced upon him, nine times out of ten acertain inborn contrariness drove him to do just the opposite. Besides, he had not yet learned to look with lenience on the rage forspeculation that had seized the people of Ballarat; and he held that itwould be culpable for a man of his slender means to risk money in thegreat game. --But was there any hint of risk in the present instance? Tojudge from Ocock's manner, the investment was as safe as a house, andlucrative to a degree that made one's head swim. "Many times theiroriginal figure!" An Arabian-nights fashion of growing rich, and nomistake! Very different from the laborious grind of HIS days, in whichhe had always to reckon with the chance of not being paid at all. Thatvery afternoon had brought him a fresh example of this. He wasreturning from the Old Magpie Lead, where he had been called to a caseof scarlet fever, and saw himself covering the same road daily for sometime to come. But he had learned to adjudge his patients in a winking;and these, he could swear to it, would prove to be non-payers; of akind even to cut and run, once the child was out of danger. Was hereally justified, cramped for money as he was, in rejecting thestraight tip Ocock had given him? And he debated this mootpoint--argued his need against his principles--the whole way home. 

As soon as he had changed and seen his suspect clothing hung out toair, he went impetuously back to Ocock's office. He had altered hismind. A small gift from a grateful patient: yes, fifty, please; theymight bring him luck. --And he saw his name written down as the owner ofhalf a hundred shares. 

After this, he took a new interest in the mining sheet of the STAR;turned to it, indeed, first of all. For a week, a fortnight, "Porepunkahs" remained stationary; then they made a call, and, if hedid not wish to forfeit, he had to pay out as many shillings as he heldshares. A day or two later they sank a trifle, and Mahony's hopes withthem. There even came a day when they were not mentioned; and he gaveup his money for lost. But of a sudden they woke to life again, took anupward bound, and within a month were quoted at five pounds--on rumouralone. "Very sensitive indeed, " said the STAR. Purdy, his onlyconfidant, went about swearing at himself for having let the few heowned lapse; and Mahony itched to sell. He could now have banked twohundred and fifty pounds. 

But Ocock laughed him out of countenance--even went so far as to pathim on the shoulder. On no account was he to think of selling. "Sittight, doctor . .. Sit tight! Till I say the word. "

And Mahony reluctantly obeyed. 

Chapter IX

In the course of the following winter John Turnham came to stand as oneof two candidates for the newly proclaimed electoral district ofBallarat West. 

The first news his relatives had of his intention was gleaned from thedaily paper. Mahony lit on the paragraph by chance one morning; said:"Hullo! Here's something that will interest you, my dear, " and read italoud. 

Polly laid down her knife and fork, pushed her plate from her, and wentpink with pleasure and surprise. "Richard! You don't mean it!" sheexclaimed, and got up to look over his shoulder. Yes, there itwas--John's name in all the glory of print. "Mr. John MillibankTurnham, one of the foremost citizens and most highly respecteddenizens of our marvellous metropolis, and a staunch supporter ofdemocratic rights and the interests of our people. " Polly drew a deepbreath. "Do you know, Richard, I shouldn't wonder if he came to live onBallarat--I mean if he gets in. --Does Trotty hear? This is Trotty'spapa they're writing about in the papers. --Of course we must ask him tostay with us. " For this happened during an interregnum, when the spareroom was temporarily out of use. 

"Of course we must do nothing of the kind. Your brother will need thebest rooms Bath's can give him; and when he's not actually on thehustings, he'll be hobnobbing in the bar, standing as many drinks asthere are throats in the crowd, " gave back Mahony, who had the lowestpossible opinion of colonial politics. 

"Well, at least I can write and tell him how delighted we are, " saidPolly, not to be done. 

"Find out first, my dear, if there's any truth in the report. I canhardly think John would have left us in the dark to this extent. "

But John corroborated the news; and, in the letter Polly read out aweek later, announced the opening of his campaign for the coming month. 

I SHALL FEEL MUCH OBLIGED TO YOUR HUSBAND IF HE WILL MEANWHILE EXERTHIS INFLUENCE ON MY BEHALF. HE IS NO DOUBT ACQUAINTED PROFESSIONALLYWITH MANY OF THE LEADING SQUATTERS ROUND BALLARAT, WHOM HE CAN INDUCETO SUPPORT MY CANDIDATURE. 

"Umph!" said Mahony grumpily, and went on scooping out his egg. "We'regood enough to tout for him. "

"Ssh!" warned Polly, with a glance at Trotty. "Think what it means tohim, Richard, and to us, too. It will do your practice ever so muchgood if he gets in--to be the brother-in-law of the member! We musthelp all we can, dear. "

She was going driving to Yarangobilly that day with Archdeacon Long tosee a new arrival Richard had recently brought into the world; and nowshe laid plans to kill two birds with one stone, entering into thescheme with a gusto that astonished Mahony. "Upon my word, wife, Ibelieve you're glad to have something to do. "

"Will my own papa gimme a dolly? . .. Like Uncle Papa?" here pipedTrotty. 

"Perhaps. But you will have to be a VERY good girl, and not talk withyour mouth full or dirty your pinnies. Oh, here's a postscript!" Pollyhad returned to the sheet, and was gloating over it. "John writes:

"ESPECIALLY MUST HE ENDEAVOUR TO WIN LAWYER OCOCK OVER TO MY SIDE. ILAY GREAT WEIGHT ON O. 'S SUPPORT. 

"Oh, Richard, now ISN'T that unfortunate? I do hope it won't make anydifference to John's chances. "

Polly's dismay had good grounds. A marked coolness had sprung upbetween her husband and the lawyer; and on no account, she knew, wouldRichard consent to approach Mr. Henry. Some very hot remarks made bythe latter had been passed on to her by Mrs. Glendinning. She had notdared to tell Richard the worst. 

The coolness dated from an afternoon when Tilly Beamish had burst intothe house in a state of rampant excitement. "Oh, Polly! oh, I say! mydear, whatever do you think? That old cove--old O. --'as actually hadthe cheek to make me a proposal. "

"Tilly!" gasped Polly, and flushed to the roots of her hair. "Oh, mydear, I AM pleased!" For Polly's conscience was still somewhat tenderabout the aid she had lent Purdy in his evasions. The two women kissed, and Tilly cried a little. "It's certainly her first offer, " thoughtMrs. Polly. Aloud, she asked hesitatingly: "And do you . .. Shall you. .. I mean, are you going to accept him, Tilly?"

But this was just where Tilly could not make up her mind: should shetake him, or should she not? For two whole days she sat about debatingthe question; and Polly listened to her with all the sympathy andinterest so momentous a step deserved. 

"If you feel you could really learn to care for him, dear. Of course itWOULD be nice for you to have a house of your own. And how happy itwould make poor mother to see you settled!"

Tilly tore the last veil from her feelings, uttered gross confidences. Polly knew well enough where her real inclination lay. "I've hopedagainst hope, Poll, that a CERTAIN PERSON would come to the scratch atlast. " Yes, it was true enough, he had nothing to offer her; but shewasn't the sort to have stuck at that. "I'd have worked my hands to thebone for 'im, Poll, if 'e'd ONLY said the word. " The one drawback tomarriage with "you know 'oo" would have been his infirmity. "Some'ow, Polly, I can't picture myself dragging a husband with a gammy leg at myheels. " From this, Tilly's mind glanced back to the suitor who hadhonourably declared himself. Of course "old O. " hadn't a great deal ofthe gentleman about him; and their ages were unsuitable. "'E owns tofifty-eight, and as you know, Poll, I'm only just turned twenty-five, "at which Polly drooped her head a little lower over the handkerchiefshe was hemming, to avoid meeting her friend's eye. Poor dear Tilly!she would never see thirty again; and she need hardly have troubled, thought Polly, to be insincere with her. But in the same breath shetook back the reproach. A woman herself, she understood something ofthe fear, and shame, and heartburning that had gone to the making ofthe lie. Perhaps, too, it was a gentle hint from Tilly what age she nowwished to be considered. And so Polly agreed, and said tenderly: yes, certainly, the difference was very marked. Meanwhile Tilly flowed on. These were the two chief objections. On the other hand, the old boy wasludicrously smitten; and she thought one might trust her, Tilly B. , tosoon knock him into shape. It would also, no doubt, be possible tosqueeze a few pounds out of him towards assisting "pa and ma" in theirpresent struggle. Again, as a married woman she would have a chance ofhelping Jinny to find a husband: "Though Jinn's gone off so, Polly, Ibet you'd hardly know her if you met 'er in the street. " To end all, abird in hand, etc. ; and besides, what prospects had she, if sheremained a spinster?

So, when she was asked, Tilly accepted without further humming andhawing an invitation to drive out in the smart dog-cart Mr. Ocock hadhired for the purpose; and Polly saw her off with many a small privatesign of encouragement. All went well. A couple of hours later Tillycame flying in, caught Polly up in a bear's hug, and danced her roundthe room. "My dear, wish me joy!--Oh, lor, Polly, I DO feel 'appy!" Shewas wearing a large half-hoop of diamonds on her ring-finger: nothingwould do "old O. " but that they should drive there and then to thefinest jeweller's in Sturt Street, where she had the pick of a trayful. And now Mr. Ocock, all a-smirk with sheepish pride, was fetched in toreceive congratulations, and Polly produced refreshments; and healthswere drunk. Afterwards the happy couple dallied in the passage andloitered on the doorstep, till evening was far advanced. 

It was Polly who, in clearing away, was struck dumb by the thought:"But now whatever is to become of Miss Amelia?"

She wondered if this consideration troubled the old man. Trouble therewas, of some sort: he called at the house three days running for a wordwith Richard. He wore a brand-new pair of shepherd's-plaid trousers, achoker that his work-stained hands had soiled in tying, a black coat, amassive gold watch-chain. On the third visit he was lucky enough tocatch Mahony, and the door of the surgery closed behind them. 

Here Mr. Ocock sat on the extreme edge of a chair; alternately crushedhis wide-awake flat between his palms and expanded it again, as thoughhe were playing a concertina; and coughed out a wordy preamble. Heassured Mahony, to begin with, how highly he esteemed him. It wasbecause of this, because he knew doctor was as straight as a pound ofcandles, that he was going to ask his advice on an awkwardmatter--devilish awkward!--one nobody had any idea of either--exceptHenry. And Henry had kicked up such a deuce of a row at his wanting tomarry again, that he was damned if he'd have anything more to do withhim. Besides, the doctor knew what lawyers were--the whole breed of'em! Sharp as needles--especially Henry--but with a sort of squint intheir upper storey that made 'em see every mortal thing from the pointof view of law. And that was no good to him. What he needed was a plainand honest, a . .. He hesitated for a word and repeated, "a Honestopinion;" for he only wanted to do the right thing, what was straightand above board. And at last out it came: did "doc. " think it would beacting on the square, and not taking a low-down advantage of a female, if he omitted to mention to "the future Mrs. O" that, up till sixmonths back, he had been obliged to . .. Well, he'd spit it out shortand say, obliged to report himself to the authorities at fixedintervals? Women were such shy cattle, so damned odd! You never knewhow they'd take a thing like this. One might raise Cain over it, another only laugh, another send him packing. He didn't want to let afine young woman like Matilda slip if he could help it, by dad hedidn't! But he felt he must either win her by fair dealing or not atall. And having got the load off his chest, the old colonist swallowedhard, and ran the back of his hand over his forehead. 

He had kept his eyes glued to the table-leg in speaking, and so sawneither his hearer's involuntary start at the damaging disclosure, northe nervous tightening of the hand that lay along the arm of the chair. Mahony sat silent, balancing a paper-knife, and fighting down a feelingof extraordinary discomfort--his very finger-tips curled under thestrain. It was of little use to remind himself that, ever since he hadknown him, Ocock had led a decent, God-fearing life, respected both inhis business relations and by his brethren of the chapel. Nor could hespare more than a glance in passing for those odd traits in the oldman's character which were now explained: his itch for public approval;his unvarying harshness towards the pair of incorrigibles who weighedhim down. At this moment he discounted even the integrity that hadprompted the confession. His attitude of mind was one of: why the deucecouldn't the old fool have held his tongue?

Oh, these unbidden, injudicious confidences! How they complicated life!And as a doctor he was pestered with only too many; he was continuallybeing forced to see behind the scenes. Now, outsiders, too, must needschoose him for the storehouse of their privacies. Himself he never madea confidence; but it seemed as though just this buttoned-upness on hispart loosened people's tongues. Blind to the flags of warning hehoisted in looks and bearing, they innocently proceeded, as Ocock haddone, to throw up insurmountable barriers. He could hear a new tone inhis own voice when he replied, and was relieved to know the old mandull of perception. For now Ocock had finished speaking, and satperspiring with anxiety to learn his fate. Mahony pulled himselftogether; he could, in good faith, tender the advice to let the deadpast bury its dead. Whatever the original fault had been--no, no, please! . .. And he raised an arresting hand--it was, he felt sure, longsince fully atoned. And Mr. Ocock had said a true word: women werestrange creatures. The revelation of his secret might shipwreck hislate-found happiness. It also, of course, might not--and personallyMahony did not believe it would; for Ocock's buisness throve like thegreen bay-tree, and Miss Tilly had been promised a fine two-storeyedhouse, with bow-windows and a garden, and a carriage-drive up to thedoor. Again, the admission might be accepted in peace just now, andlater on used as a weapon against him. In his, Mahony's, eyes, by farthe wisest course would be, to let the grass grow over the whole affair. 

And here he rose, abruptly terminating the interview. "You and I, too, sir, if you please, will forget what has passed between us thismorning, and never come back on it. How is Tom getting on in thedrapery business? Does he like his billet?"

But none the less as he ushered his visitor out, he felt that there wasa certain finality about the action. It was--as far as his privatefeelings were concerned--the old man's moral exit from the scene. 

On the doorstep Ocock hoped that nothing that had been said would reach"your dear little lady. " "To 'Enry, too, doc. , if you'll be so good, mum's the word! 'Enry 'ud never forgive me, nay, or you eether, if itgot to 'is 'ears I'd bin an' let the cat outer the bag. An' 'e's got abit of a down on you as it is, for it 'avin' bin your place I met thefuture Mrs. O. At. "

"My good man!" broke from Mahony--and in this address, which wouldpreviously never have crossed his lips, all his sensations of the pasthour were summed up. "Has your son Henry the"--he checked himself;"does he suppose I--I or my wife--had anything to do with it?"

He turned back to the surgery hot with annoyance. This, too! Not enoughthat he must be put out of countenance by indiscreet babbling; he mustalso get drawn into family squabbles, even be held responsible forthem: he who, brooking no interference in his own life, demanded onlythat those about him should be as intolerant as he. 

It all came from Polly's indiscriminate hospitality. His house wasnever his own. And now they had the prospect of John and his electoralcampaign before them. And John's chances of success, and John's stumporatory, and the backstair-work other people were expected to do forhim would form the main theme of conversation for many a day to come. 

Mrs. Glendinning confirmed old Ocock's words. 

She came to talk over the engagement with Polly, and sitting in theparlour cried a little, and was sorry. But then "poor little Agnes"cried so easily nowadays. Richard said her nerves had been shattered bythe terrible affair just before Christmas, when Mr. Glendinning hadtried first to kill her, and then to cut his own throat. 

Agnes said: "But I told Henry quite plainly, darling, that I would notcease my visits to you on that account. It is both wrong and foolish tothink you or Dr. Mahony had anything to do with it--and after thedoctor was so kind, too, so VERY kind, about getting poor Mr. Glendinning into the asylum. And so you see, dear, Henry and I have hadquite a disagreement"; and Agnes cried again at the remembrance. "Ofcourse, I can sympathise with his point of view. .. . Henry is soambitious. All the same, dearest, it's not quite so bad--is it?--as hemakes out. Matilda is certainly not very COMME IL FAUT--you'll forgivemy saying so, love, won't you? But I think she will suit Henry's fatherin every way. No, the truth is, the old gentleman has made a great dealof money, and we naturally expected it to fall to Henry at his death;no one anticipated his marrying again. Not that Henry really needs themoney; he is getting on so well; and I have. .. . I shall have plenty, too, by and by. But you know, love, what men are. "

"Dearest Agnes! . .. Don't fret about it. Mr. Henry thinks too much ofyou, I'm sure, to be vexed with you for long. And when he looks at itcalmly, he'll see how unfair it is to make us responsible. I'm likeyou, dear; I can't consider it a misfortune. Tilly is not a lady; butshe's a dear, warm-hearted girl and will make the old man a good wife. I only hope though, Agnes, Mr. Henry won't say anything to Richard. Richard is so touchy about things of that sort. "

The two women kissed, Polly with feelings of the tenderest affection:the fact that, on behalf of their friendship, Agnes had pitted her willagainst Mr. Henry's, endeared her to Polly as nothing else could havedone. 

But when, vigilant as a mother-hen, she sought to prepare her husbandfor a possible unpleasantness, she found him already informed; and herwell-meant words were like a match laid to his suppressed indignation. 

"In all my born days I never heard such impudence!"

He turned embarrassingly cool to Tilly. And Tilly, innocent of offenceand quite unskilled in deciphering subtleties, put this sudden changeof front down to jealousy, because she was going to live in a granderhouse than he did. For the same reason he had begun to turn up his noseat "Old O. , " or she was very much mistaken; and in vain did Pollystrive to convince her that she was in error. "I don't know anyoneRichard has a higher opinion of!"

But it was a very uncomfortable state of things; and when a messagearrived over the electric telegraph announcing the dangerous illness ofMrs. Beamish, distressed though she was by the news, Polly could nothelp heaving a tiny sigh of relief. For Tilly was summoned back toMelbourne with all speed, if she wished to see her mother alive. 

They mingled their tears, Polly on her knees at the packing, Tillyweeping whole-heartedly among the pillows of the bed. 

"If it 'ad only been pa now, I shouldn't have felt it half so much, "and she blew her nose for the hundredth time. "Pa was always such a rumold stick. But poor ma . .. When I THINK how she's toiled and moiled 'erwhole life long, to keep things going. She's 'ad all the pains and noneof the pleasures; and now, just when I was hoping to be able to give'er a helping hand, THIS must happen. "

The one bright spot in Tilly's grief was that the journey would be madein a private conveyance. Mr. Ocock had bought a smart gig and wasdriving her down himself; driving past the foundations of the newhouse, along the seventy odd miles of road, right up to the door of themean lodging in a Collingwood back street, where the old Beamishes hadhidden their heads. "If only she's able to look out of the window andsee me dash up in my own turn-out!" said Tilly. 

Polly fitted out a substantial luncheon-basket, and was keenestsympathy to the last. But Mahony was a poor dissembler; and his suddenthaw, as he assisted in the farewell preparations, could, Polly feared, have been read aright by a child. 

Tilly hugged Polly to her, and gave her kiss after kiss. "I shall NEVERforget 'ow kind you've been, Poll, and all you've done for me. I've hadmy disappointments 'ere, as you know; but p'raps after all it'll turnout to be for the best. One o' the good sides to it anyhow is that youand me'll be next-door neighbours, so to say, for the rest of ourlives. And I'll hope to see something of you, my dear, every blessedday. But you'll not often catch me coming to this house, I can tell youthat! For, if you won't mind me saying so, Poll, I think you've got oneof the queerest sticks for a husband that ever walked this earth. Blowshot one day and cold the next, for all the world like the wind inspring. And without caring twopence whose corns 'e treads on. "--Which, thought Polly, was but a sorry return on Tilly's part for Richard'shospitality. After all, it was his house she had been a guest in. 

Such were the wheels within wheels. And thus it came about that, whenthe question rose of paving the way for John Turnham's candidature, Mahony drew the line at approaching Henry Ocock. 

Chapter X

John drove from Melbourne in a drag and four, accompanied by numerousfriends and well-wishers. A mile or so out of Ballarat, he was met by abody of supporters headed by a brass band, and escorted in triumph tothe George Hotel. Here, the horses having been led away, John at oncetook the field by mounting the box-seat of the coach and addressing thecrowd of idlers that had gathered round to watch the arrival. He got anexcellent hearing--so Jerry reported, who was an eye and ear-witness ofthe scene--and was afterwards borne shoulder-high into the hotel. 

With Jerry at his heels, Mahony called at the hotel that evening. Hefound John entertaining a large impromptu party. The table of thepublic dining-room was disorderly with the remains of a liberal meal;napkins lay crushed and flung down among plates piled high with emptynutshells; the cloth was wine-stained, and bestrewn with ashes andbreadcrumbs, the air heady with the fumes of tobacco. Those of theguests who still lingered at the table had pushed their chairs back oraskew, and sat, some a-straddle, some even with their feet on thecloth. John was confabbing with half a dozen black-coats in a corner. Each held a wineglass in his hand from which he sipped, while John, legs apart, did all the talking, every now and then putting out hisforefinger to prod one of his hearers on the middle button of thewaistcoat. It was some time before he discovered the presence of hisrelatives; and Mahony had leisure to admire the fashion in which, thiscorner-talk over, John dispersed himself among the company; drinkingwith this one and that; glibly answering questions; patting aglum-faced brewer on the back; and simultaneously checking over, withan oily-haired agent, his committee-meetings for the following days. His customary arrogance and pompousness of manner were laid aside. Forthe nonce, he was a simple man among men. 

Then espying them, he hurried over, and rubbing his hands with pleasuresaid warmly: "My dear Mahony, this is indeed kind! Jerry, my lad, howdo, how do? Still growing, I see! We'll make a fine fellow of youyet. -- Well, doctor! . .. We've every reason, I think, to feel satisfiedwith the lie of the land. "

But here he was snatched from them by an urgent request for apronouncement--"A quite informal word, sir, if you'll be so good, "--onthe vexed question of vote by ballot. And this being a pet theme ofJohn's, and a principle he was ready to defend through thick and thin, he willingly complied. 

Mahony had no further talk with him. The speech over--it was a conciseand spirited utterance, and, if you were prepared to admit the efficacyof the ballot, convincing enough--Mahony quietly withdrew. He had tosee a patient at eleven. Polly, too, would probably be lying awake fornews of her brother. 

As he threw back his braces and wound up his watch, he felt itincumbent on him to warn her not to pitch her hopes too high. "Youmustn't expect, my dear, that your brother's arrival will mean much tous. He is now a public man, and will have little time for small peoplelike ourselves. I'm bound to admit, Polly, I was very favourablyimpressed by the few words I heard him say, " he added. 

"Oh, Richard, I'm SO glad!" and Polly, who had been sitting on the edgeof the bed, stood on tiptoe to give him a kiss. 

As Mahony predicted, John's private feelings went down before thesuperior interests of his campaign. Three days passed before he foundtime to pay his sister a visit; and Polly, who had postponed a washing, baked her richest cakes and pastries, and clad Trotty in her Sundaybest each day of the three: Polly was putting a good face on thematter, and consoling herself with Jerry's descriptions of John'striumphs. How she wished she could hear some of the speechifying! ButRichard would never consent; and electioneering did certainly seem, from what Jerry said, a very rough-and-ready business--nothing forladies. Hence her delight knew no bounds when John drove upunexpectedly late one afternoon, between a hard day's personalcanvassing and another of the innumerable dinners he had to eat his waythrough. Tossing the reins to the gentleman who sat next him, he jumpedout of the wagonette--it was hung with placards of "Vote forTurnham!"--and gave a loud rat-a-tat at the door. 

Forgetting in her excitement that this was Ellen's job, Polly opened tohim herself, and drew him in. "John! How pleased I am to see you!"

"My dear girl, how are you? God bless me, how you've altered! I shouldnever have known you. " He held her at arm's length, to consider her. 

"But you haven't changed in the least, John. Except to grow younger. --Richard, here's John at last!--and Trotty, John . .. Here's Trotty!--Take your thumb out of your mouth, naughty girl!--She's been watchingfor you all day, John, with her nose to the window. " And Polly pushedforward the scarlet, shrinking child. 

John's heartiness suffered a distinct check as his eyes lit on Trotty, who stood stiff as a bit of Dresden china in her bunchy starchedpetticoats. "Come here, Emma, and let me look at you. " Taking the fatlittle chin between thumb and first finger, he turned the child's faceup and kept it so, till the red button of a mouth trembled, and thegreat blue eyes all but ran over. "H'm! Yes . .. A notable resemblanceto her mother. Ah, time passes, Polly my dear--time passes!" He sighed. --"I hope you mind your aunt, Emma, and are properly grateful to her?"

Abruptly quitting his hold, he swept the parlour with a glance. "A verysnug little place you have here, upon my word!"

While Polly, with Trotty pattering after, bustled to the larder, Mahonycongratulated his brother-in-law on the more favourable attitudetowards his election policy which was becoming evident in the localpress. John's persuasive tongue was clearly having its effect, and thehostility he had met with at the outset of his candidature was yieldingto more friendly feelings on all sides. John was frankly gratified bythe change, and did not hesitate to say so. When the wine arrived theydrank to his success, and Polly's delicacies met with their due shareof praise. Then, having wiped his mouth on a large silk handkerchief, John disclosed the business object of his call. He wanted specificinformation about the more influential of their friends andacquaintances; and here he drew a list of names from his pocket-book. Mahony, his chin propped on the flaxen head of the child, whom henursed, soon fell out of the running for Polly proved far the clevererat grasping the nature of the information John sought, and at retailingit. And John complimented her on her shrewdness, ticked off names, tooknotes on what she told him; and when he was not writing sat tapping histhick, carnation-red underlip, and nodding assent. It was arranged thatPolly should drive out with him next day to Yarangobilly, by way ofDandaloo; while for the evening after they plotted a card-party, atwhich John might come to grips with Archdeacon Long. John expected tofind the reverend gentleman a hard nut to crack, their views on thesubject of a state aid to religion being diametrically opposed. Pollythought a substantial donation to the chancel-fund might smooth thingsover, while for John to display a personal interest in Mrs. Long'scharities would help still more. Then there were the Ococks. The oldman could be counted on, she believed; but John might have somedifficulty with Mr. Henry--and here she initiated her brother into thedomestic differences which had split up the Ocock family, and preventedRichard from approaching the lawyer. John, who was in his mostdemocratic mood, was humorous at the expense of Henry, and declared thelatter should rather wish his father joy of coming to such a fine, bouncing young wife in his old age. The best way of getting at Mr. Henry, Polly considered, would be for Mrs Glendinning to give aluncheon or a bushing-party, with the lawyer among the guests: "Thenyou and I, John, could drive out and join them--either by chance orinvitation, as you think best. " Polly was heart and soul in the affair. 

But business over, she put several straight questions about the boy, little Johnny--Polly still blamed herself for having meekly submittedto the child's removal from her charge--and was not to be fobbed offwith evasions. The unfavourable verdict she managed to worm out ofJohn: "Incorrigible, my dear Polly--utterly incorrigible! His mastersreport him idle, disobedient, a bad influence on the other scholars, "she met staunchly with: "Perhaps it has something to do with theschool. Why not try another? Johnny had his good qualities; in manyways was quite a lovable child. "

For the first time Mahony saw his wife and her eldest brother togetherand he could not but be struck by Polly's attitude. Greatly as sheadmired and reverenced John, there was not a particle of obsequiousnessin her manner, nor any truckling to his point of view; and she plainlyfelt nothing of the peculiar sense of discomfort that invariablyattacked him, in John's presence. Either she was not conscious of herbrother's grossly patronising air, or, aware of it, did not resent it, John having always been so much her superior in age and position. Orwas it indeed the truth that John did not try to patronise Polly? Thathis overbearing nature recognised in hers a certain springy resistance, which was not to be crushed? In other words, that, in a Turnham, Turnham blood met its match. 

John re-took his seat in the front of the wagonette, Trotty was liftedup to see the rosettes and streamers adorning the horses, the gentlemenwaved their hats, and off they went again at a fine pace, and with awhip-cracking that brought the neighbours to their windows. 

Polly had pink cheeks with it all, and even sought to excuse the meagreinterest John had shown in his daughter. "Trotty was only a baby inarms when he saw her last. Besides, I think she reminded him too muchof her dear mother. For I'm sure, though he doesn't let it be seen, John still feels his loss. "

"I wonder!" said Mahony slowly and with a strong downward inflection, as he turned indoors. 

On the eve of the polling Polly had the honour of accompanying herbrother to a performance at the Theatre Royal. A ticket came forRichard, too; but, as usual, he was at the last moment called out. SoPurdy took her on his arm and escorted her--not exactly comfortably;for, said Polly, no one who had not tried it, knew how hard it was towalk arm-in-arm with a lame person, especially if you did not want tohurt his feelings--Purdy took her to the theatre, helped her tounmuffle and to change her boots, and bore her company till her brotherarrived. They had seats in the centre of the front row of the dresscircle; all eyes were turned on them as they entered; and Polly'sappearance was the subject of audible and embarrassing comment. 

In every interval John was up and away, to shake a hand here, pass thetime of day there; and watching him with affectionate pride, Pollywondered how Richard could ever have termed him "high-handed anddifficult. " John had the knack, it seemed to her, of getting on withpeople of every class, and of always finding the right word to say. Butas the evening advanced his seat remained empty even while the curtainwas up, and she was glad when, between the fourth and fifth acts, herhusband at last appeared. 

On his way to her Mahony ran into his brother-in-law, and Johnbuttonholed him to discuss with him the prospects of the morrow. Asthey talked, their eyes rested on Polly's glossy black chignon; on thenape of her white neck; on the beautiful, rounded young shoulderswhich, in obedience to the fashion, stood right out of her blue silkbodice. Mahony shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. He could not imagine Polly enjoying her exposed position, anddisapproved strongly of John having left her. But for all answer to thehint he threw out John said slowly, and with a somewhat unctuousrelish: "My sister has turned into a remarkably handsome woman!"--wordswhich sent the lightning-thought through Mahony that, had Pollyremained the insignificant little slip of a thing of earlier days, shewould not have been asked to fill the prominent place she did thisevening. 

John sent his adieux and excuses to Polly. He had done what wasexpected of him, in showing himself at a public entertainment, and avast mass of correspondence lay unsorted on his desk. So Mahony movedforward alone. 

"Oh, Richard, there you are! Oh dear, what you've missed! I neverthought there could be such acting. " And Polly turned her great darkeyes on her husband; they were moist from the noble sentiments of THETRUE BRITON. 

The day of the election broke, a gusty spring day cut up by stinginghail-showers, which beat like fusillades on the galvanised iron roofs. Between the showers, the sun shone in a gentian-blue sky, against whichthe little wooden houses showed up crassly white. Ballarat madeholiday. Early as Mahony left home, he met a long line of conveyancesheading townwards--spring carts, dogcarts, double and single buggies, in some of which, built to seat two only, five or six persons werehuddled. These and similar vehicles drew up in rows outside thepublic-houses, where the lean, long-legged colonial horses stoodjerking at their tethers; and they were still there, still jerking, when he passed again toward evening. On a huge poster the "Unicorn"offered to lunch free all those "thinking men" who registered theirvote for "the one and only true democrat, the miners' friend andtyrants' foe, John Turnham. "

In the hope of avoiding a crush Mahony drove straight to thepolling-booth. But already all the loafers and roughs in the placeseemed to be congregated round the entrance, after the polite custom ofthe country to chivy, or boo, or huzza those who went in. In waitinghis turn, he had to listen to comments on his dress and person, to putup with vulgar allusions to blue pills and black draughts. 

Just as he was getting back into his buggy John rode up, flanked by abodyguard of friends; John was galloping from booth to booth, to verifyprogress and put the thumbscrew on wobblers. He beamed--as well hemight. He was certain to be one of the two members elected, and quitelikely to top the poll by a respectable majority. 

For once Mahony did not grumble at his outlying patients; was only toothankful to turn his back on the town. It was pandemonium. Bands ofmusic, one shriller and more discordant than the next, marched up anddown the main streets--from the fifes and drums of the Fire Brigade, tothe kerosene-tins and penny-whistles of mere determined noise-makers. Straggling processions, with banners that bore the distorted featuresof one or other of the candidates, made driving difficult; and, to addto the confusion, the schoolchildren were let loose, to overrun theplace and fly advertisement balloons round every corner. --And so itwent on till far into the night, the dark hours being varied bytorchlight processions, fireworks, free fights and orgies ofdrunkenness. 

The results of the polling were promised for two o'clock the followingday. 

When, something after this hour Mahony reached home, he found Polly andthe gentle, ox-eyed Jinny Beamish, who was the present occupant of thespare room, pacing up and down before the house. According to Jerrynews might be expected now at any minute. And when he had lunched andchanged his coat, Mahony, bitten by the general excitement, made hisway down to the junction of Sturt Street and the Flat. 

A great crowd blocked the approaches to the hustings. Here were thefour candidates, who, in attending the issue, strove to look decentlyunconcerned. John had struck a quasi-Napoleonic attitude: his rightelbow propped in the cup of his left hand, he held his drooped chinbetween thumb and forefinger, leaving it to his glancing black eyes toreveal how entirely alive he was to the gravity of the moment. Standingon the fringe of the crowd, Mahony listened to the piebald jokes andrude wit with which the people beguiled the interim; and tried toendure with equanimity the jostling, the profane language and offensiveodours, by which he was assailed. Half an hour elapsed before thereturning officer climbed the ladder at the back of the platform, andcame forward to announce the result of the voting: Mr. John MillibankTurnham topped the poll with a majority of four hundred and fifty-two. The crowd, which at sight of the clerk had abruptly ceased its fooling, drowned his further statements in a roar of mingled cheers and boos. The cheers had it; hats were tossed into the air, and loud cries for aspeech arose. John's advance to grip the railing led to a freshoutburst, in which the weakening opposition was quashed by the singingof: "When Johnny comes marching home!" and "Cheer, boys, cheer, Forhome and mother country!"--an incongruity of sentiment that made Mahonysmile. And John, having repeatedly bowed his thanks from side to side, joined in and sang with the rest. 

The opening of his speech was inaudible to Mahony. Just behind himstood one of his brother-in-law's most arrant opponents, a butcher bytrade, and directly John began to hold forth this man produced acornet-a-piston and started to blow it. In vain did Mahony expostulate:he seemed to have got into a very wasps'-nest of hostility; for theplayer's friends took up the cudgels and baited him in a language hewould have been sorry to imitate, the butcher blaring away unmoved, with the fierce solemnity of face the cornet demands. Mahony lost histemper; his tormentors retaliated; and for a moment it looked as thoughthere would be trouble. Then a number of John's supporters, enraged bythe bellowing of the instrument, bore down and forcibly removed themusician and his clique, Mahony along with them. 

Having indignantly explained, and shaken coat and collar to rights, hereturned to his place on the edge of the crowd. The speaker's deepvoice had gone steadily on during the disturbance. Indeed John mighthave been born to the hustings. Interruptions did not put him out; hewas brilliant at repartee; and all the stock gestures of the publicspeaker came at his call: the pounding of the bowl of one hand with theclosed fist of the other; the dramatic wave of the arm with which heplumbed the depths or invited defiance; the jaunty standing-at-ease, arms akimbo; the earnest bend from the waist when he took his hearersinto his confidence. At this moment he was gripping the rail of theplatform as though he intended to vault it, and asserting: "Our firstcry, then, is for men to people the country; our next, forindependence, to work out our own salvation. Yes, my friends, theglorious future of this young and prosperous colony, which was once andmost auspiciously known as Australia Felix--blest, thrice-blestAustralia!--rests with ourselves alone. We who inhabit here can bestjudge of her requirements, and we refuse to see her hampered in herprogress by the shackles of an ancient tradition. What suits our hoarymother-country--God bless and keep her and keep us loyal to her!--isbut dry husks for us. England knows nothing of our most pressing needs. I ask you to consider how, previous to 1855, that pretty pair ofmandarins, Lord John Russell and Earl Grey, boggled and botched thecrucial question of unlocking the lands even yet, gentlemen, the resultof their muddling lies heavy on us. And the Land Question, though firstin importance, is but one, as you know, of many"--and here John, playing on the tips of five wide-stretched fingers, counted them off. He wound up with a flaming plea for the creation and protection ofpurely national industries. "For what, I would ask you, is the truemeaning of democracy in a country such as ours? What is, for us, thedemocratic principle? The answer, my friends, is conservatism; yes, Irepeat it--conservatism!" . .. And thus to a final peroration. 

In the braying and hurrahing that followed--the din was heightened bysome worthy mounting a barrel to move that "this yere Johnny Turnham"was not a fit person to represent "the constitooency, " by the barrelbeing dragged from under him, and the speaker rolled in the mud; whilethis went on Mahony stood silent, and he was still standingmeditatively pulling his whiskers when a sudden call for a doctorreached his ear. He pushed his way to the front. 

How the accident happened no one knew. John had descended from theplatform to a verandah, where countless hands were stretched out toshake his. A pile of shutters was leaning against the wall, and in someunexplained fashion these had fallen, striking John a blow that knockedhim down. When Mahony got to him he was on his feet again, wiping adrop of blood from his left temple. He looked pale, but pooh-poohedinjury or the idea of interfering with his audience's design; andMahony saw him shouldered and borne off. 

That evening there was a lengthy banquet, in which all the notables ofthe place took part. Mahony's seat was some way off John's; he had tolean forward, did he wish to see his brother-in-law. 

Towards eleven o'clock, just as he was wondering if he could slip outunobserved, a hand was laid on his arm. John stood behind him, white tothe lips. "Can I have a word with you upstairs?"

Here he confessed to a knife-like pain in his left side; the brunt ofthe blow, it seemed, had met him slantways between rib and hip. Acursory examination made Mahony look grave. 

"You must come back with me, John, and let me see to you properly. "

Having expressed the chief guest's regrets to the company, he ordered ahorse and trap, and helping John into it drove him home. And that nightJohn lay in their bed, letting out the groans he had suppressed duringthe evening; while Polly snatched forty winks beside Jinny Beamish, andMahony got what sleep he could on the parlour sofa. 

Chapter XI

There for some weeks John was a prisoner, with a fractured rib encasedin strips of plaster. "In your element again, old girl!" Mahony chaffedhis wife, when he met her bearing invalid trays. 

"Oh, it doesn't all fall on me, Richard. Jinny's a great help--sittingwith John and keeping him company. "

Mahony could see it for himself. Oftenest when he entered the room itwas Jinny's black-robed figure--she was in mourning for her parents;for Mrs. Beamish had sunk under the twofold strain of failure anddisgrace, and the day after her death it had been necessary to cut oldBeamish down from a nail--oftenest it was Jinny he found sitting behinda curtain of the tester-bed, watching while John slept, ready to readto him or to listen to his talk when he awoke. This service set Pollyfree to devote herself to the extra cooking; and John was content. "Amost modest and unassuming young woman, " ran his verdict on Jinny. 

Polly reported it to her husband in high glee. "Who could ever havebelieved two sisters would turn out so differently? Tilly to get so . .. So . .. Well, you know what I mean . .. And Jinny to improve as she hasdone. Have you noticed, Richard, she hardly ever--really quite seldomnow--drops an h? It must all have been due to Tilly serving in that lowbar. "

By the time John was so far recovered as to exchange bed for sofa, ithad come to be exclusively Jinny who carried in to him the daintiesPolly prepared--the wife as usual was content to do the dirty work!John declared Miss Jinny had the foot of a fay; also that his mealstasted best at her hands. Jinny even succeeded in making Trotty fond ofher; and the love of the fat, shy child was not readily won. Enteringthe parlour one evening Mahony surprised quite a family scene: John, stretched on the sofa, was stringing cats'-cradles, Jinny sat besidehim with Trotty on her knee. 

On the whole, though, the child did not warm to her father. 

"Aunty, kin dat man take me away f'om you?"

"That man? Why, Trotty darling, he's your father!" said Polly, shocked. 

"Kin 'e take me away f'om you and Uncle Papa?"

"He could if he wanted to. But I'm sure he doesn't, " answered her aunt, deftly turning a well-rolled sheet of pastry. 

And righting her dolly, which she had been dragging upside down, Trottylet slip her fears with the sovereign ease of childhood. 

From the kitchen Polly could hear the boom of John's deep bass: it madenothing of the lath-and-plaster walls. Of course, shut up as he was, hehad to talk to somebody, poor fellow; and Richard was too busy to sparehim more than half an hour of an evening. Jinny was a good listener. Through the crack of the door, Polly could see her sitting humblydrinking in John's words, and even looking rather pretty, in her fair, full womanliness. 

"Oh, Polly!" she burst out one day, after being held thus spellbound. "Oh, my dear, what a splendid man your brother is! I feel sometimes Icould sink through the floor with shame at my ignorance, when 'e talksto me so. "

But as time went on Mahony noticed that his wife grew decidedlythoughtful; and if John continued to sing Jinny's praises, he heardnothing more of it. He had an acute suspicion what troubled Polly; butdid not try to force her confidence. 

Then one afternoon, on his getting home, she came into the surgerylooking very perturbed, and could hardly find words to break a certainpiece of news to him. It appeared that not an hour previously, Jinny, flushed and tearful, had lain on her neck, confessing her feelings forJohn and hinting at the belief that they were returned. 

"Well, I think you might have been prepared for something of this sort, Polly, " he said with a shrug, when he had heard her out. "Convalescenceis notoriously dangerous for fanning the affections. "

"Oh, but I never DREAMT of such a thing, Richard! Jinny is a dear goodgirl and all that, but she is NOT John's equal. And that he can evenTHINK of putting her in poor Emma's place!--What shall I say to him?"

"Say nothing at all. Your brother John is not the man to put up withinterference. "

"He longs so for a real home again, Polly darling, " said Jinny, wipingher eyes. "And HOW 'appy it will make me to fulfil 'is wish! Don't letme feel unwelcome and an intruder, dear. I know I'm not nearly goodenough for 'im, and 'e could 'ave had the choice of ever such handsomewomen. But 'e 'as promised to be patient with me, and to teach meeverything I ought to know. "

Polly's dismay at the turn of events yielded to a womanly sympathy withher friend. "It's just like poor little Agnes and Mr. Henry overagain, " was her private thought. For she could not picture Johnstooping to guide and instruct. 

But she had been touched on a tender spot--that of ambitious pride forthose related to her--and she made what Mahony called "a real Turnhamattempt" to stand up to John. Against her husband's express advice. 

"For if your brother chooses to contract a mesalliance of this kind, it's nobody's business but his own. Upon my word though, Polly, if youdon't take care, this house will get a bad name over the matches thatare made in it. You had better have your spare room boarded up, mydear. "

Mahony was feeling particularly rasped by John's hoity-toity behaviourin this connection. Having been nursed back to health, John went aboutwith his chin in the air, and hardly condescended to allude to hisengagement--let alone talk it over with his relatives. So Mahonyretired into himself--after all, the world of John's mind was sodissimilar to his own that he did not even care to know what went on init. "The fellow has been caught on the hop by a buxom form and alanguishing eye, " was how he dismissed the matter in thought. 

"I raise my wife to my own station, Mary. And you will greatly obligeme by showing Jane every possible attention, " was the only satisfactionPolly could get from John, made in his driest tone. 

Before the engagement was a week old Tilly reappeared--she was to bemarried from their house on the hither side of Christmas. At first shewas too full of herself and her own affairs to let either Polly orJinny get a word in. Just to think of it! That old cabbage-grower, Devine, had gone and bought the block of land next the one Mr. O. Wasbuilding on. She'd lay a bet he would put up a house the dead spit oftheirs. Did ever anyone hear such cheek?

At the news that was broken to her, the first time she paused forbreath, she let herself heavily down on a chair. 

"Well, I'm blowed!" was all she could ejaculate. "Blowed!. .. That'swhat I am. "

But afterwards, when Jinny had left the room, she gave free play to avery real envy and regret. "In all my life I never did! Jinn to be Mrs. John! . .. And, as like as not, the Honourable Mrs. John before she'sdone. Oh, Polly, my dear, why EVER didn't I wait!"

On being presented to John, however, she became more reconciled to herlot. "'E's got a temper, your brother has, or I'm very much mistaken. It won't be all beer and skittles for 'er ladyship. For Jinn hasn't ascrap of spunk in 'er, Polly. She got so mopey the last year or two, there was no doing anything with 'er. Now it was just the other wayround with me. No matter how black things looked, I always kept mypecker up. Poor ma used to say I grew more like her, every day. "

And at a still later date: "No, Polly, my dear, I wouldn't changeplaces with the future Mrs. T. After all, thank you--not for Joseph! ISAY! she'll need to mind her p's and q's. " For Tilly had listened toJohn explaining to Jinny what he expected of her, what she might andmight not do; and had watched Jinny sitting meekly by and saying yes toeverything. 

There was nothing in the way of the marriage; indeed, did it not takeplace immediately, Jinny would have to look about her for a situationof some kind; and, said John, that was nothing for HIS wife. His housestood empty; he was very much in love; and pressed for the naming ofthe day. So it was decided that Polly should accompany Jinny tolodgings in Melbourne, help her choose her trousseau and engageservants. Afterwards there would be a quiet wedding--by reason ofJinny's mourning--at which Richard, if he could possibly contrive toleave his patients, would give the bride away. Polly was to remain inJohn's house while the happy couple were on honeymoon, to look afterthe servants. This arrangement would also make the break less hard forthe child. Trotty was still blissfully unconscious of what had befallenher. She had learnt to say "new mamma" parrot-wise, withoutunderstanding what the words meant. And meanwhile, the fact that shewas to go with her aunt for a long, exciting coach-ride filled herchildish cup with happiness. As Polly packed the little clothes, shethought of the night, six years before, when the fat, sleeping babe hadbeen laid in her arms. 

"Of course it's only natural John should want his family round himagain. But I SHALL miss the dear little soul, " she said to her husbandwho stood watching her. 

"What you need is a little one of your own, wife. "

"Ah, don't I wish I had!" said Polly, and drew a sigh. "That would makeup for everything. Still if it can't be, it can't. "

A few days before the set time John received an urgent summons toMelbourne, and went on ahead, leaving Mahony suspecting him of a dodgeto avoid travelling EN FAMILLE. In order that his bride-elect shouldnot be put to inconvenience, John hired four seats for the three ofthem; but: "He might just as well have saved his money, " thought Polly, when she saw the coach. Despite their protests they were packed likeherrings in a barrel--had hardly enough room to use their hands. Altogether it was a trying journey. Jinny, worked on by excitement andfatigue, took a fit of hysterics; Trotty, frightened by the many roughstrangers, cried and had to be nursed; and the whole burden of theundertaking lay on Polly's shoulders. She had felt rather timid aboutit, before starting; but was obliged to confess she got on better thanshe expected. A kind old man sitting opposite, for instance--a splitterhe said he was--actually undid Jinny's bonnet-strings, and fetchedwater for her at the first stoppage. 

Polly had not been in Melbourne since the year after her marriage, andwas looking forward intensely to the visit. She went laden withcommissions; her lady-friends gave her a list as long as her arm. Richard, too, had entrusted her to get him second-hand editions ofvarious medical works, as well as a new stethoscope. Thirdly, she hadpromised old Mr. Ocock to go to William's Town to meet Miss Amelia, whoeven now was tossing somewhere on the Indian Ocean, and to escort thepoor young lady up to Ballarat. 

Having seen them start, Mahony went home to drink his coffee and readhis paper in a quiet that was new to him. John's departure had alreadyeased the strain. Then Tilly had been boarded out at the Methodistminister's. Now, with the exit of Polly and her charges, a great peacedescended on the little house. The rooms lay white and still in thesun, and though all doors stood open, there was not a sound to be heardbut the buzzing of the blowflies round the sweets of the flytraps. Hewas free to look as glum as he chose of a morning if he had neuralgia;or to be silent when worried over a troublesome case. No longer wouldMiss Tilly's bulky presence and loud-voiced reiterations of herprospects grate his nerves; or John's full-blooded absorption inhimself, and poor foolish Jinny's quavering doubts whether she wouldever be able to live up to so magnificent a husband, offend his senseof decorum. 

Another reason he was glad to see the last of them was that, in thelong run, he had rebelled at the barefaced way they made use of Polly, and took advantage of her good nature. She had not only cooked for themand waited on them; he had even caught her stitching garments for thehelpless Jinny. This was too much: such extreme obligingness on hiswife's part seemed to detract from her personal dignity. He could neverthough have got Polly to see it. Undignified to do a kindness? What afunny, selfish idea! The fact was, there was a certain streak inPolly's nature that made her more akin to all these good people than tohim--him with his unsociable leanings towards a hermit's cell; hisgenuine need of an occasional hour's privacy and silence, in which tothink a few thoughts through to the end. 

On coming in from his rounds he turned out an old linen jacket thatbelonged to his bachelor days, and raked up some books he had notopened for an almost equally long time. He also steered clear offriends and acquaintances, went nowhere, saw no one but his patients. And Ellen, to whose cookery Polly had left him with many misgivings, took things easy. "He's so busy reading, he never knows what he puts inhis mouth. I believe he'd eat his boot-soles, if I fried 'em up neatwid a bit of parsley, " she reported over the back fence on Doctor's oddways. 

During the winter months the practice had as usual fallen off. By nowit was generally beginning to look up again; but this year, for somereason, the slackness persisted. He saw how lean his purse was, whenever he had to take a banknote from it to enclose to Polly; therewas literally nothing doing, no money coming in. Then, he wouldrestlessly lay his book aside, and drawing a slip of paper to him setto reckoning and dividing. Not for the first time he found himself inthe doctor's awkward quandary: how to be decently and humanly glad of arise in the health-rate. 

He had often regretted having held to the half-hundred shares he hadbought at Henry Ocock's suggestion; had often spent in fancy the sumthey would have brought in, had he sold when they touched their highestfigure. Such a chance would hardly come his way again. After the onefictitious flare-up, "Porepunkahs" had fallen heavily--the first mainprospect-drive, at a depth of three hundred and fifty feet, had failedto strike the gutter--and nowadays they were not even quoted. Thus hadended his single attempt to take a hand in the great game. 

One morning he sat at breakfast, and thought over his weekly epistle toPolly. In general, this chronicled items of merely personal interest. The house had not yet been burnt down--her constant fear, when absent;another doctor had got the Asylum; he himself stood a chance of beingelected to the Committee of the District Hospital. To-day, however, there was more to tell. The English mail had come in, and the table wasstrewn with foreign envelopes and journals. Besides the usual lettersfrom relatives, one in a queer, illiterate hand had reached him, theaddress scrawled in purple ink on the cheapest note-paper. Opening itwith some curiosity, Mahony found that it was from his formerassistant, Long Jim. 

The old man wrote in a dismal strain. Everything had gone against him. His wife had died, he was out of work and penniless, and racked withrheumatism--oh, it was "a crewl climat"! Did he stop in England, only"the house" remained to him; he'd end in a pauper's grave. But hebelieved if he could get back to a scrap of warmth and the sun, he'd begood for some years yet. Now he'd always known Dr. Mahony for thekindest, most liberal of gentlemen; the happiest days of his life hadbeen spent under him, on the Flat; and if he'd only give him a liftnow, there was nothing he wouldn't do to show his gratitude. Doctorknew a bit about him, too. Here, he couldn't seem to get on with folkat all. They looked crooked at him, and just because he'd once beenspunky enough to try his luck overseas. Mahony pshawed and smiled; thenwondered what Polly would say to this letter. She it was who had beenresponsible for packing the old man off. 

Unfolding the STAR, he ran his eye over its columns. He had garneredthe chief local news and was skimming the mining intelligence, when hesuddenly stopped short with an exclamation of surprise; and his grip onthe paper tightened. There it stood, black on white. "Porepunkahs" hadjumped to three pounds per share! What the dickens did that mean? Heturned back to the front sheet, to find if any clue to the claim'srenewed activity had escaped him; but sought in vain. So bolting therest of his breakfast, he hurried down to the town, to see if, on thespot, he could pick up information with regard to the mysterious rise. 

The next few days kept him in a twitter of excitement. "Porepunkahs"went on advancing--not by leaps and bounds as before, but slowly andsteadily--and threw off a dividend. He got into bed at night with a hothead, from wondering whether he ought to hold on or sell out; andinside a week he was off to consult the one person who was in aposition to advise him. Henry Ocock's greeting resembled anembrace--"It evidently means a fortune for him"--and all triflingpersonal differences were forgotten in the wider common bond. Thelawyer virtually ordered Mahony to "sit in", till he gave the word. Bythis time "Porepunkahs" had passed their previous limit, and even paida bonus: it was now an open secret that a drive undertaken in anopposite direction to the first had proved successful; the lead wasscored and seamed with gold. Ocock spoke of the stone, specimens ofwhich he had held in his hand--declared he had never seen its equal. 

But when the shares stood at fifty-three pounds each, Mahony couldrestrain himself no longer; and, in spite of Ocock's belief thatanother ten days would see a COUP, he parted with forty-five of thehalf hundred he held. Leaving the odd money with the lawyer forre-investment, he walked out of the office the possessor of twothousand pounds. 

It was only a very ordinary late spring day; the season brought itslike by the score: a pale azure sky, against which the distant hillslooked purple; above these a narrow belt of cloud, touched, in itscurves, to the same hue. But to Mahony it seemed as if such a perfectday had never dawned since he first set foot in Australia. His back waseased of its burden; and, like Christian on having passed the wallknown as Salvation, he could have wept tears of joy. After all theseyears of pinching and sparing he was out of poverty's grip. Thesuddenness of the thing was what staggered him. He might have drudgedtill his hair was grey; it was unlikely he would ever, at one stroke, have come into possession of a sum like this. --And that whole day hewent about feeling a little more than human, and seeing people, places, things, through a kind of beatific mist. Now, thank God, he could standon his own legs again; could relieve John of his bond, pay off themortgage on the house, insure his life before it was too late. And, everything done, he would still have over a thousand pounds to hiscredit. A thousand pounds! No longer need he thankfully accept any andevery call; or reckon sourly that, if the leakage on the roof was to bemended, he must go without a new surtout. Best of all, he could nowbegin in earnest to save. 

First, though, he allowed himself two very special pleasures. He sentPolly a message on the electric telegraph to say that he would comedown himself to fetch her home. In secret he planned a little trip toSchnapper Point. At the time of John's wedding he had been unable toget free; this would be the first holiday he and Polly had ever hadtogether. 

The second thing he did was: to indulge the love of giving that wasinnate in him; and of giving in a somewhat lordly way. He enjoyed thebroad grin that illumined Ellen's face at his unlooked-for generosity;Jerry's red stammered thanks for the gift of the cob the boy had longcoveted. It did him good to put two ten-pound notes in an envelope andinscribe Ned's name on it; he had never yet been able to do anythingfor these poor lads. He also, without waiting to consultPolly--fearing, indeed, that she might advise against it--sent off themoney to Long Jim for the outward voyage, and a few pounds over. Forthere were superstitious depths in him; and, at this turn in hisfortunes, it would surely be of ill omen to refuse the first appeal forhelp that reached him. 

Polly was so much a part of himself that he thought of her last of all. But then it was with moist eyes. She, who had never complained, shouldof a surety not come short! And he dropped asleep that night to thehappy refrain: "Now she shall have her piano, God bless her! . .. Thebest that money can buy. "

Part IV

Chapter I

The new house stood in Webster Street. It was twice as large as the oldone, had a garden back and front, a verandah round three sides. WhenMahony bought it, and the piece of ground it stood on, it was anunpretentious weather-board in a rather dilapidated condition. Thesituation was good though--without being too far from his formeraddress--and there was stabling for a pair of horses. And by the timehe had finished with it, it was one of those characteristicallyAustralian houses which, added to wherever feasible, without a thoughtfor symmetry or design--a room built on here, a covered passage there, a bathroom thrown out in an unexpected corner, with odd steps up anddown--have yet a spacious, straggling comfort all their own. 

How glad he was to leave the tiny, sunbaked box that till now had beenhis home. It had had neither blind nor shutter; and, on his entering itof a summer midday, it had sometimes struck hotter than outside. Thewindows of his new room were fitted with green venetians; round theverandah-posts twined respectively a banksia and a Japanesehoney-suckle, which further damped the glare; while on the patch ofbuffalo-grass in front stood a spreading fig-tree, that leafed well andthrew a fine shade. He had also added a sofa to his equipment. Now, when he came in tired or with a headache, he could stretch himself atfull length. He was lying on it at this moment. 

Polly, too, had reason to feel satisfied with the change. A handsomelittle Broadwood, with a ruby-silk and carved-wood front, stood againstthe wall of her drawing-room; gilt cornices surmounted the windows; andfrom the centre of the ceiling hung a lustre-chandelier that was theenvy of every one who saw it: Mrs. Henry Ocock's was not a patch on it, and yet had cost more. This time Mahony had virtually been able to givehis wife a free hand in her furnishing. And in her new spare room shecould put up no less than three guests!

Of course, these luxuries had not all rained on them at once. Severalmonths passed before Polly, on the threshold of her parlour, couldexclaim, with an artlessness that touched her husband deeply: "Never inmy life did I think I should have such a beautiful room!" Still, asregarded money, the whole year had been a steady ascent. The nest-egghe had left with the lawyer had served its purpose of chaining that oldhen, Fortune, to the spot. Ocock had invested and re-invested on hisbehalf--now it was twenty "Koh-i-noors, " now thirty "ConsolidatedBeehives"--and Mahony was continually being agreeably surprised by themargins it threw off in its metamorphoses. That came of his havingplaced the matter in such competent hands. The lawyer had, forinstance, got him finally out of "Porepunkahs" in the nick of time--thereef had not proved as open to the day as was expected--and pulled himoff, in the process, another three hundred odd. Compared with Ocock'sown takings, of course, his was a modest spoil; the lawyer had made afortune, and was now one of the wealthiest men in Ballarat. He hadbuilt not only new and handsome offices on the crest of the hill, butalso, prior to his marriage, a fine dwelling-house standing inextensive grounds on the farther side of Yuille's Swamp. Altogether ithad been a year of great and sweeping changes. People had gone up, gonedown--had changed places like children at a game of General Post. Morethan one of Mahony's acquaintances had burnt his fingers. On the otherhand, old Devine, Polly's one-time market-gardener, had made histhousands. There was actually talk of his standing for Parliament, inwhich case his wife bid fair to be received at Government House. Andthe pair of them with hardly an "h" between them!

From the sofa where he lay, Mahony could hear the murmur of his wife'seven voice. Polly sat the further end of the verandah talking to Jinny, who dandled her babe in a rocking-chair that made a light tip-tap as itwent to and fro. Jinny said nothing: she was no doubt sunk in adorationof her--or rather John's--infant; and Mahony all but dozed off, underthe full, round tones he knew so well. 

In his case the saying had once more been verified: to him that hathshall be given. Whether it was due to the better position of the newhouse; or to the fact that easier circumstances gave people moreleisure to think of their ailments; or merely that money attractedmoney: whatever the cause, his practice had of late made giant strides. He was in demand for consultations; sat on several committees; while acouple of lodges had come his way as good as unsought. 

Against this he had one piece of ill-luck to set. At the close of thesummer, when the hot winds were in blast, he had gone down under theworst attack of dysentery he had had since the early days. He reallythought this time all was over with him. For six weeks, in spite of thetenderest nursing, he had lain prostrate, and as soon as he could bearthe journey had to prescribe himself a change to the seaside. Thebracing air of Queenscliff soon picked him up; he had, thank God, amarvellous faculty of recuperation: while others were still not donepitying him, he was himself again, and well enough to take the dailyplunge in the Sea that was one of his dearest pleasures. --To feel thewarm, stinging fluid lap him round, after all these drewthy years ofdust and heat! He could not have enough of it, and stayed so long inthe water that his wife, sitting at a decent distance from the BathingEnclosure, grew anxious, and agitated her little white parasol. 

"There's nothing to equal it, Mary, this side Heaven!" he declared ashe rejoined her, his towel about his neck. "I wish I could persuade youto try a dip, my dear. "

But Mary preferred to sit quietly on the beach. "The dressing andundressing is such a trouble, " said she. As it was, one of herelastic-sides was full of sand. 

Yes, Polly was Mary now, and had been, since the day Ned turned upagain on Ballarat, accompanied by a wife and child. Mary was inMelbourne at the time, at John's nuptials; Mahony had opened the doorhimself to Ned's knock; and there, in a spring-cart, sat the frowsy, red-haired woman who was come to steal his wife's name from her. Thisinvasion was the direct result of his impulsive generosity. Had he onlykept his money in his pocket!

He had been forced to take the trio in and give them house-room. But hebore the storming of his hard-won privacy with a bad grace, and Maryhad much to gloss over on her return. 

She had been greatly distressed by her favourite brother'sill-considered marriage. For, if they had not held Jinny to be John'sequal, what WAS to be said of Ned's choice? Mrs. Ned had lived amongthe mining population of Castlemaine, where her father kept apublic-house; and, said Richard, her manners were accordingly: loud, slap-dash, familiar--before she had been twenty-four hours under hisroof she was bluntly addressing him as "Mahony. " There was also apeculiar streak of touchiness in her nature ("Goes with hair of thatcolour, my dear!") which rendered her extremely hard to deal with. Shehad, it seemed, opposed the idea of moving to Ballarat--that was all inher favour, said Mary--and came primed to detect a snub or a slight atevery turn. This morbid suspiciousness it was that led Mary to yieldher rights in the matter of the name: the confusion between them wasnever-ending; and, at the first hint that the change would comegracefully from her, Mrs. Ned had flown into a passion. 

"It's all the same to me, Richard, what I'm called, " Mary soothed him. "And don't you think Polly was beginning to sound RATHER childish, nowI'm nearly twenty-four?"

But: "Oh, what COULD Ned have seen in her?" she sighed to herselfdismayed. For Mrs. Ned was at least ten years older than her husband;and whatever affection might originally have existed between them wasnow a thing of the past She tyrannised mercilessly over him, nagging athim till Ned, who was nothing if not good-natured, turned sullen andleft off tossing his child in the air. 

"We must just make the best of it, Richard, " said Mary. "After all, she's really fond of the baby. And when the second comes. .. You'llattend her yourself, won't you, dear? I think somehow her temper mayimprove when that's over. "

For this was another thing: Mrs. Ned had arrived there in a conditionthat raised distressing doubts in Mary as to the dates of Ned'smarriage and the birth of his first child. She did not breathe them toRichard; for it seemed to her only to make matters of this kind worse, openly to speak of them. She devoted herself to getting the littlefamily under a roof of its own. Through Richard's influence Nedobtained a clerkship in a carrying-agency, which would just keep hishead above water; and she found a tiny, three-roomed house that wasnear enough to let her be daily with her sister-in-law when thelatter's time came. Meanwhile, she cut out and helped to sew a completelittle outfit ("What she had before was no better than rags!"); andMrs. Ned soon learned to know on whom she could lean and to whom shemight turn, not only for practical aid, but also for a never failingsympathy in what she called her "troubles. "

"I vow your Mary's the kindest-hearted little soul it's ever been meluck to run across, " she averred one day to Mahony, who was visitingher professionally. "So common-sense, too--no nonsense about HER! Ishouldn't have thought a gaby like Ned could have sported such trump ofa sister. "

"Another pensioner for your CARITAS, dear, " said Mahony, in passing onthe verdict. What he did not grieve his wife by repeating were certainbad reports of Ned lately brought him by Jerry. According to Jerry--andthe boy's word was to be relied on--Ned had kept loose company inCastlemaine, and had acquired the habit of taking more than was goodfor him. Did he not speedily amend his ways, there would be smallchance of him remaining in his present post. 

Here, Mahony was effectually roused by a stir on the verandah. Jinnyhad entered the house to lay down her sleeping babe, and a third voice, Purdy's, became audible. The wife had evidently brought out a bottle ofher famous home-brewed gingerbeer: he heard the cork pop, the drip ofthe overflow on the boards, the clink of the empty glass; and Purdy'swarm words of appreciation. 

Then there was silence. Rising from the sofa, Mahony inserted himselfbetween blind and window, and peeped out. 

His first thought was: what a picture! Mary wore a pale pink cottongown which, over the light swellings of her crinoline, bulged andbillowed round her, and generously swept the ground. Collar and cuffsof spotless lawn outlined neck and wrists. She bent low over herstitching, and the straight white parting of her hair intensified theebony of the glossy bands. Her broad pure forehead had neither line norstain. On the trellis behind her a vine hung laden with massy bunchesof muscatelles. 

Purdy sat on the edge of the verandah, with his back to Mahony. Betweenthumb and forefinger he idly swung a pair of scissors. 

Urged by some occult sympathy, Mary at once glanced up and discoveredher husband. Her face was lightly flushed from stooping--and the leasttouch of colour was enough to give its delicate ivory an appearance ofvivid health. She had grown fuller of late--quite fat, said Richard, when he wished to tease her: a luxuriant young womanliness lay over andabout her. Now, above the pale wild-rose of her cheeks her black eyesdanced with a mischievous glee; for she believed her husband intendedswinging his leg noiselessly over the sill and creeping up to startlePurdy--and this appealed to her sense of humour. But, as he remainedstanding at the window, she just smiled slyly, satisfied to be incommunion with him over their unsuspecting friend's head. 

Here, however, Purdy brought his eyes back from the garden, and sheabruptly dropped hers to her needlework. 

The scissors were shut with a snap, and thrown, rather than laid, tothe other implements in the workbox. "One 'ud think you were paid tofinish that wretched sewing in a fixed time, Polly, " said Purdycantankerously. "Haven't you got a word to say?"

"It's for the Dorcas Society. They're having a sale of work. "

"Oh, damn Dorcases! You're always slaving for somebody. You'll ruinyour eyes. I wonder Dick allows it. I shouldn't--I know that. "

The peal of laughter that greeted these words came equally from husbandand wife. Then: "What the dickens does it matter to you, sir, how muchsewing my wife chooses to do?" cried Mahony, and, still laughing, stepped out of the window. 

"Hello!--you there?" said Purdy and rose to his feet. "What a beastlyfright to give one!" He looked red and sulky. 

"I scored that time, my boy!" and linking his arm in Mary's, Mahonyconfronted his friend. "Afraid I'm neglecting my duties, are you?Letting this young woman spoil her eyes?--Turn 'em on him, my love, inall their splendour, that he may judge for himself. "

"Nonsense, Richard, " said Mary softly, but with an affectionate squeezeof his arm. 

"Well, ta-ta, I'm off!" said Purdy. And as Mahony still continued toquiz him, he added in a downright surly tone: "Just the same old Dickas ever! Blinder than any bat to all that doesn't concern yourself!I'll eat my hat if it's ever entered your noddle that Polly's quite theprettiest woman on Ballarat. "

"Don't listen to him, Richard, please!" and: "Don't let your head beturned by such fulsome flattery, my dear!" were wife and husband'ssimultaneous exclamations. 

"I shouldn't think so, " said Mary sturdily, and would have added more, but just at this minute Jinny came out of the house, with the peculiarnoiseless tread she had acquired in moving round an infant's crib; andPurdy vanished. 

Jinny gazed at her sister-in-law with such meaning--that Mary could notbut respond. 

"Did you get her safely laid down, dear?"

"Perfectly, Mary! Without even the quiver of an eyelash. You recollect, I told you yesterday when her little head touched the pillow, sheopened her eyes and looked at me. To-day there was nothing of thatsort. It was quite perfect"; and Jinny's voice thrilled at theremembrance: it was as if, in continuing to sleep during the transit, her--or rather John's--tiny daughter had proved herself a marvelloussagacity. 

Mahony gave an impatient shrug in Jinny's direction. But he, too, hadto stand fire: she had been waiting all day for a word with him. Thebabe, who was teething, was plagued by various disorders; and Jinnyknew each fresh pin's-head of a spot that joined the rash. 

Mahony made light of her fears; then turning to his wife asked her tohurry on the six-o'clock dinner: he had to see a patient between thatmeal and tea. Mary went to make arrangements--Richard always forgot tomention such things till the last moment--and also to please Jinny bypaying a visit to the baby. 

"The angels can't look very different when they sleep, I think, "murmured its mother, hanging over the couch. 

When Mary returned, she found her husband picking caterpillars off thevine: Long Jim, odd man now about house and garden, was not industriousenough to keep the pests under. In this brief spell of leisure--suchmoments grew ever rarer in Richard's life--husband and wife lockedtheir arms and paced slowly up and down the verandah. It was lateafternoon on a breathless, pale-skied February day; and the boards ofthe flooring gritted with sandy dust beneath their feet. 

"He WAS grumpy this afternoon, wasn't he?" said Mary, without preamble. "But I've noticed once or twice lately that he can't take a joke anymore. He's grown queer altogether. Do you know he's the only person whostill persists in calling me by my old name? He was quite rude about itwhen I asked him why. Perhaps he's liverish, from the heat. It might bea good thing, dear, if you went round and overhauled him. Somehow, itseems unnatural for Purdy to be bad-tempered. "

"It's true he may be a bit out of sorts. But I fear the evil'sdeeper-seated. It's my opinion the boy is tiring of regular work. Nowthat he hasn't even the excitement of the gold-escort to look forwardto. .. . And he's been a rolling stone from the beginning, you know. "

"If only he would marry and settle down! I do wish I could find a wifefor him. The right woman could make anything of Purdy"; and yet oncemore Mary fruitlessly scanned, in thought, the lists of heracquaintance. 

"What if it's a case of sour grapes, love? Since the prettiest woman onBallarat is no longer free. .. . "

"Oh, Richard, hush! Such foolish talk!"

"But is it? . .. Let me look at her. Well, if not the prettiest, atleast a very pretty person indeed. It certainly becomes you to bestouter, wife. "

But Mary had not an atom of vanity in her. "Speaking of prettinessreminds me of something that happened at the Races last week--I forgotto tell you, at the time. There were two gentlemen there fromMelbourne; and as Agnes Ocock went past, one of them said out loud:'Gad! That's a lovely woman. ' Agnes heard it herself, and was mostdistressed. And the whole day, wherever she went, they kept theirfield-glasses on her. Mr. Henry was furious. "

"If you'll allow me to say so, my dear, Mrs. Henry cannot hold a candleto some one I know--to my mind, at least. "

"If I suit you, Richard, that's all I care about. "

"Well, to come back to what we were saying. My advice is, give MasterPurdy a taste of the cold shoulder the next time he comes hanging aboutthe house. Let him see his ill-temper didn't pass unnoticed. There's noexcuse for it. God bless me! doesn't he sleep the whole night throughin his bed?"--and Mahony's tone took on an edge. The broken nights thatwere nowadays the rule with himself were the main drawbacks to hisprosperity. He had never been a really good sleeper; and, inconsequence, was one of those people who feel an intense need forsleep, and suffer under its curtailment. As things stood at present hisrest was wholly at the mercy of the night-bell--a remorselessinstrument, given chiefly to pealing just as he had managed to dropoff. Its gentlest tinkle was enough to rouse him--long before it hadsucceeded in penetrating the ears of the groom, who was supposed toopen. And when it remained silent for a night, some trifling noise inthe road would simulate its jangle in his dreams. "It's a wonder I haveany nerves left, " he grumbled, as the hot, red dawns crept in at thesides of the bedroom-window. For the shortening of his sleep at one enddid not mean that he could make it up at the other. All that summer hehad fallen into the habit of waking at five o'clock, and not being ableto doze off again. The narrowest bar of light on the ceiling, theearliest twitter of the sparrows was enough to strike him into fullconsciousness; and Mary was hard put to it to darken the room andensure silence; and would be till the day came when he could knock offwork and take a thorough holiday. This he promised himself to do, before he was very much older. 

Chapter II

Mary sat with pencil and paper and wrinkled her brows. She wascomposing a list, and every now and then, after an inward calculation, she lowered the pencil to note such items as: three tipsy-cakes, fourtrifles, eight jam-sandwiches. John Turnham had run up from Melbourneto fetch home wife and child; and his relatives were giving a musicalcard-party in his honour. By the window Jinny sat on a low ottomansuckling her babe, and paying but scant heed to her sister-in-law'sdeliberations: to her it seemed a much more important matter that themilk should flow smoothly down the precious little throat, than thatMary's supper should be a complete success. With her free hand sheimprisoned the two little feet, working one against the other in slowenjoyment; or followed the warm little limbs up inside the swaddling, after the fashion of nursing mothers. 

The two women were in the spare bedroom, which was dusk and cool anddimity-white; and they exchanged remarks in a whisper; for the lids hadcome down more than once on the big black eyes, and now only liftedautomatically from time to time, to send a last look of utter satiationat the mother-face. Mary always said: "She'll drop off sooner indoors, dear. " But this was not the whole truth. Richard had hinted that heconsidered the seclusion of the house better suited to the business ofnursing than the comparative publicity of the verandah; for Jinny wastoo absorbed in her task to take thought for the proprieties. Here nowshe sat--she had grown very big and full since her marriage in thegenerous, wide-lapped pose of some old Madonna. 

Mary, thrown entirely on her own judgment, was just saying withdecision: "Well, better to err on the right side and have too much thantoo little, " and altering a four into a five, when steps came down thepassage and John entered the room. Jinny made him a sign, and John, nowCommissioner of Trade and Customs, advanced as lightly as could beexpected of a heavy, well-grown man. 

"Does she sleep?" he asked. 

His eyes had flown to the child; only in the second place did they reston his wife. At the sight of her free and easy bearing his facechanged, and he said stiffly: "I think, Jane, a little less exposure ofyour person, my dear. .. . "

Flushing to her hair-roots, Jinny began as hastily as she dared tore-arrange her dress. 

Mary broke a lance on her behalf. "We were quite alone, John, " shereminded her brother. "Not expecting a visit from you. " And added:"Richard says it is high time Baby was weaned. Jinny is feeling thestrain. "

"As long as this rash continues I shall not permit it, " answered John, riding rough-shod over even Richard's opinion. ("I shouldn't agree toit either, John dear, " murmured Jinny. ) "And now, Mary, a word with youabout the elder children. I understand that you are prepared to takeEmma back--is that so?"

Yes, Mary was pleased to say Richard had consented to Trotty's return;but he would not hear of her undertaking Johnny. At eleven years of agethe proper place for a boy, he said, was a Grammar School. With Trotty, of course, it was different. "I always found her easy to manage, andshould be more than glad to have her"; and Mary meant what she said. Her heart ached for John's motherless children. Jinny's interest inthem had lasted only so long as she had none of her own; and Mary, whobeing childless had kept a large heart for all little ones, marvelledat the firm determination to get rid of her stepchildren which hersister-in-law, otherwise so pliable, displayed. 

Brother and sister talked things over, intuitively meeting half-way, understanding each other with a word, as only blood relations can. Jinny, the chief person concerned, sat meekly by, or chimed in merelyto echo her husband's views. 

"By the way, I ran into Richard on Specimen Hill, " said John as heturned to leave the room. "And he asked me to let you know that hewould not be home to lunch. "

"There. .. If that isn't always the way!" exclaimed Mary. "As sure as Icook something he specially likes, he doesn't come in. Tilly sent meover the loveliest little sucking-pig this morning. Richard would haveenjoyed it. "

"You should be proud, my dear Mary, that his services are in suchdemand. "

"I am, John--no one could be prouder. But all the same I wish he couldmanage to be a little more regular with his meals. It makes cooking sodifficult. To-morrow, because I shan't have a minute to spare, he'll behome punctually, demanding something nice. But I warn you, to-morrowyou'll all have to picnic!"

However, when the day came, she was better than her word, and looked toit that neither guests nor husband went short. Since a couple of tableson trestles took up the dining-room, John and Mahony lunched togetherin the surgery; while Jinny's meal was spread on a tray and sent to herin the bedroom. Mary herself had time only to snatch a bite standing. From early morning on, tied up in a voluminous apron, she was cookingin the kitchen, very hot and floury and preoccupied, drawing gratingshelves out of the oven, greasing tins and patty-pans, dredging flour. The click-clack of egg-beating resounded continuously; and mountains ofsponge-cakes of all shapes and sizes rose under her hands. This wouldbe the largest, most ambitious party she had ever given--the guestsexpected numbered between twenty and thirty, and had, besides, carteblanche to bring with them anyone who happened to be staying withthem--and it would be a disgrace under which Mary, reared in Mrs. Beamish's school, could never again have held up her head, had a singlearticle on her supper-table run short. 

In all this she had only such help as her one maidservant could giveher--John had expressly forbidden Jinny the kitchen. True, during themorning Miss Amelia Ocock, a gentle little elderly body with a harmlesssmile and a prominent jaw, who was now an inmate of her father's house, together with Zara, returned from England and a visitor at theOcock's--these two walked over to offer their aid in setting thetables. But Miss Amelia, fluttery and undecided as a bird, was far tootimid to do herself justice; and Zara spent so long arranging theflowers in the central epergnes that before she had finished with oneof them it was lunch time. 

"I could have done it myself while she was cutting the stalks, " Marytold her husband. "But Zara hasn't really been any good at flowerssince her 'mixed bouquet' took first prize at the Flower Show. Ofcourse, though, it looks lovely now it's done. "

Purdy dropped in during the afternoon and was more useful; he slicedthe crusts off loaf-high mounds of sandwiches, and tested the strengthand flavour of the claret-cup. Mary could not make up her mind, when itcame to the point, to follow Richard's advice and treat him coldly. Shedid, however, tell him that his help would be worth a great deal moreto her if he talked less and did not always look for an answer to whathe said. But Purdy was not to be quashed. He had taken it into his headthat she was badly treated, in being left "to slave" alone, within theoven's radius; and he was very hard on Jinny, whom he had espiedcomfortably dandling her child on the front verandah. "I'd like towring the bloomin' kid's neck!"

"Purdy, for shame!" cried Mary outraged. "It's easy to see you're stilla bachelor. Just wait, sir, till you have children of your own!"

Under her guidance he bore stacks of plates across the yard to thedining-room--where the blinds were lowered to keep the room cool--andstrewed these, and corresponding knives and forks, up and down thetables. He also carried over the heavy soup-tureen in which was theclaret-cup. But he had a man's slippery fingers, and, between these andhis limp, Mary trembled for the fate of her crockery. He made herlaugh, too, and distracted her attention; and she was glad when it wastime for him to return to barracks. 

"Now come early to-night, " she admonished him. "And mind you bring yourmusic. Miss Amelia's been practising up that duet all the week. She'llbe most disappointed if you don't ask her to sing with you. "

On the threshold of the kitchen Purdy set his fingers to his nose inthe probable direction of Miss Amelia; then performed some skittishfemale twists and turns about the yard. "So hoarse, love . .. A bad cold. .. Not in voice!" Mary laughed afresh, and ordered him off. 

But when he had gone she looked grave, and out of an oddly disquietingfeeling said to herself: "I do hope he'll be on his best behaviourto-night, and not tread on Richard's toes. "

As it was, she had to inform her husband of something that she knewwould displease him. John had come back in the course of the afternoonand announced, without ceremony, that he had extended an invitation tothe Devines for the evening. 

"It's quite true what's being said, dear, " Mary strove to sootheRichard, as she helped him make a hasty toilet in the bathroom. "Mr. Devine is going to stand for Parliament; and he has promised hissupport, if he gets in, to some measure John has at heart. John wantsto have a long talk with him to-night. "

But Richard was exceedingly put out. "Well, I hope, my dear, that asit's your brother who has taken such a liberty, YOU'LL explain thesituation to your guests. I certainly shall not. But I do know therewas no need to exclude Ned and Polly from such an omnium-gatherum asthis party of yours will be. "

Even while he spoke there came a rat-a-tat at the front door, and Maryhad to hurry off. And now knock succeeded knock with the briefest ofintervals, the noise carrying far in the quiet street. Mysteriouslybunched-up figures, their heads veiled in the fleeciest of clouds, werepiloted along the passage; and: "I HOPE we are not the first!" wasmurmured by each new-comer in turn. The gentlemen went to change theirboots on the back verandah; the ladies to lay off their wraps in Mary'sbedroom. And soon this room was filled to overflowing with the largesoft abundance of crinoline; hoops swaying from this side to that, asthe guests gave place to one another before the looking-glass, wherebands of hair were smoothed and the catches of bracelets snapped. Music-cases lay strewn over the counterpane; the husbands who lined upin the passage, to wait for their wives, also bearing rolls of music. Mary, in black silk with a large cameo brooch at her throat, and only adelicate pink on her cheeks to tell of all her labours, moved helpfullyto and fro, offering a shoe-horn, a hand-mirror, pins and hairpins. Shewas caught, as she passed Mrs. Henry Ocock, a modishly late arrival, bythat lady's plump white hand, and a whispered request to be allowed toretain her mantle. "Henry was really against my coming, dearest. Soanxious . .. So absurdly anxious!"

"And pray where's the Honourable Mrs. T. To-night?" inquired "old Mrs. Ocock, " rustling up to them: Tilly was the biggest and most handsomelydressed woman in the room. "On her knees worshipping, I bet you, up tothe last minute! Or else not allowed to show her nose till theHonourable John's got his studs in. --Now then, girls, how much longerare you going to stand preening and prinking?"

The "girls" were Zara, at this present a trifle PASSEE, and MissAmelia, who was still further from her prime; and gathering the twointo her train, as a hen does its chickens, Tilly swept them off toface the ordeal of the gentlemen and the drawing-room. 

Mary and Agnes brought up the rear. Mr. Henry was on the watch, anddirectly his wife appeared wheeled forward the best armchair and placedher in it, with a footstool under her feet. Mary planted Jinny next herand left them to their talk of nurseries: for Richard's sake she wishedto screen Agnes from the vulgarities of Mrs. Devine. Herself she sawwith dismay, on entering, that Richard had already been pounced on bythe husband: there he stood, listening to his ex-greengrocer'swords--they were interlarded with many an awkward and familiargesture--on his face an expression his wife knew well, while one small, impatient hand tugged at his whiskers. 

But "old Mrs. Ocock" came to his rescue, bearing down upon him with anoutstretched hand, and a howdee-do that could be heard all over theroom: Tilly had long forgotten that she had ever borne him a grudge;she it was who could now afford to patronise. "I hope I see you well, doctor?--Oh, not a bit of it. .. . I left him at 'ome. Mr. O. Hassomething wrong, if you please, with his leg or his big toe--gout orrheumatiz or something of that sort--and 'e's been so crabby with itfor the last day or so that to-night I said to 'im: 'No, my dear, you'll just take a glass of hot toddy, and go early and comfortable toyour bed. ' Musical parties aren't in his line anyhow. "

A lively clatter of tongues filled the room, the space of which wastaxed to its utmost: there were present, besides the friends andintimates of the house, several of Mahony's colleagues, a couple ofBank Managers, the Police Magistrate, the Postmaster, the Town Clerk, all with their ladies. Before long, however, ominous pauses began tobreak up the conversation, and Mary was accomplished hostess enough toknow what these meant. At a sign from her, Jerry lighted the candles onthe piano, and thereupon a fugue-like chorus went up: "Mrs. Mahony, won't you play something?--Oh, do!--Yes, please, do. .. . I should enjoyit so much. "

Mary did not wait to be pressed; it was her business to set the ballrolling; and she stood up and went to the piano as unconcernedly as shewould have gone to sweep a room or make a bed. 

Placing a piece of music on the rack, she turned down the corners ofthe leaves. But here Archdeacon Long's handsome, weatherbeaten facelooked over her shoulder. "I hope you're going to give us the cannons, Mrs. Mahony?" he said genially. And so Mary obliged him by laying asidethe MORCEAU she had chosen, and setting up instead a "battle-piece, "that was a general favourite. 

"Aha! that's the ticket, " said Henry Ocock, and rubbed his hands asMary struck up, pianissimo, the march that told of the enemy's approach. 

And: "Boompity-boomp-boomp-boomp!" Archdeacon Long could not refrainfrom underlining each fresh salvo of artillery; while: "That's a breachin their walls for 'em!" was Chinnery of the London Chartered'scontribution to the stock of fun. 

Mahony stood on the hearthrug and surveyed the assembly. His eyes fledMrs. Devine, most unfortunately perched on an ottoman in the middle ofthe room, where she sat, purple, shiny and beaming, two hot, fat, redhands clasped over her stomach ("Like a heathen idol! Confound thewoman! I shall have to go and do the polite to her"), and sought Maryat the piano, hanging with pleasure on the slim form in the rich silkdress. This caught numberless lights from the candles, as did also thewings of her glossy hair. He watched, with a kind of amused tenderness, how at each forte passage head and shoulders took their share oflending force to the tones. He never greatly enjoyed Mary's playing. She did well enough at it, God bless her!--it would not have been Maryif she hadn't--but he came of a musical family; his mother had sungHandel faultlessly in her day, besides having a mastery of severalinstruments: and he was apt to be critical. Mary's firm, capable handslooked out of place on a piano; seemed to stand in a sheerly businessrelation to the keys. Nor was it otherwise with her singing: she had afair contralto, but her ear was at fault; and he sometimes foundhimself swallowing nervously when she attacked high notes. 

"Oh, doctor! your wife DO play the pianner lovely, " said Mrs. Devine, and her fat front rose and fell in an ecstatic sigh. 

"Richard dear, will you come?" Mary laid her hands on his shoulder:their guests were clamouring for a DUO. Her touch was a caress: here hewas, making himself as pleasant as he knew how, to this old woman. Whenit came to doing a kindness, you could rely on Richard; he was all barkand no bite. 

Husband and wife blended their voices--Mary had been at considerablepains to get up her part--and then Richard went on to a solo. He had aclear, true tenor that was very agreeable to hear; and Mary felt quiteproud of his attainments. Later in the evening he might be persuaded togive them a reading from Boz, or a recitation. At that kind of thing, he had not his equal. 

But first there was a cry for his flute; and in vain did Mahony protestthat weeks had elapsed since he last screwed the instrument together. He got no quarter, even from Mary--but then Mary was one of thoseinconvenient people to whom it mattered not a jot what a fool you madeof yourself, as long as you did what was asked of you. And so, frommemory and unaccompanied, he played them the old familiar air of THEMINSTREL BOY. The theme, in his rendering, was overlaid by floridvariations and cumbered with senseless repetitions; but, none the less, the wild, wistful melody went home, touching even those who were notmusical to thoughtfulness and retrospect. The most obstinatechatterers, whom neither sham battles nor Balfe and Blockley hadsilenced, held their tongues; and Mrs. Devine openly wiped her eyes. 

 O, THE MINSTREL BOY TO THE WARS HAS GONE! IN THE RANKS OF DEATH YOU'LL FIND HIM. 

While it was proceeding, Mary found herself seated next John. Johntapped his foot in time to the tune; and under cover of the applause atits close remarked abruptly: "You should fatten Richard up a bit, Mary. He could stand it. "

From where they sat they had Richard in profile, and Mary studied herhusband critically, her head a little on one side. "Yes, he IS ratherthin. But I don't think he was ever meant to be fat. "

"Ah well! we are none of us as young as we used to be, " was John'stribute to the power of music. And throwing out his stomach, he leanedback in his chair and plugged the armholes of his vest with his thumbs. 

And now, after due pressing on the part of host and hostess, the othermembers of the company advanced upon the piano, either singly or incouples, to bear a hand in the burden of entertainment. Their seemingreluctance had no basis in fact; for it was an unwritten law that everyone who could must add his mite; and only those who literally had "nota note of music in them" were exempt. Tilly took a mischievous pleasurein announcing bluntly: "So sorry, my dear, not to be able to do you atool-de-rool! But when the Honourable Mrs. T. And I were nippers we'dno time to loll round pianos, nor any pianos to loll round!"--this, just to see her brother-in-law's dark scowl; for no love--not even aliking--was lost between her and John. But with this handful ofexceptions all nobly toed the line. Ladies with the tiniest reeds ofvoices, which shook like reeds, warbled of Last Roses and PrairieFlowers; others, with more force but due decorum, cried to Willie thatthey had Missed Him, or coyly confessed to the presence of SilverThreads Among the Gold; and Mrs. Chinnery, an old-young woman with along, lean neck, which she twisted this way and that in the exertion ofproducing her notes, declared her love for an Old Armchair. Thegentlemen, in baritones and profundos, told the amorous adventures ofBen Bolt; or desired to know what Home would be Without a Mother. Purdyspiced the hour with a comic song, and in the character of an outragedwife tickled the risibility of the ladies. 

 WELL, WELL, SIR, SO YOU'VE COME AT LAST! I THOUGHT YOU'D COME NO MORE. I'VE WAITED, WITH MY BONNET ON, FROM ONE TILL HALF-PAST FOUR!

Zara and Mrs. Long both produced HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD!from their portfolios; so Zara good-naturedly gave way and struck upROBERT, TOI QUE J'AIME! which she had added to her repertory while inEngland. No one could understand a word of what she sang; but the merefitting of the foreign syllables to the appropriate notes wasconsidered a feat in itself, and corroborative of the high gifts Zarapossessed. 

Strenuous efforts were needed to get Miss Amelia to her feet. She wasdying, as Mary knew, to perform her duet with Purdy; but when themoment came she put forward so many reasons for not complying that mostpeople retired in despair. It took Mary to persevere. And finally thelittle woman was persuaded to the piano, where, red with gratification, she sat down, spread her skirts and unclasped her bracelets. 

"Poor little Amelia!" said Mary to herself, as she listened to aromantic ballad in which Purdy, in the character of a high-mindednobleman, sought the hand of a virtuous gipsy-maid. "And he doesn'tgive her a second thought. If one could just tell her not to be sosilly!"

Not only had Purdy never once looked near Amelia--for the most part hehad sat rather mum-chance, half-way in and out of a French window, evenZara's attempts to enliven him falling flat--but, during an extra loudperformance, Tilly had confided to Mary the family's plans for theirspinster relative. And: "The poor little woman!" thought Mary again asshe listened. For, after having been tied for years to the sick bed ofa querulous mother; after braving the long sea-voyage, which for such atimid soul was full of ambushes and terrors, Miss Amelia had reachedher journey's end only to find both father and brother comfortablywived, and with no use for her. Neither of them wanted her. She hadbeen given house-room first by her father, then by the Henrys, and oncemore had had to go back to the paternal roof. 

"It was nothing for Mossieu Henry in the long run, " was hisstepmother's comment. But she laughed good-humouredly as she said it;for, his first wrath at her intrusion over, Henry had more or lessbecome her friend; and now maintained that it was not a bad thing forhis old father to have a sensible, managing woman behind him. Tilly haddeveloped in many ways since her marriage; and Henry and she mutuallyrespected each other's practical qualities. 

The upshot of the affair was, she now told Mary, that Miss Amelia'smale relatives had subscribed a dowry for her. "It was me that insistedHenry should pay his share--him getting all the money 'e did withAgnes. " And Amelia was to be married off to--"Well, if you turn yourhead, my dear, you'll see who. Back there, helping to hold up thedoorpost. "

Under cover of Zara's roulades Mary cautiously looked round. It wasHenry's partner--young Grindle, now on the threshold of the thirties. His side-whiskers a shade less flamboyant than of old, a heavywatch-chain draped across his front, Grindle stood and lounged with hishands in his pockets. 

Mary made round eyes. "Oh, but Tilly!. .. Isn't it very risky? He's somuch younger than she is. Suppose she shouldn't be happy?"

"That'll be all right, Mary, trust me. Only give 'er a handle to 'ername, and Amelia 'ud be happy with any one. She hasn't THAT muchbackbone in 'er. Besides, my dear, you think, she's over forty! Let hertake 'er chance and be thankful. It isn't every old maid 'ud get suchan offer. "

"And is . .. Is HE agreeable?" asked Mary, still unconvinced. 

Tilly half closed her right eye and protruded the tip of her tongue. "You could stake your last fiver on it, he is!"

But now that portion of the entertainment devoted to art was at an end, and the serious business of the evening began. Card-tables had been setout--for loo, as for less hazardous games. In principle, Mahonyobjected to the high play that was the order of the day; but if youinvited people to your house you could not ask them to screw theirpoints down from crowns to halfpence. They would have thanked youkindly and have stayed at home. Here, at the loo-table places wereeagerly snapped up, Henry Ocock and his stepmother being among thefirst to secure seats: both were keen, hard players, who invariablyre-lined their well-filled pockets. 

It would not have been the thing for either Mahony or his wife to takea hand; several of the guests held aloof. John had buttonholed oldDevine; Jinny and Agnes were still lost in domesticities. Dear littleAgnes had grown so retiring of late, thought Mary; she quite avoidedthe society of gentlemen, in which she had formerly taken suchpleasure. Richard and Archdeacon Long sat on the verandah, and inmoving to and fro, Mary caught a fragment of their talk: they were atthe debatable question of table-turning, and her mental comment was amotherly and amused: "That Richard, who is so clever, can interesthimself in such nonsense!" Further on, Zara was giving Grindle anaccount of her voyage "home, " and ticking off the reasons that had ledto her return. She sat across a hammock, and daintily exposed a veryneat ankle. "It was much too sleepy and dull for ME! No, I've QUITEdecided to spend the rest of my days in the colony. "

Mrs. Devine was still perched on her ottoman. She beamed at herhostess. "No, I dunno one card from another, dearie, and don' want to. Oh, my dear, what a LOVELY party it 'as been, and 'ow well you'vecarried it h'off!"

Mary nodded and smiled; but with an air of abstraction. The climax ofher evening was fast approaching. Excusing herself, she slipped awayand went to cast a last eye over her supper-tables, up and down whichbenches were ranged, borrowed from the Sunday School. To her surpriseshe found herself followed by Mrs. Devine. 

"DO let me 'elp you, my dear, do, now! I feel that stiff and sillysittin' stuck up there with me 'ands before me. And jes' send thatyoung feller about 'is business. "

So Purdy and his offers of assistance were returned with thanks to thecard-room, and Mrs. Devine pinned up her black silk front. But not tillshe had freely vented her astonishment at the profusion of Mary's goodthings. "'Ow DO you git 'em to rise so?--No, I never did! Fit forBuckin'am Palace and Queen Victoria! And all by your little self, too. --My dear, I must give you a good 'UG!"

Hence, when at twelve o'clock the company began to stream in, theyfound Mrs. Devine installed behind the barricade of cups, saucers andglasses; and she it was who dispensed tea and coffee and ladled out theclaret-cup; thus leaving Mary free to keep an argus eye on hervisitors' plates. At his entry Richard had raised expostulatingeyebrows; but his tongue of course was tied. And Mary made a lifelongfriend. 

And now for the best part of an hour Mary's sandwiches, sausage-rollsand meat-pies; her jam-rolls, pastries and lemon-sponges; her jellies, custards and creams; her blanc and jaunemanges and whipped syllabubs;her trifles, tipsy-cakes and charlotte-russes formed the theme of talkand objects of attention. And though the ladies picked with becomingdaintiness, the gentlemen made up for their partners' deficiencies; andthere was none present who did not, in the shape of a hearty andwell-turned compliment, add yet another laurel to Mary's crown. 

Chapter III

It had struck two before the party began to break up. The first movemade, however, the guests left in batches, escorting one another totheir respective house-doors. The Henry Ococks' buggy had been inwaiting for some time, and Mrs. Henry's pretty head was drooping withfatigue before Henry, who was in the vein, could tear himself from thecard-table. Mahony went to the front gate with them; then strolled withthe Longs to the corner of the road. 

He was in no hurry to retrace his steps. The air was balmy, after thatof the overcrowded rooms, and it was a fabulously beautiful night. Theearth lay steeped in moonshine, as in the light of a silver sun. Treesand shrubs were patterned to their last leaf on the ground before them. What odd mental twist made mortals choose rather to huddle indoors, bypuny candle-light, than to be abroad laving themselves in a splendoursuch as this?

Leaning his arms on the top rail of a fence, he looked across the slopeat the Flat, now hushed and still as the encampment of a sleeping army. Beyond, the bush shimmered palely grey--in his younger years he hadbeen used, on a night like this when the moon sailed full and free, totake his gun and go opossuming. Those two old woody gods, Warrenheipand Buninyong, stood out more imposingly than by day; but the rangesseemed to have retreated. The light lay upon them like a visibleburden, flattening their contours, filling up clefts and fissures witha milky haze. 

"Good evening, doctor!"

Spoken in his very ear, the words made him jump. He had been lost incontemplation; and the address had a ghostly suddenness. But it was noghost that stood beside him--nor indeed was it a night for thosepresences to be abroad whose element is the dark. 

Ill-pleased at the intrusion, he returned but a stiff nod: then, sincehe could not in decency greet and leave-take in a breath, feigned to goon for a minute with his study of the landscape. After which he said:"Well, I must be moving. Good night to you. "

"So you're off your sleep, too, are you?" As often happens, the impulseto speak was a joint one. The words collided. 

Instinctively Mahony shrank into himself; this familiar bracketing ofhis person with another's was distasteful to him. Besides, the man whohad sprung up at his elbow bore a reputation that was none of the best. The owner of a small chemist's shop on the Flat, he contrived to giveoffence in sundry ways: he was irreligious--an infidel, his neighbourshad it--and of a Sabbath would scour his premises or hoe potatoesrather than attend church or chapel. Though not a confirmed drunkard, he had been seen to stagger in the street, and be unable to answer whenspoken to. Also, the woman with whom he lived was not generallybelieved to be his lawful wife. Hence the public fought shy of hisnostrums; and it was a standing riddle how he managed to avoid puttingup his shutters. More nefarious practices no doubt, said the relentlessVOX POPULI. --Seen near at hand, he was a tall, haggard-looking fellowof some forty years of age, the muscles on his neck standing out likethose of a skinny old horse. 

Here, his gratuitous assumption of a common bond drew a cold: "Pray, what reason have you to think that?" from Mahony. And without waitingfor a reply he again said good night and turned to go. 

The man accepted the rebuff with a meekness that was painful to see. "Thought, comin' on you like this, you were a case like my own. Nooffence, I'm sure, " he said humbly. It was evident he was well used togetting the cold shoulder. Mahony stayed his steps. "What's the matterwith you?" he asked. "Aren't you well? There's a remedy to be found formost ills under the sun. "

"Not for mine! The doctor isn't born or the drug discovered that couldcure me. "

The tone of bragging bitterness grated anew. Himself given to the viceof overstatement, Mahony had small mercy on it in others. "Tut, tut!"he deprecated. 

There was a brief silence before the speaker went on more quietly:"You're a young man, doctor, I'm an old one. " And he looked old as hespoke; Mahony saw that he had erred in putting him down as merelyelderly. He was old and grey and down-at-heel--fifty, if a day--and hisclothes hung loose on his bony frame. "You'll excuse me if I say I knowbetter'n you. When a man's done, he's done. And that's me. Yes, "--hegrew inflated again in reciting his woes--"I'm one o' your hopelesscases, just as surely as if I was being eaten up by a cancer or aconsumption. To mend me, you doctors 'ud need to start me afresh--fromthe mother-egg. "

"You exaggerate, I'm sure. "

"It's that--knowin' one's played out, with by rights still a good thirdof one's life to run--that's what puts the sleep away. In the daylightit's none so hard to keep the black thoughts under; themselves they'renot so daresome; and there's one's pipe, and the haver o' the youngfry. But night's the time! Then they come tramplin' along, a whole armyof 'em, carryin' banners with letters a dozen feet high, so's youshan't miss rememberin' what you'd give your soul to forget. And soit'll go on, et cetera and ad lib. , till it pleases the old Joker whosits grinnin' up aloft to put His heel down--as you or me would squasha bull-ant or a scorpion. "

"You speak bitterly, Mr. Tangye. Does a night like this not bring youcalmer, clearer thoughts?" and Mahony waved his arm in a large, loosegesture at the sky. 

His words passed unheeded. The man he addressed spun round and facedhim, with a rusty laugh. "Hark at that!" he cried. "Just hark at it!Why, in all the years I've been in this God-forsaken place--long asI've been here--I've never yet heard my own name properly spoken. You're the first, doctor. You shall have the medal. "

"But, man alive, you surely don't let that worry you? Why, I've thesame thing to put up with every day of my life. I smile at it. " AndMahony believed what he said, forgetting, in the antagonism such spleenroused in him, the annoyance the false stressing of his own name couldsometimes cause him. 

"So did I, once, " said Tangye, and wagged his head. "But the day camewhen it seemed the last straw; a bit o' mean spite on the part o' thishell of a country itself. "

"You dislike the colony, it appears, intensely?"

"You like it?" The counter question came tip for tap. 

"I can be fair to it, I hope, and appreciate its good sides. " Asalways, the mere hint of an injustice made Mahony passionately just. 

"Came 'ere of your own free will, did you? Weren't crowded out at home?Or bamboozled by a pack o' lying tales?" Tangye's voice was husky witheagerness. 

"That I won't say either. But it is entirely my own choice that Iremain here. "

"Well, I say to you, think twice of it! If you have the chance ofgettin' away, take it. It's no place this, doctor, for the likes of youand me. Haven't you never turned and asked yourself what the devil youwere doin' here? And that reminds me. .. . There was a line we used tohave drummed into us at school--it's often come back to me since. COELUM, NON ANIMUM, MUTANT, QUI TRANS MARE CURRUNT. In our green dayswe gabbled that off by rote; then, it seemed just one more o' theeel-sleek phrases the classics are full of. Now, I take off my hat tothe man who wrote it. He knew what he was talkin' about--by the LordHarry, he did!"

The Latin had come out tentatively, with an odd, unused intonation. Mahony's retort: "How on earth do you know what suits me and whatdoesn't?" died on his lips. He was surprised into silence. There hadbeen nothing in the other's speech to show that he was a man of anyeducation--rather the reverse. 

Meanwhile Tangye went on: "I grant you it's an antiquated point o'view; but doesn't that go to prove what I've been sayin'; that you andme are old-fashioned, too--out-o'-place here, out-o'-date? The modernsort, the sort that gets on in this country, is a prime hand at cuttin'his coat to suit his cloth; for all that the stop-at-homes, like thewriter o' that line and other ancients, prate about the Ethiopian'shide or the leopard and his spots. They didn't buy their experiencedear, like we did; didn't guess that if a man DON'T learn to fithimself in, when he gets set down in such a land as this, he's a goner;any more'n they knew that most o' those who hold out here--all of 'emat any rate who've climbed the ladder, nabbed the plunder--have foundno more difficulty in changin' their spots than they have theirtrousers. Yes, doctor, there's only one breed that flourishes, and youdon't need me to tell you which it is. Here they lie"--and he nodded toright and left of him--"dreamin' o' their money-bags, and theirdividends, and their profits, and how they'll diddle and swindle oneanother afresh, soon as the sun gets up to-morrow. Harder 'n nails theyare, and sharp as needles. You ask me why I do my walkin' out in thenight-time? It's so's to avoid the sight o' their mean little eyes, andtheir greedy, graspin' faces. "

Mahony's murmured disclaimer fell on deaf ears. Like one who had beenbottled up for months, Tangye flowed on. "What a life! What a set! Whata place to end one's days in! Remember, if you can, the yarns that werespun round it for our benefit, from twenty thousand safe miles away. Itwas the Land o' Promise and Plenty, topful o' gold, strewn over withnuggets that only waited for hands to pick 'em up. --Lies!--lies frombeginnin' to end! I say to you this is the hardest and cruellestcountry ever created, and a man like me's no more good here than themuck--the parin's and stale fishguts and other leavin's--that knocksabout a harbour and washes against the walls. I'll tell you the onlyuse I'll have been here, doctor, when my end comes: I'll dung some bito' land for 'em with my moulder and rot. That's all. They'd do betterwith my sort if they knocked us on the head betimes, and boiled us downfor our fat and marrow. "

Not much in that line to be got from YOUR carcase, my friend, thoughtMahony, with an inward smile. 

But Tangye had paused merely to draw breath. "What I say is, instead o'layin' snares for us, it ought to be forbid by law to give men o' mymake ship room. At home in the old country we'd find our little nook, and jog along decently to the end of our days. But just the staid, respectable, orderly sort I belonged to's neither needed nor wantedhere. I fall to thinkin' sometimes on the fates of the hundreds ofhonest, steady-goin' lads, who at one time or another have chucked uptheir jobs over there--for this. The drink no doubt's took most: theynever knew before that one COULD sweat as you sweat here. And the rest?Well, just accident . .. Or the sun . .. Or dysentery. .. Or the bloodytoil that goes by the name o' work in these parts--you know the list, doctor, better'n me. They say the waste o' life in a new country can'tbe helped; doesn't matter; has to be. But that's cold comfort to thewasted. No! I say to you, there ought to be an Act of Parliament toprevent young fellows squanderin' themselves, throwin' away their livesas I did mine. For when we're young, we're not sane. Youth's a fever o'the brain. And I WAS young once, though you mightn't believe it; I hadstraight joints, and no pouch under my chin, and my full share o' windyhopes. Senseless truck these! To be spilled overboard bit by bit--likeon a hundred-mile tramp a new-chum finishes by pitchin' from his swagall the needless rubbish he's started with. What's wanted to get onhere's somethin' quite else. Horny palms and costive bowels; more'n adash o' the sharper; and no sickly squeamishness about knockin' outother men and steppin' into their shoes. And I was only an ordinaryyoung chap; not over-strong nor over-shrewd, but honest--honest, by GodI was! That didn't count. It even stood in my way. For I was too goodfor this and too mealy-mouthed for that; and while I stuck, considerin'the fairness of a job, some one who didn't care a damn whether it wasfair or not, walked in over my head and took it from me. There isn'tanything I haven't tried my luck at, and with everything it's been thesame. Nothin's prospered; the money wouldn't come--or stick if it did. And so here I am--all that's left of me. It isn't much; and by and by afew rank weeds 'ull spring from it, and old Joey there, who's paid togrub round the graves, old Joey 'ull curse and say: a weedy fellowthat, a rotten, weedy blackguard; and spit on his hands and hoe, tillthe weeds lie bleedin' their juices--the last heirs of me . .. The lastissue of my loins!"

"Pray, does it never occur to you, you fool, that FLOWERS may springfrom you?"

He had listened to Tangye's diatribe in a white heat of impatience. Butwhen he spoke he struck an easy tone--nor was he in any hesitation howto reply: for that, he had played devil's advocate all too often withhimself in private. An unlovely country, yes, as Englishmen understoodbeauty; and yet not without a charm of its own. An arduous life, certainly, and one full of pitfalls for the weak or the unwary; yet hebelieved it was no more impossible to win through here, and with cleanhands, than anywhere else. To generalise as his companion had done wasabsurd. Preposterous, too, the notion that those of theirfellow-townsmen who had carried off the prizes owed their success tosome superiority in bodily strength . .. Or sharp dealing . .. Orthickness of skin. With Mr. Tangye's permission he would cite himselfas an example. He was neither a very robust man, nor, he ventured tosay, one of any marked ability in the other two directions. Yet he hadmanaged to succeed without, in the process, sacrificing jot or tittleof his principles; and to-day he held a position that any member of hisprofession across the seas might envy him. 

"Yes, but till you got there!" cried Tangye. "Hasn't every superfluousbit of you--every thought of interest that wasn't essential to thedaily grind--been pared off?"

"If, " said Mahony stiffening, "if what you mean by that is, have Iallowed my mind to grow narrow and sluggish, I can honestly answer no. "

In his heart he denied the charge even more warmly; for, as he spoke, he saw the great cork-slabs on which hundreds of moths and butterfliesmade dazzling spots of colour; saw the sheets of pink blotting-paperbetween which his collection of native plants lay pressed; the glasscase filled with geological specimens; his Bible, the margins of whichround Genesis were black with his handwriting; a pile of books on thenew marvel Spiritualism; Colenso's PENTATEUCH; the big black volumes ofthe ARCANA COELESTIA; Locke on Miracles: he saw all these things andmore. "No, I'm glad to say I have retained many interests outside mywork. "

Tangye had taken off his spectacles and was polishing them on acrumpled handkerchief. He seemed about to reply, even made a quickhalf-turn towards Mahony; then thought better of it, and went onrubbing. A smile played round his lips. 

"And in conclusion let me say this, " went on Mahony, not unnettled byhis companion's expression. "It's sheer folly to talk about what lifemakes of us. Life is not an active force. It's we who make what wewill, of life. And in order to shape it to the best of our powers, Mr. Tangye, to put our brief span to the best possible use, we must neverlose faith in God or our fellow-men; never forget that, whateverhappens, there is a sky, with stars in it, above us. "

"Ah, there's a lot of bunkum talked about life, " returned Tangye dryly, and settled his glasses on his nose. "And as man gets near the end ofit, he sees just WHAT bunkum it is. Life's only got one meanin', doctor; seen plain, there's only one object in everything we do; andthat's to keep a sound roof over our heads and a bite in ourmouths--and in those of the helpless creatures who depend on us. Therest has no more sense or significance than a nigger's hammerin' on thetam-tam. The lucky one o' this world don't grasp it; but we others do;and after all p'raps, it's worth while havin' gone through it to havegot at ONE bit of the truth, however, small. Good night. "

He turned on his heel, and before his words were cold on the air hadvanished, leaving Mahony blankly staring. 

The moonshine still bathed the earth, gloriously untroubled by thebitterness of human words and thoughts. But the night seemed to havegrown chilly; and Mahony gave an involuntary shiver. "Some one walkingover my . .. Now what would that specimen have called it? Over the fourby eight my remains will one day manure!"

"An odd, abusive, wrong-headed fellow, " he mused, as he made his wayhome. "Who would ever have thought, though, that the queer littlechemist had so much in him? A failure? . .. Yes, he was right there; andas unlovely as failures always are--at close quarters. " But as he laidhis hands on the gate, he jerked up his head and exclaimed half aloud:"God bless my soul! What he wanted was not argument or reason but alittle human sympathy. " As usual, however, the flash of intuition cametoo late. "For such a touchy nature I'm certainly extraordinarilyobtuse where the feelings of others are concerned, " he told himself ashe hooked in the latch. 

"Why, Richard, where HAVE you been?" came Mary's clear voice--muted soas not to disturb John and Jinny, who had retired to rest. Purdy andshe sat waiting on the verandah. "Were you called out? We've had timeto clear everything away. Here, dear, I saved you some sandwiches and aglass of claret. I'm sure you didn't get any supper yourself, withlooking after other people. "

Long after Mary had fallen asleep he lay wakeful. His foolish blunderin response to Tangye's appeal rankled in his mind. He could not getover his insensitiveness. How he had boasted of his prosperity, hismoral nicety, his saving pursuits--he to boast!--when all that wasasked of him was a kindly: "My poor fellow soul, you have indeed foughta hard fight; but there IS a God above us who will recompense you atHis own time, take the word for it of one who has also been through theSlough of Despond. " And then just these . .. These hobbies of his, ofwhich he had made so much. Now that he was alone with himself he sawthem in a very different light. Lepidoptera collected years since werestill unregistered, plants and stones unclassified; his poor efforts atelucidating the Bible waited to be brought into line with the HigherCriticism; Home's levitations and fire-tests called for investigation;while the leaves of some of the books he had cited had never even beencut. The mere thought of these things was provocative, rest-destroying. To induce drowsiness he went methodically through the list of hisacquaintances, and sought to range them under one or other of Tangye'sheadings. And over this there came moments when he lapsed into depths. .. Fetched himself up again--but with an effort . .. Only to fallback. .. . 

But he seemed barely to have closed his eyes when the night-bell rang. In an instant he was on his feet in the middle of the room, applyingforce to his sleep-cogged wits. 

He threw open the sash. "Who's there? What is it?"

Henry Ocock's groom. "I was to fetch you out to our place at once, governor. "

"But--Is Mrs. Henry taken ill?"

"Not as I know of, " said the man dryly. "But her and the boss had a bitof a tiff on the way home, and Madam's excited-like. "

"And am I to pay for their tiffs?" muttered Mahony hotly. 

"Hush, Richard! He'll hear you, " warned Mary, and sat up. 

"I shall decline to go. Henry's a regular old woman. "

Mary shook her head. "You can't afford to offend the Henrys. And youknow what he is so hasty. He'd call in some one else on the spot, andyou'd never get back. If only you hadn't stayed out so long, dear, looking at the moon!"

"Good God! Mary, is one never to have a moment to oneself? Never aparticle of pleasure or relaxation?"

"Why, Richard!" expostulated his wife, and even felt a trifle ashamedof his petulance. "What would you call to-night, I wonder? Wasn't thewhole evening one of pleasure and relaxation?"

And Mahony, struggling into shirt and trousers, had to admit that hewould be hard put to it to give it another name. 

Chapter IV

Hush, dolly! Mustn't cry, and make a noise. Uncle Richard's cross. 

Trotty sat on a hassock and rocked a china babe, with all theappurtenant mother-fuss she had picked up from the tending of her tinystepsister. The present Trotty was a demure little maid of some sevensummers, who gave the impression of having been rather rudelyelongated. Her flaxen hair was stiffly imprisoned behind a round blackcomb; and her big blue eyes alone remained to her from a lovelyinfancy. ("Poor Emma's eyes, " said Mary. )

Imitative as a monkey she went on--with a child's perfect knowledgethat it is all make-believe, yet with an entire credence in the powerof make-believe: "Naughty child--WILL you be quiet? There! You've frownyour counterpane off now. Wonder what next you'll do. I declare I'llslap you soon--you make me so cross. "

Through the surgery-window the words floated out: "For goodness' sake, don't bother me now with such trifles, Mary! It's not the moment--witha whole string of people waiting in the other room. "

"Well, if only you'll be satisfied with what I do, dear, and not blameme afterwards. "

"Get Purdy to give you a hand with Ned's affair. He has time and tospare. " And wetting his finger-tip Mahony nervously flipped over adozen pages of the book that lay open before him. 

"Well . .. If you think I should, " said Mary, with a spice of doubt. 

"I do. And now go, wife, and remember to shut the door after you. Oh, and tell that woman in the kitchen to stop singing. Her false notesdrive me crazy. --How many are there, this morning?"

"Eight--no, nine, if that's another, " replied Mary, with an ear to thefront door. 

"Tch! I'll have to stop then, " and Mahony clapped to the work he hadbeen consulting. "Never a minute to keep abreast of the times. " But:"That's a good, helpful wife, " as Mary stooped to kiss him. "Do thebest you can, mavourneen, and never mind me. "

"Take me with you, Auntie!" Trotty sprang up from her stool, overturning babe and cradle. 

"Not to-day, darling. Besides, why are you here? You know I'veforbidden you to be on the front verandah when the patients come. Runaway to the back, and play there. "

Mary donned hat and shawl, opened her parasol and went out into thesun. With the years she had developed into rather a stately youngwoman: she held her head high and walked with a firm, free step. 

Her first visit was to the stable to find Long Jim--or Old Jim as theynow called him; for he was nearing the sixties. The notice to leave, which he had given the day before, was one of the "trifles" it fell toher to consider. Personally Mary thought his going would be no greatloss: he knew nothing about a garden, yet resented instruction; and ithad always been necessary to get outside help in for the horses. If hewent they could engage some one who would combine the posts. ButRichard had taken umbrage at the old man's tone; had even beennervously upset over it. It behoved her to find out what the matter was. 

"I want a change, " said Old Jim dourly in response to her inquiry; andwent on polishing wheel-spokes, and making the wheel fly. "I've bin'ere too long. An' now I've got a bit o' brass together, an' amthinkin' I'd like to be me own master for a spell. "

"But at your age, Jim, is it wise?--to throw up a comfortable home, just because you've laid a little past?"

"It's enough to keep me. I turned over between four and five 'undredlast week in 'Piecrusts. '"

"Oh!" said Mary, taken by surprise. "Then that--that's your only reasonfor wishing to leave?" And as he did not reply, but went on swishing:"Come, Jim, if you've anything on your mind, say it out. The doctordidn't like the way you spoke to him last night. "

At this the old man straightened his back, took a straw from betweenhis teeth, spat and said: "Well, if you must know, Mrs. Mahony, thedoctor's not the boss it pleases me to be h'under any more--and that'sthe trewth. I'm tired of it--dog-tired. You can slave yer 'ead off for'im, and 'e never notices a thing you do, h'or if 'e does, it's on'y tofind fault. It h'ain't 'uman, I say, and I'll be danged if I stand ith'any longer. "

But people who came to Mary with criticism of Richard got no mercy. "You're far too touchy, Jim. YOU know, if any one does, how rushed andbusy the doctor is, and you ought to be the first to make allowance forhim--after all he's done for you. You wouldn't be here now, if ithadn't been for him. And then to expect him to notice and praise youfor every little job you do!"

But Jim was stubborn. 'E didn't want to deny anything. But 'e'd rathergo. An' this day a week if it suited her. 

"It's really dreadful how uppish the lower classes get as soon as theyhave a little money in their pocket, " she said to herself, as shewalked the shadeless, sandy road. But this thought was like a shadowcast by her husband's mind on hers, and was ousted by the moreindigenous: "But after all who can blame him, poor old fellow, forwanting to take life easy if he has the chance. " She even added: "Hemight have gone off, as most of them do, without a word. "

Then her mind reverted to what he had said of Richard, and she ponderedthe antagonism that had shown through his words. It was not the firsttime she had run up against this spirit, but, as usual, she was at aloss to explain it. Why should people of Old Jim's class dislikeRichard as they did?--find him so hard to get on with? He wasinvariably considerate of them, and treated them very generously withregard to money. And yet . .. For some reason or other they felt injuredby him; and thought and spoke of him with a kind of churlishresentment. She was not clever enough to find the key to the riddle--itwas no such simple explanation as that he felt himself too good forthem. That was not the case: he was proud, certainly, but she had neverknown any one who--under, it was true, a rather sarcastic manner--wasmore broadly tolerant of his fellow-men. And she wound up her soliloquywith the lame admission: "Yes, in spite of all his kindness, I supposehe IS queer . .. Decidedly queer, " and then she heaved a sigh. What apity it was! When you knew him to be, at heart, such a dear, good, well-meaning man. 

A short walk brought her to the four-roomed cottage where Ned livedwith wife and children. Or had lived, till lately. He had been missingfrom his home now for over a week. On the last occasion of his being inMelbourne with the carrying-van, he had decamped, leaving the boy whowas with him to make the return journey alone. Since then, nothingcould be heard of him; and his billet in the Agency had been snapped up. 

"Or so they say!" said his wife, with an angry sniff. "I don't believea word of it, Mary. Since the railway's come, biz has gone to the dogs;and they're only too glad to get the chance of sacking another man. "

Polly looked untidier than ever; she wore a slatternly wrapper, and herhair was thrust unbrushed into its net. But she suffered, no doubt, inher own way; she was red-eyed, and very hasty-handed with her nestfulof babes. Sitting in the cheerless parlour, Ned's dark-eyed eldest onher knee, Mary strove to soothe and encourage. But: it has never beenmuch of a home for the poor boy was her private opinion; and shepressed her cheek affectionately against the little black curly headthat was a replica of Ned's own. 

"What's goin' to become of us all, the Lord only knows, " said Polly, after having had the good cry the sympathetic presence of hersister-in-law justified. "I'm not a brown cent troubled about Ned--onlyboiling with 'im. 'E's off on the booze, sure enough--and 'e'll turn upagain, safe and sound, like loose fish always do. Wait till I catch 'imthough! He'll get it hot. "

"We never ought to have come here, " she went on drying her eyes. "Dratthe place and all that's in it, that's what I say! He did better'n thisin Castlemaine; and I'd pa behind me there. But once Richard had sent'im that twenty quid, he'd no rest till he got away. And I thought, when he was so set on it, may be it'd have a good effect on 'im, to benear you both. But that was just another shoot into the brown. You'vebeen A1, Mary; you've done your level best. But Richard's never treatedNed fair. I don't want to take Ned's part; he's nothing in the worldbut a pretty-faced noodle. But Richard's treated 'im as if he was thedirt under 'is feet. And Ned's felt it. Oh, I know whose doing it was, we were never asked up to the house when you'd company. It wasn'tYOURS, my dear! But we can't all have hyphens to our names, and godriving round with kid gloves on our hands and our noses in the air. "

Mary felt quite depressed by this fresh attack on her husband. Reminding herself, however, that Polly was excited and over-wrought, she did not speak out the defence that leapt to her tongue. She saidstaunchly: "As you put it, Polly, it does seem as if we haven't actedrightly towards Ned. But it wasn't Richard's doing alone. I've beenjust as much to blame as he has. "

She sat on, petting the fractious children and giving kindlyassurances: as long as she and Richard had anything themselves, Ned'swife and Ned's children should not want: and as she spoke, she slippeda substantial proof of her words into Polly's unproud hand. Besides, she believed there was every chance now of Ned soon being restored tothem; and she told how they were going, that very morning, to invokeMr. Smith's aid. Mr. Smith was in the Police, as Polly knew, and hadinfluential friends among the Force in Melbourne. By to-morrow theremight be good news to bring her. 

Almost an hour had passed when she rose to leave. Mrs. Ned was sograteful for the visit and the help that, out in the narrow littlepassage, she threw her arms round Mary's neck and drew her to herbosom. Holding her thus, after several hearty kisses, she said in amysterious whisper, with her lips close to Mary's ear: "Mary, love, mayI say something to you?" and the permission granted, went on: "That is, give you a bit of a hint, dearie?"

"Why, of course you may, Polly. "

"Sure you won't feel hurt, dear?"

"Quite sure. What is it?" and Mary disengaged herself, that she mightlook the speaker in the face. 

"Well, it's just this--you mentioned the name yourself, or I wouldn'thave dared. It's young Mr. Smith, Mary. My dear, in future don't youhave 'im quite so much about the house as you do at present. It ain'tthe thing. People WILL talk, you know, if you give 'em a handle. " ("Oh, but Polly!" in a blank voice from Mary. ) "Now, now, I'm not blamingyou--not the least tiddly-wink. But there's no harm in being careful, is there, love, if you don't want your name in people's mouths? I'mthat fond of you, Mary--you don't mind me speaking, dearie?"

"No, Polly, I don't. But it's the greatest nonsense--I never heard sucha thing!" said Mary hotly. "Why, Purdy is Richard's oldest friend. Theywere schoolboys together. "

"May be they were. But I hear 'e's mostly up at your place whenRichard's out. And you're a young and pretty woman, my dear; it'sRichard who ought to think of it, and he so much older than you. Well, just take the hint, love. It comes best, don't it, from one of thefamily?"

But Mary left the house in a sad flurry; and even forgot for a streetlength to open her parasol. 

Her first impulse was to go straight to Richard. But she had notcovered half a dozen yards before she saw that this would never do. Atthe best of times Richard abominated gossip; and the fact of it having, in the present case, dared to fasten its fangs in some one belonging tohim would make him doubly wroth. He might even try to find out who hadstarted the talk; and get himself into hot water over it. Or he mightwant to lay all the blame on his own shoulders--make himself thereproaches Ned's Polly had not spared him. Worse still, he wouldperhaps accuse Purdy of inconsiderateness towards her, and fly into arage with him; and then the two of them would quarrel, which would be athousand pities. For though he often railed at Purdy, yet that was onlyRichard's way: he was genuinely fond of him, and unbent to him as tonobody else. 

But these were just so many pretexts put forward to herself by Mary forkeeping silence; the real reason lay deeper. Eight years of marriedlife had left her, where certain subjects were concerned, with all themodesty of her girlhood intact. There were things, indelicate things, which COULD not be spoken out, even between husband and wife. For herto have to step before Richard and say: some one else feels for me inthe same way as you, my husband, do, would make her ever after unablefrankly to meet his eyes. Besides giving the vague, cobwebby stuff abody it did not deserve. 

But yet again this was not the whole truth: she had another, moreuncomfortable side of it to face; and the flies buzzed unheeded roundher head. The astonishment she had shown at her sister-in-law's warninghad not been altogether sincere. Far down in her heart Mary found afaint, faint trace of complicity. For months past--she could admit itnow--she had not felt easy about Purdy. Something disagreeable, disturbing, had crept into their relations. The jolly, brotherly mannershe liked so well had deserted him; besides short-tempered he had growndeadly serious, and not the stupidest woman could fail altogether tosee what the matter was. But she had wilfully bandaged her eyes. Andif, now and then, some word or look had pierced her guard anddisquieted her in spite of herself, she had left it at an incredulous:"Oh, but then. .. But even if. .. In that case. .. . " She now saw herfervent hope had been that the affair would blow over without coming toanything; prove to be just another passing fancy on the part of theunstable Purdy. How many had she not assisted at! This very summer, forinstance, a charming young lady from Sydney had stayed with theUrquharts; and, as long as her visit lasted, they had seen little ornothing of Purdy. Whenever he got off duty he was at Yarangobilly. Asit happened, however, Mr. Urquhart himself had been so assiduous intaking his guest about that Purdy had had small chance of making animpression. And, in looking back on the incident, what now rose mostclearly before Mary's mind was the way in which Mrs. Urquhart--poorthing, she was never able to go anywhere with her husband: either shehad a child in arms or another coming; the row of toddlers mounted upin steps--the way in which she had said, with her pathetic smile: "Ah, my dear! Willie needs some one gayer and stronger than I am, forcompany. " Mary's heart had been full of pity at the time, for herfriend's lot; and it swelled again now at the remembrance. 

But oh dear! this was straying from the point. Impatiently she jerkedher thoughts back to herself and her own dilemma. What ought she to do?She was not a person who could sit still with folded hands and awaitevents. How would it be if she spoke to Purdy herself? . .. Talkedseriously to him about his work? . .. Tried to persuade him to leaveBallarat. Did he mean to hang on here for ever, she would say--neverintend to seek promotion? But then again, the mere questioning wouldcause a certain awkwardness. While, at the slightest trip or blunder onher part, what was unsaid might suddenly find itself said; and thewhole thing cease to be the vague, cloudy affair it was at present. Andthough she would actually rather this happened with regard to Purdythan Richard, yet . .. Yet. .. . 

Worried and perplexed, unable to see before her the straight plain pathshe loved, Mary once more sighed from the bottom of her heart. 

"Oh if ONLY men wouldn't be so foolish!"

Left to himself Mahony put away his books, washed his hands andsummoned one by one to his presence the people who waited in theadjoining room. He drew a tooth, dressed a wounded wrist, prescribedfor divers internal disorders--all told, a baker's dozen of odd jobs. 

When the last patient had gone he propped open the door, wiped hisforehead and read the thermometer that hung on the wall: it marked 102degrees. Dejectedly he drove, in fancy, along the glaring, treelessroads, inches deep in cinnamon-coloured dust. How one learnt to hatethe sun out here. What wouldn't he give for a cool, grey-green Irishday, with a wet wind blowing in from the sea?--a day such as he hadheedlessly squandered hundreds of, in his youth. Now it made his mouthwater only to think of them. 

It still wanted ten minutes to ten o'clock and the buggy had not yetcome round. He would lie down and have five minutes' rest beforestarting: he had been up most of the night, and on getting home hadbeen kept awake by neuralgia. 

When an hour later Mary reached home, she was amazed to find groom andbuggy still drawn up in front of the house. 

"Why, Molyneux, what's the matter? Where's the doctor?"

"I'm sure I don't know, Mrs. Mahony. I've hollered to Biddy half adozen times, but she doesn't take any notice. And the mare's thatrestless. .. . There, there, steady old girl, steady now! It's these damnflies. "

Mary hurried indoors. "Why, Biddy. .. . "

"Sure and it's yourself, " said the big Irishwoman who now filled thekitchen-billet. "Faith and though you scold me, Mrs. Mahony, I couldn'tbring it over me heart to wake him. The pore man's sleeping like asaint. "

"Biddy, you ought to know better!" cried Mary peeling off her gloves. 

"It's pale as the dead he is. "

"Rubbish. It's only the reflection of the green blind. RICHARD! Do youknow what the time is?"

But the first syllable of his name was enough. "Good Lord, Mary, I musthave dropped off. What the dickens. .. . Come, help me, wife. Why onearth didn't those fools wake me?"

Mary held his driving-coat, fetched hat and gloves, while he flung thenecessaries into his bag. "Have you much to do this morning? Oh, thatpost-mortem's at twelve, isn't it?"

"Yes; and a consultation with Munce at eleven--I'll just manage it andno more, " muttered Mahony with an eye on his watch. "I can't let themare take it easy this morning. Yes, a full day. And Henry Ocock'sfidgeting for a second opinion; thinks his wife's not making enoughprogress. Well, ta-ta, sweetheart! Don't expect me back to lunch. " Andtaking a short cut across the lawn, he jumped into the buggy and offthey flew. 

Mary's thoughts were all for him in this moment. "How proud we ought tofeel!" she said to herself. "That makes the second time in a week oldMunce has sent for him. But how like Henry Ocock, " she went on withpuckered brow. "It's quite insulting--after the trouble Richard has puthimself to. If Agnes's case puzzles him, I should like to know who willunderstand it better. I think I'll go and see her myself thisafternoon. It can't be HER wish to call in a stranger. "

Not till some time after did she remember her own privateembarrassment. And, by then, the incident had taken its proper place inher mind--had sunk to the level of insignificance to which it belonged. 

"Such a piece of nonsense!" was her final verdict. "As if I could worryRichard with it, when he has so many really important things to occupyhim. "

Chapter V

Yes, those were palmy days; the rate at which the practice spreadastonished even himself. No slack seasons for him now; winter saw himas busy as summer; and his chief ground for complaint was that he wasunable to devote the meticulous attention he would have wished to eachindividual case. "It would need the strength of an elephant to dothat. " But it was impossible not to feel gratified by the many marks ofconfidence he received. And if his work had but left him some leisurefor study and an occasional holiday, he would have been content. But inthese years he was never able to get his neck out of the yoke; and Marytook her annual jaunts to Melbourne and sea-breezes alone. 

In a long talk they had with each other, it was agreed that, except inan emergency, he was to be chary of entering into freshengagements--this referred in the first place to confinements, of whichhis book was always full; and secondly, to outlying bush-cases, thejourney to and from which wasted many a precious hour. And where itwould have been impolitic to refuse a new and influential patient, someone on his list--a doubtful payer or a valetudinarian--was gently to belet drop. And it was Mary who arranged who this should be. Some umbragewas bound to be given in the process; but with her help it was reducedto a minimum. For Mary knew by heart all the links and ramifications ofthe houses at which he visited; knew precisely who was related to whom, by blood or marriage or business; knew where offence might with safetybe risked, and where it would do him harm. She had also a woman's tactin smoothing things over. A born doctor's wife, declared Mahony ingrateful acknowledgment. For himself he could not keep such fiddlingdetails in his head for two minutes on end. 

But though he thus succeeded in setting bounds to his activity, hestill had a great deal too much to do; and, in tired moments, or whentic plagued him, thought the sole way out of the impasse would be toassociate some one with him as partner or assistant. And once he waswithin an ace of doing so, chance throwing what he considered a likelyperson across his path. In attending a coroner's inquest, he made theacquaintance of a member of the profession who was on his way from theOvens district--a coach journey of well over two hundred miles--to aplace called Walwala, a day's ride to the west of Ballarat. And sincethis was a pleasant-spoken man and intelligent--though with a somewhatdown-at-heel look--besides being a stranger to the town, Mahonyimpulsively took him home to dinner. In the evening they sat andtalked. The visitor, whose name was Wakefield, was considerablyMahony's senior. By his own account he had had but a rough time of itfor the past couple of years. A good practice which he had worked up inthe seaport of Warrnambool had come to an untimely end. He did notenter into the reasons for this. "I was unfortunate . .. Had a piece ofill-luck, " was how he referred to it. And knowing how fatally easy wasa trip in diagnosis, a slip of the scalpel, Mahony tactfully helped himover the allusion. From Warrnambool Wakefield had gone to the extremenorth of the colony; but the eighteen months spent there had nearlybeen his undoing. Money had not come in badly; but his wife and familyhad suffered from the great heat, and the scattered nature of the workhad worn him to skin and bone. He was now casting about him for a moresuitable place. He could not afford to buy a practice, must just creepin where he found a vacancy. And Walwala, where he understood there hadnever been a resident practitioner, seemed to offer an opening. 

Mahony felt genuinely sorry for the man; and after he had gone sat andrevolved the idea, in the event of Walwala proving unsuitable, oftaking Wakefield on as his assistant. He went to bed full of the schemeand broached it to Mary before they slept. Mary made big eyes toherself as she listened. Like a wise wife, however, she did not pressher own views that night, while the idea bubbled hot in him; for, atsuch times, when some new project seemed to promise the millennium, hestood opposition badly. But she lay awake telling off the reasons shewould put before him in the morning; and in the dark allowed herself atender, tickled little smile at his expense. 

"What a man he is for loading himself up with the wrong sort ofpeople!" she reflected. "And then afterwards, he gets tired of them, and impatient with them--as is only natural. "

At breakfast she came back on the subject herself. In her opinion, heought to think the matter over very carefully. Not another doctor onBallarat had an assistant; and his patients would be sure to resent thenovelty. Those who sent for Dr. Mahony would not thank you to be handedover to "goodness knows who. "

"Besides, Richard, as things are now, the money wouldn't really beenough, would it? And just as we have begun to be a little easyourselves--I'm afraid you'd miss many comforts you have got used toagain, dear, " she wound up, with a mental glance at the fine linen andsmooth service Richard loved. 

Yes, that was true, admitted Mahony with a sigh; and being this morningin a stale mood, he forthwith knocked flat the card-house it had amusedhim to build. Himself he had only half believed in it; or believed solong as he refrained from going into prosaic details. There was workfor two and money for one--that was the crux of the matter. Successfulas the practice was, it still did not throw off a thousand a year. Baddebts ran to a couple of hundred annually; and their improved style ofliving--the expenses of house and garden, of horses and vehicles, themen-servants, the open house they had to keep--swallowed every penny ofthe rest. Saving was actually harder than when his income had been buta third of what it was at present. New obligations beset him. For onething, he had to keep pace with his colleagues; make a show of beingjust as well-to-do as they. Retrenching was out of the question. Hispatients would at once imagine that something was wrong--the practiceon the downgrade, his skill deserting him--and take their ailments andtheir fees elsewhere. No, the more one had, the more one was forced tospend; and the few odd hundreds for which Henry Ocock could yearly becounted on came in very handy. As a rule he laid these by for Mary'sbenefit; for her visits to Melbourne, her bonnets and gowns. It alsolet her satisfy the needs of her generous little heart in matters ofhospitality--well, it was perhaps not fair to lay the whole blame oftheir incessant and lavish entertaining at her door. He himself knewthat it would not do for them to lag a foot behind other people. 

Hence the day on which he would be free to dismiss the subject of moneyfrom his mind seemed as far off as ever. He might indulge wild schemesof taking assistant or partner; the plain truth was, he could notafford even the sum needed to settle in a LOCUM TENENS for threemonths, while he recuperated. --Another and equally valid reason wasthat the right man for a LOCUM was far to seek. As time went on, hefound himself pushed more and more into a single branch ofmedicine--one, too, he had never meant to let grow over his head inthis fashion. For it was common medical knowledge out here that, giventhe distances and the general lack of conveniences, thirty to fortymaternity cases per year were as much as a practitioner could withcomfort take in hand. HIS books for the past year stood at over ahundred! The nightwork this meant was unbearable, infants showing aperverse disinclination to enter the world except under cover of thedark. 

His popularity--if such it could be called--with the other sex wassomething of a mystery to him. For he had not one manner for thebedside and another for daily life. He never sought to ingratiatehimself with people, or to wheedle them; still less would he stoop tobully or intimidate; was always by preference the adviser rather thanthe dictator. And men did not greatly care for this arm's-lengthattitude; they wrote him down haughty and indifferent, and pinned theirfaith to a blunter, homelier manner. But with women it was otherwise;and these also appreciated the fact that, no matter what their rank inlife, their age or their looks, he met them with the deference hebelieved due to their sex. Exceptions there were, of course. Affectation or insincerity angered him--with the "Zaras" of this worldhe had scant patience--while among the women themselves, somefew--Ned's wife, for example--felt resentment at his very appearance, his gestures, his tricks of speech. But the majority were his staunchpartisans; and it was becoming more and more the custom to engage Dr. Mahony months ahead, thus binding him fast. And though he wouldsometimes give Mary a fright by vowing that he was going to "throw upmid. And be done with it, " yet her ambition--and what an ambitious wifeshe was, no one but himself knew--that he should some day become one ofthe leading specialists on Ballarat, seemed not unlikely of fulfilment. If his health kept good. And . .. And if he could possibly hold out!

For there still came times when he believed that to turn his back forever, on place and people, would make him the happiest of mortals. Fora time this idea had left him in peace. Now it haunted him again. Perhaps, because he had at last grasped the unpalatable truth that itwould never be his luck to save: if saving were the only key tofreedom, he would still be there, still chained fast, and though helived to be a hundred. Certain it was, he did not become a bettercolonist as the years went on. He had learnt to hate the famousclimate--the dust and drought and brazen skies; the drenching rains andbottomless mud--to rebel against the interminable hours he was doomedto spend in his buggy. By nature he was a recluse--not an outdoor-manat all. He was tired, too, of the general rampage, the promiscuousconnexions and slap-dash familiarity of colonial life; sick to death ofthe all-absorbing struggle to grow richer than his neighbours. Hedidn't give a straw for money in itself--only for what it brought him. And what was the good of that, if he had no leisure to enjoy it? Or wasit the truth that he feared being dragged into the vortex? . .. Oflearning to care, he, too, whether or no his name toppedsubscription-lists; whether his entertainments were the most sumptuous, his wife the best-dressed woman in her set? Perish the thought!

He did not disquiet Mary by speaking of these things. Still less did hetry to explain to her another, more elusive side of the matter. It wasthis. Did he dig into himself, he saw that his uncongenial surroundingswere not alone to blame for his restless state of mind. There was inhim a gnawing desire for change as change; a distinct fear of beingpinned for too long to the same spot; or, to put it another way, aconviction that to live on without change meant decay. For him, atleast. Of course, it was absurd to yield to feelings of this kind; athis age, in his position, with a wife dependent on him. And so hefought them--even while he indulged them. For this was the year inwhich, casting the question of expense to the winds, he pulled down andrebuilt his house. It came over him one morning on waking that he couldnot go on in the old one for another day, so cramped was he, sotortured by its lath-and-plaster thinness. He had difficulty in winningMary over; she was against the outlay, the trouble and confusioninvolved; and was only reconciled by the more solid comforts andgreater conveniences offered her. For the new house was of brick, thefirst brick house to be built on Ballarat (and oh the joy! saidRichard, of walls so thick that you could not hear through them), hadan extra-wide verandah which might be curtained in for parties anddances, and a side-entrance for patients, such as Mary had often sighedfor. 

As a result of the new grandeur, more and more flocked to his door. Thepresent promised to be a record year even in the annals of the GoldenCity. The completion of the railway-line to Melbourne was theoutstanding event. Virtually halving the distance to the metropolis incount of time, it brought a host of fresh people capitalists, speculators, politicians--about the town, and money grew perceptiblyeasier. Letters came more quickly, too; Melbourne newspapers could behandled almost moist from the press. One no longer had the sense oflying shut off from the world, behind the wall of a tedious coachjourney. And the merry Ballaratians, who had never feared or shrunkfrom the discomforts of this journey, now travelled constantly up anddown: attending the Melbourne race-meetings; the Government House ballsand lawn-parties; bringing back the gossip of Melbourne, together withits fashions in dress, music and social life. 

Mary, in particular, profited by the change; for in one of those"general posts" so frequently played by the colonial cabinet, JohnTurnham had come out Minister of Railways; and she could have a "freepass" for the asking. John paid numerous visits to his constituency;but he was now such an important personage that his relatives hardlysaw him. As likely as not he was the guest of the Henry Ococks in theirnew mansion, or of the mayor of the borough. In the past two yearsMahony had only twice exchanged a word with his brother-in-law. 

And then they met again. 

In Melbourne, at six o'clock one January morning, the Honourable John, about to enter a saloon-compartment of the Ballarat train, paused, withone foot on the step, and disregarding the polite remarks of thestation-master at his heels, screwed up his prominent black eyesagainst the sun. At the farther end of the train, a tall, thin, fair-whiskered man was peering disconsolately along a row of crowdedcarriages. "God bless me! isn't that . .. Why, so it is!" And leavingthe official standing, John walked smartly down the platform. 

"My dear Mahony!--this is indeed a surprise. I had no idea you were intown. "

"Why not have let me know you proposed coming?" he inquired as theymade their way, the train meanwhile held up on their account, towardsJohn's spacious, reserved saloon. 

("What he means is, why I didn't beg a pass of him. ") And Mahony, whodetested asking favours, laid exaggerated emphasis on his want ofknowledge. He had not contemplated the journey till an hour beforehand. Then, the proposed delegate having been suddenly taken ill, he had beenurgently requested to represent the Masonic Lodge to which he belonged, at the Installation of a new Grand Master. 

"Ah, so you found it possible to get out of harness for once?" saidJohn affably, as they took their seats. 

"Yes, by a lucky chance I had no case on hand that could not do withoutme for twenty-four hours. And my engagement-book I can leave withperfect confidence to my wife. "

"Mary is no doubt a very capable woman; I noticed that afresh, whenlast she was with us, " returned John; and went on to tick off Mary'squalities like a connoisseur appraising the points of a horse. "Amisfortune that she is not blessed with any family, " he added. 

Mahony stiffened; and responded dryly: "I'm not sure that I agree withyou. With all her energy and spirit Mary is none too strong. "

"Well, well! these things are in the hands of Providence; we must takewhat is sent us. " And caressing his bare chin John gave a hearty yawn. 

The words flicked Mahony's memory: John had had an addition to hisfamily that winter, in the shape--to the disappointment of allconcerned--of a second daughter. He offered belated congratulations. "Aregular Turnham this time, according to Mary. But I am sorry to hearJane has not recovered her strength. "

"Oh, Jane is doing very well. But it has been a real disadvantage thatshe could not nurse. The infant is . .. Well, ah . .. Perfectly formed, of course, but small--small. "

"You must send them both to Mary, to be looked after. "

The talk then passed to John's son, now a schoolboy in Geelong; andJohn admitted that the reports he received of the lad continued asunsatisfactory as ever. "The young rascal has ability, they tell me, but no application. " John propounded various theories to account forthe boy having turned out poorly, chief among which was that he hadbeen left too long in the hands of women. They had overindulged him. "Mary no more than the rest, my dear fellow, " he hastened to smoothMahony's rising plumes. "It began with his mother in the first place. Yes, poor Emma was weak with the boy--lamentably weak!"

Here, with a disconcerting abruptness, he drew to him a blue linen bagthat lay on the seat, and loosening its string took out a sheaf ofofficial papers, in which he was soon engrossed. He had had enough ofMahony's conversation in the meantime, or so it seemed; had thought ofsomething better to do, and did it. 

His brother-in-law eyed him as he read. "He's a bad colour. Been livingtoo high, no doubt. "

A couple of new books were on the seat by Mahony; but he did not openthem. He had a tiring day behind him, and the briefest of nights. Besides attending the masonic ceremony, which had lasted into the smallhours, he had undertaken to make various purchases, not the leastdifficult of which was the buying of a present for Mary--all the littlefal-lals that went to finish a lady's ball-dress. Railway-travellingwas, too, something of a novelty to him nowadays; and he sat idlywatching the landscape unroll, and thinking of nothing in particular. The train was running through mile after mile of flat, treelesscountry, liberally sprinkled with trapstones and clumps of tussockgrass, which at a distance could be mistaken for couched sheep. Hereand there stood a solitary she-oak, most doleful of trees, its scraggy, pine-needle foliage bleached to grey. From the several little stationsalong the line: mere three-sided sheds, which bore a printed invitationto intending passengers to wave a flag or light a lamp, did they wishto board the train: from these shelters long, bare, red roads, straightas ruled lines, ran back into the heart of the burnt-up, faded country. Now and then a moving ruddy cloud on one of them told of some vehiclecrawling its laborious way. 

When John, his memoranda digested, looked up ready to resume theirtalk, he found that Mahony was fast asleep; and, since his first words, loudly uttered, did not rouse him, he took out his case, chose a cigar, beheaded it and puffed it alight. 

While he smoked, he studied his insensible relative. Mahony was sittinguncomfortably hunched up; his head had fallen forward and to the side, his mouth was open, his gloved hands lay limp on his knee. 

"H'm!" said John to himself as he gazed. And: "H'm, " he repeated afteran interval. --Then pulling down his waistcoat and generally givinghimself a shake to rights, he reflected that, for his own two-and-fortyyears, he was a very well preserved man indeed. 

Chapter VI

"Oh, Richard!. .. And my dress is blue, " said Mary distractedly, andsitting back on her heels let her arms fall to her sides. She was onher knees, and before her lay a cardboard box from which she hadwithdrawn a pink fan, pink satin boots with stockings to match, and apink head-dress. 

"Well, why the dickens didn't you say so?" burst out the giver. 

"I did, dear. As plainly as I could speak. "

"Never heard a word!"

"Because you weren't listening. I told you so at the time. Now what amI to do?" and, in her worry over the contretemps, Mary quite forgot tothank her husband for the trouble he had been to on her behalf. 

"Get another gown to go with them. "

"Oh, Richard. .. How like a man! After all the time and money this onehas cost me. No, I couldn't do that. Besides, Agnes Ocock is wearingpink and wouldn't like it. " And with a forehead full of wrinkles sheslowly began to replace the articles in their sheaths. "Of coursethey're very nice, " she added, as her fingers touched the delicatetextures. 

"They would need to be, considering what I paid for them. I wish nowI'd kept my money in my pocket. "

"Well, your mistake is hardly my fault, is it, dear?" But Richard hadgone off in a mood midway between self-annoyance and the huff. 

Mary's first thought was to send the articles to Jinny with a requestto exchange them for their counterparts in the proper colour. Then shedismissed the idea. Blind slave to her nursery that Jinny was, shewould hardly be likely to give the matter her personal supervision: thebox would just be returned to the shop, and the transfer left to theshop-people's discretion. They might even want to charge more. No, another plan now occurred to Mary. Agnes Ocock might not yet havesecured the various small extras to go with her ball-dress; and, ifnot, how nice it would be to make her a present of these. They werefiner, in better taste, than anything to be had on Ballarat; and shehad long owed Agnes some return for her many kindnesses. Herself shewould just make do with the simpler things she could buy in town. Andso, without saying anything to Richard, who would probably haveobjected that Henry Ocock was well able to afford to pay for his ownwife's finery, Mary tied up the box and drove to Plevna House, on theouter edge of Yuille's Swamp. 

"Oh, no, I could never have got myself such beautiful things as these, Mary, " and Mrs. Henry let her hands play lovingly with the silkstockings, her pretty face a-glow with pleasure. "Henry has nounderstanding, dear, for the etceteras of a costume. He thinks, if hepays for a dress or a mantle, that that is enough; and when the LITTLEbills come in, he grumbles at what he calls my extravagance. Isometimes wish, Mary, I had kept back just a teeny-weeny bit of my ownmoney. Henry would never have missed it, and I should have been able tosettle a small bill for myself now and then. But you know how it is atfirst, love. Our one idea is to hand over all we possess to our lordand master. " She tried on the satin boots; they were a little long, butshe would stuff the toes with wadding. "If I am REALLY not robbing you, Mary?"

Mary reassured her, and thereupon a visit was paid to the nursery, where Mr. Henry's son and heir lay sprawling in his cradle. Afterwardsthey sat and chatted on the verandah, while a basket was being filledwith peaches for Mary to take home. 

Not even the kindly drapery of a morning-wrapper could conceal the factthat Agnes was growing stout--quite losing her fine figure. That cameof her having given up riding-exercise. And all to please Mr. Henry. Hedid not ride himself, and felt nervous or perhaps a little jealous whenhis wife was on horseback. 

She was still very pretty of course--though by daylight the fine bloomof her cheeks began to break up into a network of tiny veins--and herfair, smooth brow bore no trace of the tragedy she has gone through. The double tragedy; for, soon after the master of Dandaloo's death in aMelbourne lunatic asylum, the little son of the house had died, not yetfourteen years of age, in an Inebriate's Home. Far was it from Mary towish her friend to brood or repine; but to have ceased to remember asutterly as Agnes had done had something callous about it; and, in herown heart, Mary devoted a fresh regret to the memory of the poor littlestepchild of fate. 

The ball for which all these silken niceties were destined had beenorganised to raise funds for a public monument to the two explorers, Burke and Wills, and was to be one of the grandest ever given inBallarat. His Excellency the Governor would, it was hoped, be presentin person; the ladies had taken extraordinary pains with theirtoilettes, and there had been the usual grumblings at expense on thepart of the husbands--though not a man but wished and privatelyexpected HIS wife "to take the shine out of all the rest. "

Mary had besought Richard to keep that evening free--it was her lotalways to go out to entertainments under some one else's wing--and hehad promised to do his utmost. But, a burnt child in this respect, Marysaid she would believe it when she saw it; and the trend of eventsjustified her scepticism. The night arrived; she was on the point ofadjusting her wreath of forget-me-nots before her candle-lit mirror, when the dreaded summons came. Mahony had to change and hurry off, without a moment's delay. 

"Send for Purdy. He'll see you across, " he said as he banged the frontdoor. 

But Mary despatched the gardener at a run with a note to Tilly Ocock, who, she knew, would make room for her in her double-seated buggy. 

Grindle got out, and Mary, her bunchy skirts held to her, took hisplace at the back beside Mrs. Amelia. Tilly sat next the driver, andtalked to them over her shoulder--a great big jolly rattle of a woman, who ruled her surroundings autocratically. 

"Lor, no--we left 'im counting eggs, " she answered an inquiry on Mary'spart. "Pa's got a brood of Cochin Chinas that's the pride and glory of'is heart. And 'e's built 'imself the neatest little place for 'em youcould meet on a summer's day: you MUST come over and admire it, mydear--that'll please 'im, no end. It was a condition I made for 'isgoing on keeping fowls. They were a perfect nuisance, all over thegarden and round the kitchen and the back, till it wasn't safe to putyour foot down anywhere--fowls ARE such messy things! At last I up andsaid I wouldn't have it any longer. So then 'e and Tom set to work andbuilt themselves a fowl-house and a run. And there they spend theirdays thinking out improvements. "

Here Tilly gave the driver a cautionary dig with her elbow; as she didthis, an under-pocket chinked ominously. "Look out now, Davy, whatyou're doing with us!--Yes, that's splosh, Mary. I always bring a bagof change with me, my dear, so that those who lose shan't have anexcuse for not paying up. " Tilly was going to pass her evening, asusual, at the card-table. "Well, I hope you two'll enjoy yourselves. Remember now, Mrs. Grindle, if you please, that you're a married womanand must behave yourself, and not go in for any high jinks, " she teasedher prim little stepdaughter, as they dismounted from the conveyanceand stood straightening their petticoats at the entrance to the hall. 

"You know, Matilda, I do not intend to dance to-night, " said Mrs Ameliain her sedate fashion: it was as if she sampled each word beforeparting with it. 

"Oh, I know, bless you! and know why, too. If only it's not anotherfalse alarm! Poor old pa' so like to have a grandchild 'e was allowedto carry round. 'E mustn'n go near Henry's, of course, for fear the kid'ud swallow one of 'is dropped aitches and choke over it. " And Tillythrew back her head and laughed. "But you must hurry up, Mely, youknow, if you want to oblige 'im. "

"Really, Tilly!" expostulated Mary. ("She sometimes DOES go too far, "she thought to herself. "The poor little woman!") "Let us two keeptogether, " she said as she took Amelia's arm. "I don't intend to dancemuch either, as my husband isn't here. "

But once inside the gaily decorated hall, she found it impossible tokeep her word. Even on her way to a seat beside Agnes Ocock she wasrepeatedly stopped, and, when she sat down, up came first one, thenanother, to "request the pleasure. " She could not go on refusingeverybody: if she did, it would look as if she deliberately set out tobe peculiar--a horrible thought to Mary. Besides, many of those whomade their bow were important, influential gentlemen; for Richard'ssake she must treat them politely. 

For his sake, again, she felt pleased; rightly or wrongly she put themany attentions shown her down to the fact of her being his wife. Soshe turned and offered apologies to Agnes and Amelia, feeling at thesame time thankful that Richard had not Mr. Henry's jealousdisposition. There sat Agnes, looking as pretty as a picture, and wasafraid to dance with any one but her own husband. And he preferred toplay at cards!

"I think, dear, you might have ventured to accept the Archdeacon for aquadrille, " she whispered behind her fan, as Agnes regretfully declinedMr. Long. 

But Agnes shook her head. "It's better not, Mary. It saves troubleafterwards. Henry DOESN'T care to see it. " Perhaps Agnes herself, oncea passionate dancer, was growing a little too comfortable, thoughtMary, as her own programme wandered from hand to hand. 

Among the last to arrive was Purdy, red with haste, and making a greatthump with his lame leg as he crossed the floor. 

"I'm beastly late, Polly. What have you got left for me?"

"Why, really nothing, Purdy. I thought you weren't coming. But you mayput your name down here if you like, " and Mary handed him her programmewith her thumb on an empty space: she generally made a point of sittingout a dance with Purdy that he might not feel neglected; and of lateshe had been especially careful not to let him notice any difference inher treatment of him. But when he gave back the card she found that hehad scribbled his initials in all three blank lines. "Oh, you mustn'tdo that. I'm saving those for Richard. "

"Our dance, I believe, Mrs. Mahony?" said a deep voice as the bandstruck up "The Rat Quadrilles. " And, swaying this way and that in herflounced blue tarletan, Mary rose, put her hand within the profferedcrook, and went off with the Police Magistrate, an elderly greybeard;went to walk or be teetotumed through the figures of the dance, withthe supremely sane unconcern that she displayed towards all the arts. 

"What odd behaviour!" murmured Mrs. Henry, following Purdy's retreatingform with her eyes. "He took no notice of us whatever. And did you see, Amelia, how he stood and stared after Mary? Quite rudely, I thought. "

Here Mrs. Grindle was forced to express an opinion of her own--always atrial for the nervous little woman. "I think it's because dear Marylooks so charming to-night, Agnes, " she ventured in her mouselike way. Then moved up to make room for Archdeacon Long, who laid himself out toentertain the ladies. 

* * * * *

It was after midnight when Mahony reached home. He would rather havegone to bed, but having promised Mary to put in an appearance, hechanged and walked down to the town. 

The ball was at its height. He skirted the rotating couples, seekingMary. Friends hailed him. 

"Ah, well done, doctor!"

"Still in time for a spin, sir. "

"Have you seen my wife?"

"Indeed and I have. Mrs. Mahony's the belle o' the ball. "

"Pleased to hear it. Where is she now?"

"Look here, Mahony, we've had a reg'lar dispute, " cried Willie Urquhartpressing up; he was flushed and decidedly garrulous. "Almost came toblows we did, over whose was the finest pair o' shoulders--your wife'sor Henry O. 's. I plumped for Mrs. M. , and I b'lieve she topped thepoll. By Jove! that blue gown makes 'em look just like . .. What shall Isay? . .. Like marble. "

"Does fortune smile?" asked Mahony of Henry Ocock as he passed thecard-players: he had cut Urquhart short with a nod. "So his Excellencydidn't turn up, after all?"

"Sent a telegraphic communication at the last moment. No, I haven'tseen her. But stay, there's Matilda wanting to speak to you, I believe. "

Tilly was making all manner of signs to attract his attention. 

"Good evening, doctor. Yes, I've a message. You'll find 'er in thecloakroom. She's been in there for the last half-'our or so. I thinkshe's got the headache or something of that sort, and is waiting foryou to take 'er home. "

"Oh, thank goodness, there you are, Richard!" cried Mary as he openedthe door of the cloakroom; and she rose from the bench on which she hadbeen sitting with her shawl wrapped round her. "I thought you'd nevercome. " She was pale, and looked distressed. 

"Why, what's wrong, my dear? . .. Feeling faint?" asked Mahonyincredulously. "If so, you had better wait for the buggy. It won't belong now; you ordered it for two o'clock. "

"No, no, I'm not ill, I'd rather walk, " said Mary breathlessly. "Onlyplease let us get away. And without making a fuss. "

"But what's the matter?"

"I'll tell you as we go. No, these boots won't hurt. And I can walk inthem quite well. Fetch your own things, Richard. " Her one wish was toget her husband out of the building. 

They stepped into the street; it was a hot night and very dark. In herthin satin dancing-boots, Mary leaned heavily on Richard's arm, as theyturned off the street-pavements into the unpaved roads. 

Mahony let the lights of the main street go past; then said: "And now, Madam Wife, you'll perhaps be good enough to enlighten me as to whatall this means?"

"Yes, dear, I will, " answered Mary obediently. But her voice trembled;and Mahony was sharp of hearing. 

"Why, Polly sweetheart . .. Surely nothing serious?"

"Yes, it is. I've had a very unpleasant experience this evening, Richard--very unpleasant indeed. I hardly know how to tell you. I feelso upset. "

"Come--out with it!"

In a low voice, with downcast eyes, Mary told her story. All had gonewell till about twelve o'clock: she had danced with this partner andthat, and thoroughly enjoyed herself. Then came Purdy's turn. She waswith Mrs. Long when he claimed her, and she at once suggested that theyshould sit out the dance on one of the settees placed round the hall, where they could amuse themselves by watching the dancers. But Purdytook no notice--"He was strange in his manner from the verybeginning"--and led her into one of the little rooms that opened offthe main body of the hall. 

"And I didn't like to object. We were conspicuous enough as it was, hisfoot made such a bumping noise; it was worse than ever to-night, Ithought. "

For the same reason, though she had felt uncomfortable at being hiddenaway in there, she had not cared to refuse to stay: it seemed to maketoo much of the thing. Besides, she hoped some other couple would jointhem. But

"But, Mary. .. !" broke from Mahony; he was blank and bewildered. 

Purdy, however, had got up after a moment or two and shut the door. Andthen--"Oh, it's no use, Richard, I can't tell you!" said poor Mary. "Idon't know how to get the words over my lips. I think I've never feltso ashamed in all my life. " And, worn out by the worry and excitementshe had gone through, and afraid, in advance, of what she had still toface, Mary began to cry. 

Mahony stood still; let her arm drop. "Do you mean me to understand, "he demanded, as if unable to believe his ears: "to understand thatPurdy. .. Dared to. .. That he dared to behave to you in any but a--" Andsince Mary was using her pocket-handkerchief and could not reply: "GoodGod! Has the fellow taken leave of his senses? Is he mad? Was he drunk?Answer me! What does it all mean?" And Mary still continuing silent, hethrew off the hand she had replaced on his arm. "Then you must walkhome alone. I'm going back to get at the truth of this. "

But Mary clung to him. "No, no, you must hear the whole story first. "Anything rather than let him return to the hall. Yes, at first shethought he really had gone mad. "I can't tell you what I felt, Richard. .. Knowing it was Purdy--just Purdy. To see him like that--looking sohorrible--and to have to listen to the dreadful things he said! Yes, I'm sure he had had too too much to drink. His breath smelt so. " Shehad tried to pull away her hands; but he had held her, had put his armsround her. 

At the anger she felt racing through her husband she tightened hergrip, stringing meanwhile phrase to phrase with the sole idea ofgetting him safely indoors. Not till they were shut in the bedroom didshe give the most humiliating detail of any: how, while she was stillstruggling to free herself from Purdy's embrace, the door had openedand Mr. Grindle looked in. "He drew back at once, of course. But it wasawful, Richard! I turned cold. It seemed to give me more strength, though. I pulled myself away and got out of the room, I don't know how. My wreath was falling off. My dress was crumpled. Nothing would havemade me go back to the ballroom. I couldn't have faced Amelia'shusband--I think I shall never be able to face him again, " and Mary'stears flowed anew. 

Richard was stamping about the room, aimlessly moving things from theirplaces. "God Almighty! he shall answer to me for this. I'll go back andtake a horsewhip with me. "

"For my sake, don't have a scene with him. It would only make mattersworse, " she pleaded. 

But Richard strode up and down, treading heedlessly on the flouncingsof her dress. "What?--and let him believe such behaviour can gounpunished? That whenever it pleases him, he can insult my wife--insultmy wife? Make her the talk of the place? Brand her before the wholetown as a light woman?"

"Oh, not the whole town, Richard. I shall have to explain to Amelia. .. And Tilly . .. And Agnes--that's all, " sobbed Mary in parenthesis. 

"Yes, and I ask if it's a dignified or decent thing for you to have todo?--to go running round assuring your friends of your virtue!" criedRichard furiously. "Let me tell you this, my dear: at whatever door youknock, you'll be met by disbelief. Fate played you a shabby trick whenit allowed just that low cad to put his head in. What do you thinkwould be left of any woman's reputation after Grindle Esquire had pawedit over? No, Mary, you've been rendered impossible; and you'll be madeto feel it for the rest of your days. People will point to you as thewife who takes advantage of her husband's absence to throw herself intoanother man's arms; and to me as the convenient husband who providesthe opportunity"--and Mahony groaned. In an impetuous flight of fancyhe saw his good name smirched, his practice laid waste. 

Mary lifted her head at this, and wiped her eyes. "Oh, you always painteverything so black. People know me--know I would never, never do sucha thing. "

"Unfortunately we live among human beings, my dear, not in a communityof saints! But what does a good woman know of how a slander of thiskind clings?"

"But if I have a perfectly clear conscience?" Mary's tone wasincredulous, even a trifle aggrieved. 

"It spells ruin all the same in a hole like this, if it once getsabout. "

"But it shan't. I'll put my pride in my pocket and go to Amelia thefirst thing in the morning. I'll make it right somehow. --But I mustsay, Richard, in the whole affair I don't think you feel a bit sorryfor me. Or at least only for me as your wife. The horridest part ofwhat happened was mine, not yours--and I think you might show a littlesympathy. "

"I'm too furious to feel sorry, " replied Richard with gaunttruthfulness, still marching up and down. 

"Well, I do, " said Mary with a spice of defiance. "In spite ofeverything, I feel sorry that any one could so far forget himself asPurdy did to-night. "

"You'll be telling me next you have warmer feelings still for him!"burst out Mahony. "Sorry for the crazy lunatic who, after all theseyears, after all I've done for him and the trust I've put in him, suddenly falls to making love to the woman who bears my name? Why, amadhouse is the only place he's fit for. "

"There you're unjust. And wrong, too. It . .. It wasn't as sudden as youthink. Purdy has been queer in his behaviour for quite a long time now. "

"What in Heaven's name do you mean by that?"

"I mean what I say, " said Mary staunchly, though she turned a stilldeeper red. "Oh, you might just as well be angry with yourself forbeing so blind and stupid. "

"Do you mean to tell me you were aware of something?" Mahony stoppedshort in his perambulations and fixed her, open-mouthed. 

"I couldn't help it. --Not that there was much to know, Richard. And Ithought of coming to you about it--indeed I did. I tried to, more thanonce. But you were always so busy; I hadn't the heart to worry you. ForI knew very well how upset you would be. "

"So it comes to this, does it?" said Mahony with biting emphasis. "Mywife consents to another man paying her illicit attentions behind herhusband's back!"

"Oh, no, no, no! But I knew how fond you were of Purdy. And I alwayshoped it would blow over without . .. Without coming to anything. "

"God forgive me!" cried Mahony passionately. "It takes a woman's brainto house such a preposterous idea. "

"Oh, I'm not quite the fool you make me out to be, Richard. I've gotsome sense in me. But it's always the same. I think of you, and youthink of no one but yourself. I only wanted to spare you. And this isthe thanks I get for it. " And sitting down on the side of the bed shewept bitterly. 

"Will you assure me, madam, that till to-night nothing I could haveobjected to has ever passed between you?"

"No, Richard, I won't! I won't tell you anything else. You get so angryyou don't know what you're saying. And if you can't trust me betterthan that--Purdy said to-night you didn't understand me. .. And neverhad. "

"Oh, he did, did he? There we have it! Now I'll know every word thescoundrel has ever said to you--and if I have to drag it from you byforce. "

But Mary set her lips, with an obstinacy that was something quite newin her. It first amazed Mahony, then made him doubly angry. One wordgave another; for the first time in their married lives theyquarrelled--quarrelled hotly. And, as always at such times, many acovert criticism a secret disapproval which neither had ever meant tobreathe to the other, slipped out and added fuel to the fire. It wasappalling to both to find on how many points they stood at variance. 

Some half hour later, leaving Mary still on the edge of the bed, stillcrying, Mahony stalked grimly into the surgery and taking pen and paperscrawled, without even sitting down to do it:

YOU DAMNED SCOUNDREL! IF EVER YOU SHOW YOUR FACE HERE AGAIN, I'LLTHRASH YOU TO WITHIN AN INCH OF YOUR LIFE. 

Then he stepped on to the verandah and crossed the lawn, carrying theletter in his hand. 

But already his mood was on the turn: it seemed as if, in the physicaleffort of putting the words to paper, his rage had spent itself. He wasconscious now of a certain limpness, both of mind and body; his fit ofpassion over, he felt dulled, almost indifferent to what had happened. Now, too, another feeling was taking possession of him, opening upvistas of a desert emptiness that he hardly dared to face. 

But stay! . .. Was that not a movement in the patch of blackness underthe fig-tree? Had not something stirred there? He stopped, and strainedhis eyes. No, it was only a bough that swayed in the night air. He wentout of the garden to the corner of the road and came back empty handed. But at the same spot he hesitated, and peered. "Who's there?" he askedsharply. And again: "Is there any one there?" But the silence remainedunbroken; and once more he saw that the shifting of a branch had misledhim. 

Mary was moving about the bedroom. He ought to go to her and ask pardonfor his violence. But he was not yet come to a stage when he felt equalto a reconciliation; he would rest for a while, let his troubledbalance right itself. And so he lay down on the surgery sofa, and drewa rug over him. 

He closed his eyes, but could not sleep. His thoughts raced and flew;his brain hunted clues and connections. He found himself trying topiece things together; to fit them in, to recollect. And every now andthen some sound outside would make him start up and listen . .. Andlisten. Was that not a footstep? . .. The step of one who might comefeeling his way. .. Dim-eyed with regret? There were such things in lifeas momentary lapses, as ungovernable impulses--as fiery contrition . .. The anguish of remorse. And yet, once more, he sat up and listened tillhis ears rang. 

Then, not the ghostly footsteps of a delusive hope, but a hard, humancrunching that made the boards of the verandah shake. Tossing off theopossum-rug, which had grown unbearably heavy, he sprang to his feet;was wide awake and at the window, staring sleep-charged into the dawn, before a human hand had found the night-bell and a distracted voicecried:

"Does a doctor live here? A doctor, I say . .. ?"

Chapter VII

The hot airless night had become the hot airless day: in the garden theleaves on trees and shrubs drooped as under an invisible weight. Allthe stale smells of the day before persisted--that of the medicamentson the shelves, of the unwetted dust on the roads, the sickly odour ofmalt from a neighbouring brewery. The blowflies buzzed about theceiling; on the table under the lamp a dozen or more moths lay singedand dead. Now it was nearing six o'clock; clad in his thinnestdriving-coat, Mahony sat and watched the man who had come to fetch himbeat his horse to a lather. 

"Mercy! . .. Have a little mercy on the poor brute, " he said more thanonce. 

He had stood out for some time against obeying the summons, whichmeant, at lowest, a ten-mile drive. Not if he were offered a hundredpounds down, was his first impetuous refusal; for he had not seen theinside of a bed that night. But at this he trapped an odd look in theother's eyes, and suddenly became aware that he was still dressed asfor the ball. Besides, an equally impetuous answer was flung back athim: he promised no hundred pounds, said the man--hadn't got it tooffer. He appealed solely to the doctor's humanity: it was a questionof saving a life--that of his only son. So here they were. 

"We doctors have no business with troubles of our own, " thought Mahony, as he listened to the detailed account of an ugly accident. On the roofof a shed the boy had missed his footing, slipped and fallen sometwenty feet, landing astride a piece of quartering. Picking himself up, he had managed to crawl home, and at first they thought he would beable to get through the night without medical aid. But towards twoo'clock his sufferings had grown unbearable. God only knew if, by thistime, he had not succumbed to them. 

"My good man, one does not die of pain alone. "

They followed a flat, treeless road, the grass on either side of whichwas burnt to hay. Buggy and harness--the latter eked out with bits ofstring and an old bootlace--were coated with the dust of months; andthe gaunt, long-backed horse shuffled through a reddish flour, whichaccompanied them as a choking cloud. A swarm of small black flies keptpace with the vehicle, settling on nose, eyes, neck and hands of itsoccupants, crawling over the horse's belly and in and out of itsnostrils. The animal made no effort to shake itself free, seemedindifferent to the pests: they were only to be disturbed by the hail ofblows which the driver occasionally stood up to deliver. At suchmoments Mahony, too, started out of the light doze he was continuallydropping into. 

Arrived at their destination--a miserable wooden shanty on a sheep-runat the foot of the ranges--he found his patient tossing on a dirty bed, with a small pulse of 120, while the right thigh was darkly bruised andswollen. The symptoms pointed to serious internal injuries. Heperformed the necessary operation. 

There was evidently no woman about the place; the coffee the fatherbrought him was thick as mud. On leaving, he promised to return nextday and to bring some one with him to attend to the lad. 

For the home-journey, he got a mount on a young and fidgety mare, whomhe suspected of not long having worn the saddle. In the beginning hehad his hands full with her. Then, however, she ceased her antics andconsented to advance at an easy trot. 

HOW tired he felt! He would have liked to go to bed and sleep for aweek on end. As it was, he could not reckon on even an hour's rest. Bythe time he reached home the usual string of patients would await him;and these disposed of, and a bite of breakfast snatched, out he mustset anew on his morning round. He did not feel well either: the coffeeseemed to have disagreed with him. He had a slight sense of nausea andwas giddy; the road swam before his eyes. Possibly the weather hadsomething to do with it; though a dull, sunless morning it was hot ashe had never known it. He took out a stud, letting the ends of hiscollar fly. 

Poor little Mary, he thought inconsequently: he had hurt and frightenedher by his violence. He felt ashamed of himself now. By daylight hecould see her point of view. Mary was so tactful and resourceful thatshe might safely be trusted to hush up the affair, to explain away theequivocal position in which she had been found. After all, both of themwere known to be decent, God-fearing people. And one had only to lookat Mary to see that here was no light woman. Nobody in his senses--noteven Grindle--could think evil of that broad, transparent brow, ofthose straight, kind, merry eyes. 

No, this morning his hurt was a purely personal one. That it shouldjust be Purdy who did him this wrong! Purdy, playmate and henchman, ally in how many a boyish enterprise, in the hardships and adventuresof later life. "Mine own familiar friend, in whom I trusted, which dideat of my bread!" Never had he turned a deaf ear to Purdy's needs; hehad fed him and clothed him, caring for him as for a well-lovedbrother. Surely few things were harder to bear than a blow in the darkfrom one who stood thus deeply in your debt, on whose gratitude youwould have staked your head. It was, of course, conceivable that he hadbeen swept off his feet by Mary's vivid young beauty, byover-indulgence, by the glamour of the moment. But if a man could notrestrain his impulses where the wife of his most intimate friend wasconcerned . .. Another thing: as long as Mary had remained an immatureslip of a girl, Purdy had not given her a thought. When, however, underher husband's wing she had blossomed out into a lovely womanhood, ofwhich any man might be proud, then she had found favour in his eyes. And the slight this put on Mary's sterling moral qualities, on all buther physical charms, left the worst taste of any in the mouth. 

Then, not content with trying to steal her love, Purdy had also soughtto poison her mind against him. How that rankled! For until now he hadhugged the belief that Purdy's opinion of him was coloured by affectionand respect, by the tradition of years. Whereas, from what Mary had letfall, he saw that the boy must have been sitting in judgment on him, regarding his peculiarities with an unloving eye, picking his motivesto pieces: it was like seeing the child of your loins, of your hopes, your unsleeping care, turn and rend you with black ingratitude. Yes, everything went to prove Purdy's unworthiness. Only HE had not seen it, only he had been blind to the truth. And wrapped in this smug blindnesshe had given his false friend the run of his home, setting, after thecustom of the country, no veto on his eternal presence. Disloyalty wascertainly abetted by just the extravagant, exaggerated hospitality ofcolonial life. Never must the doors of your house be shut; all you hadyou were expected to share with any sundowner of fortune who chanced tostop at your gate. 

The mare shied with a suddenness that almost unseated him: the nextmoment she had the bit between her teeth and was galloping down theroad. Clomp-clomp-clomp went her hoofs on the baked clay; the dustsmothered and stung, and he was holding for all he was worth to reinsspanned stiff as iron. On they flew; his body hammered the saddle; hisbreath came sobbingly. But he kept his seat; and a couple of milesfarther on he was down, soothing the wild-eyed, quivering, sweatingbeast, whose nostrils worked like a pair of bellows. There he stood, glancing now back along the road, now up at the sky. His hat had goneflying at the first unexpected plunge; he ought to return and look forit. But he shrank from the additional fatigue, the delay in reachinghome this would mean. The sky was still overcast: he decided to riskit. Knotting his handkerchief he spread it cap-wise over his head andgot back into the saddle. 

Mine own familiar friend! And more than that: he could add to David'splaint and say, my only friend. In Purdy the one person he had beenintimate with passed out of his life. There was nobody to take thevacant place. He had been far too busy of late years to form newfriendships: what was left of him after the day's work was done was buta kind of shell: the work was the meaty contents. As you neared theforties, too, it grew ever harder to fit yourself to other people: youroutlook had become too set, your ideas too unfluid. Hence you clung thefaster to ties formed in the old, golden days, worn though these mightbe to the thinness of a hair. And then, there was one's wife, ofcourse--one's dear, good wife. But just her very dearness and goodnessserved to hold possible intimates at arm's length. The knowledge thatyou had such a confidante, that all your thoughts were shared with her, struck disastrously at a free exchange of privacies. No, he was alone. He had not so much as a dog now, to follow at heel and look up at himwith the melancholy eyes of its race. Old Pompey had come at poison, and Mary had not wished to have a strange dog in the new house. She didnot care for animals, and the main charge of it would have fallen onher. He had no time--no time even for a dog!

Better it would assuredly be to have some one to fall back on: it wasnot good for a man to stand so alone. Did troubles come, they wouldstrike doubly hard because of it; then was the time to rejoice in awarm, human handclasp. And moodily pondering the reasons for hissolitariness, he was once more inclined to lay a share of the blame onthe conditions of the life. The population of the place was still in astate of flux: he and a mere handful of others would soon, he believed, be the oldest residents in Ballarat. People came and went, tried theirluck, failed, and flitted off again, much as in the early days. Whatwas the use of troubling to become better acquainted with a person, when, just as you began really to know him, he was up and away? Athome, in the old country, a man as often as not died in the place wherehe was born; and the slow, eventless years, spent shoulder to shoulder, automatically brought about a kind of intimacy. But this was only asurface reason: there was another that went deeper. He had no talentfor friendship, and he knew it; indeed, he would even invert the thing, and say bluntly that his nature had a twist in it which directlyhindered friendship; and this, though there came moments when helonged, as your popular mortal never did, for close companionship. Sometimes he felt like a hungry man looking on at a banquet, of whichno one invited him to partake, because he had already given it to beunderstood that he would decline. But such lapses were few. On ninedays out of ten, he did not feel the need of either making or receivingconfidences; he shrank rather, with a peculiar shy dread, from personalunbosomings. Some imp housed in him--some wayward, wilful, mockingIrish devil--bidding him hold back, remain cool, dry-eyed, in face ofothers' joys and pains. Hence the break with Purdy was a real calamity. The associations of some five-and-twenty years were bound up in it;measured by it, one's marriage seemed a thing of yesterday. And evenmore than the friend, he would miss the friendship and all it stoodfor: this solid base of joint experience; this past of common memoriesinto which one could dip as into a well; this handle of "Do youremember?" which opened the door to such a wealth of anecdote. From nowon, the better part of his life would be a closed book to any buthimself; there were allusions, jests without number, homely turns ofspeech, which not a soul but himself would understand. The thought ofit made him feel old and empty; affected him like the news of adeath. --But MUST it be? Was there no other way out? Slow to take hold, he was a hundred times slower to let go. Before now he had seen himselfsticking by a person through misunderstandings, ingratitude, deception, to the blank wonder of the onlookers. Would he not be ready here, too, to forgive . .. To forget?

But he felt hot, hot to suffocation, and his heart was pounding inuncomfortable fashion. The idea of stripping and plunging into ice-coldwater began to make a delicious appeal to him. Nothing surpassed such aplunge after a broken night. But of late he had had to be wary ofindulging: a bath of this kind, taken when he was over-tired, was aptto set the accursed tic a-going; and then he could pace the floor inagony. And yet. .. Good God, how hot it was! His head acheddistractedly; an iron band of pain seemed to encircle it. With a suddenstart of alarm he noticed that he had ceased to perspire--now he cameto think of it, not even the wild gallop had induced perspiration. Pulling up short, he fingered his pulse. It was abnormal, even for him. .. And feeble. Was it fancy, or did he really find a difficulty inbreathing? He tore off his collar, threw open the neck of his shirt. Hehad a sensation as if all the blood in his body was flying to his head:his face must certainly be crimson. He put both hands to this top-heavyhead, to support it; and in a blind fit of vertigo all but lost hisbalance in the saddle: the trees spun round, the distance went black. For a second still he kept upright; then he flopped to the ground, falling face downwards, his arms huddled under him. 

The mare, all her spirit gone, stood lamb-like and waited. As he didnot stir she turned and sniffed at him, curiously. Still he lay prone, and, having stretched her tired jaws, she raised her head and uttered awhinny--an almost human cry of distress. This, too, failing in itseffect, she nosed the ground for a few yards, then set out at a gentle, mane-shaking trot for home. 

* * * * *

Found, a dark conspicuous heap on the long bare road, and carted backto town by a passing bullock-waggon, Mahony lay, once the death-likecoma had yielded, and tossed in fever and delirium. By piecing hisbroken utterances together Mary learned all she needed to know aboutthe case he had gone out to attend, and his desperate ride home. But itwas Purdy's name that was oftenest on his lips; it was Purdy he reviledand implored; and when he sprang up with the idea of calling his falsefriend to account, it was as much as she could do to restrain him. 

She had the best of advice. Old Dr. Munce himself came two and threetimes a day. Mary had always thought him a dear old man; and she feltsurer than ever of it when he stood patting her hand and bidding herkeep a good heart; for they would certainly pull her husband through. 

"There aren't so many of his kind here, Mrs. Mahony, that we can affordto lose him. "

But altogether she had never known till now how many and how faithfultheir friends were. Hardly, for instance, had Richard been carried in, stiff as a log and grey as death, when good Mrs. Devine was fumblingwith the latch of the gate, an old sunbonnet perched crooked on herhead: she had run down just as she was, in the midst of shelling peasfor dinner. She begged to be allowed to help with the nursing. But Maryfelt bound to refuse. She knew how the thought of what he might havesaid in his delirium would worry Richard, when he recovered his senses:few men laid such weight as he on keeping their private thoughtsprivate. 

Not to be done, Mrs. Devine installed herself in the kitchen tosuperintend the cooking. Less for the patient, into whom at first onlyliquid nourishment could be injected, than: "To see as your ownstrength is kep' up, dearie. " Tilly swooped down and bore off Trotty. Delicate fruits, new-laid eggs, jellies and wines came from AgnesOcock; while Amelia Grindle, who had no such dainties to offer arrivedevery day at three o'clock, to mind the house while Mary slept. Archdeacon Long was also a frequent visitor, bringing not so muchspiritual as physical aid; for, as the frenzy reached its height andRichard was maddened by the idea that a plot was brewing against hislife, a pair of strong arms were needed to hold him down. Over andabove this, letters of sympathy flowed in; grateful patients called toask with tears in their eyes how the doctor did; virtual strangersstopped the servant in the street with the same query. Mary wassometimes quite overwhelmed by the kindness people showed her. 

The days that preceded the crisis were days of keenest anxiety. ButMary never allowed her heart to fail her. For if, in the small thingsof life, she was given to building on a mortal's good sense, how muchmore could she rely at such a pass on the sense of the One above allothers. What she said to herself as she moved tirelessly about the sickroom, damping cloths, filling the ice-bag, infiltering drops ofnourishment, was: "God is good!" and these words, far from breathing apious resignation, voiced a confidence so bold that it bordered onirreverence. Their real meaning was: Richard has still ever so muchwork to do in the world, curing sick people and saving their lives. Godmust know this, and cannot now mean to be so foolish as to WASTE him, by letting him die. 

And her reliance on the Almighty's far-sighted wisdom was justified. Richard weathered the crisis, slowly revived to life and health; andthe day came when, laying a thin white hand on hers, he could whisper:"My poor little wife, what a fright I must have given you!" And added:"I think an illness of some kind was due--overdue--with me. "

When he was well enough to bear the journey they left home for awatering-place on the Bay. There, on an open beach facing the Heads, Mahony lay with his hat pulled forward to shade his eyes, and withnothing to do but to scoop up handfuls of the fine coral sand and letit flow again, like liquid silk, through his fingers. From beneath thebrim he watched the water churn and froth on the brown reefs; followedthe sailing-ships which, beginning as mere dots on the horizon, swelledto stately white waterbirds, and shrivelled again to dots; drank in, with greedy nostrils, the mixed spice of warm sea, hot seaweed andaromatic tea-scrub. 

And his strength came back as rapidly as usual. He soon felt wellenough, leaning on Mary's arm, to stroll up and down the sandy roads ofthe township; to open book and newspaper; and finally to descend thecliffs for a dip in the transparent, turquoise sea. At the end of amonth he was at home again, sunburnt and hearty, eager to pick up thethreads he had let fall. And soon Mary was able to make the comfortablereflection that everything was going on just as before. 

In this, however, she was wrong; never, in their united lives, wouldthings be quite the same again. Outwardly, the changes might passunnoticed--though even here, it was true, a certain name had now to beavoided, with which they had formerly made free. But this was notexactly hard to do, Purdy having promptly disappeared: they heard atsecond-hand that he had at last accepted promotion and gone toMelbourne. And since Mary had suffered no inconvenience from histhoughtless conduct, they tacitly agreed to let the matter rest. Thatwas on the surface. Inwardly, the differences were more marked. Even inthe mental attitude they adopted towards what had happened, husband andwife were thoroughly dissimilar. Mary did not refer to it because shethought it would be foolish to re-open so disagreeable a subject. Inher own mind, however, she faced it frankly, dating back to it as thenight when Purdy had been so odious and Richard so angry. Mahony, onthe other hand, gave the affair a wide berth even in thought. For himit was a kind of Pandora's box, of which, having once caught a glimpseof the contents, he did not again dare to raise the lid. Things mightescape from it that would alter his whole life. But he, too, dated fromit in the sense of suddenly becoming aware, with a throb of regret, that he had left his youth behind him. And such phrases as: "When I wasyoung, " "In my younger days, " now fell instinctively from his lips. 

Nor was this all. Deep down in Mary's soul there slumbered a slightembarrassment; one she could not get the better of: it spread and grew. This was a faint, ever so faint a doubt of Richard's wisdom. Odd shehad long known him to be, different in many small and some great waysfrom those they lived amongst; but hitherto this very oddness of hishad seemed to her an outgrowth on the side of superiority--fairerjudgment, higher motives. Just as she had always looked up to him asrectitude in person, so she had thought him the embodiment of a fine, though somewhat unworldly wisdom. Now her faith in his discernment wasshaken. His treatment of her on the night of the ball had shocked, confused her. She was ready to make allowance for him: she had told herstory clumsily, and had afterwards been both cross and obstinate; whilepart of his violence was certainly to be ascribed to his comingbreakdown. But this did not cover everything; and the ungenerous spiritin which he had met her frankness, his doubt of her word, of her goodfaith--his utter unreasonableness in short--had left a cold patch ofastonishment in her, which would not yield. She lit on it at unexpectedmoments. Meanwhile, she groped for an epithet that would fit hisbehaviour. Beginning with some rather vague and high-flown terms shegradually came down, until with the sense of having found the rightthing at last, she fixed on the adjective "silly"--a word which, forthe rest, was in common use with Mary, had she to describe anythingthat struck her as queer or extravagant. And sitting over herfancywork, into which, being what Richard called "safe as the grave, "she sewed more thoughts than most women: sitting thus, she would say toherself with a half smile and an incredulous shake of the head: "SOsilly!"

But hers was one of those inconvenient natures which trust blindly ornot at all: once worked on by a doubt or a suspicion, they are neverable to shake themselves free of it again. As time went on, shesuffered strange uncertainties where some of Richard's decisions wereconcerned. In his good intentions she retained an implicit belief; butshe was not always satisfied that he acted in the wisest way. Occasionally it struck her that he did not see as clearly as she did;at other times, that he let a passing whim run away with him andoverride his common sense. And, her eyes thus opened, it was not inMary to stand dumbly by and watch him make what she held to bemistakes. Openly to interfere, however, would also have gone againstthe grain in her; she had bowed for too long to his greater age andexperience. So, seeing no other way out, she fell back on indirectmethods. To her regret. For, in watching other women "manage" theirhusbands, she had felt proud to think that nothing of this kind wasnecessary between Richard and her. Now she, too, began to lay littleschemes by which, without his being aware of it, she might influencehis judgment, divert or modify his plans. 

Her enforced use of such tactics did not lessen the admiring affectionshe bore him: that was framed to withstand harder tests. Indeed, shewas even aware of an added tenderness towards him, now she saw that itbehoved her to have forethought for them both. But into the wife's lovefor her husband there crept something of a mother's love for her child;for a wayward and impulsive, yet gifted creature, whose welfare andhappiness depended on her alone. And it is open to question whether themother dormant in Mary did not fall with a kind of hungry joy on thislate-found task. The work of her hands done, she had known empty hours. That was over now. With quickened faculties, all her senses on thealert, she watched, guided, hindered, foresaw. 

Chapter VIII

Old Ocock failed in health that winter. He was really old now, was twoor three and sixty; and, with the oncoming of the rains and cold, gustywinds, various infirmities began to plague him. 

"He's done himself rather too well since his marriage, " said Mahony inprivate. "After being a worker for the greater part of his life, itwould have been better for him to work on to the end. "

Yes, that, Mary could understand and agree with. But Richard continued:"All it means, of course, is that the poor fellow is beginning toprepare for his last long journey. These aches and pains of hisrepresent the packing and the strapping without which not even a shortearthly journey can be undertaken. And his is into eternity. "

Mary, making lace over a pillow, looked up at this, a trifleapprehensively. "What things you do say! If any one heard you, they'dthink you weren't very. .. Very religious. " Her fear lest Richard'soutspokenness should be mistaken for impiety never left her. 

Tilly was plain and to the point. "Like a bear with a sore back that'swhat 'e is, since 'e can't get down among his blessed birds. He leadsTom the life of the condemned, over the feeding of those bantams. As ifthe boy could help 'em not laying when they ought!"

At thirty-six Tilly was the image of her mother. Entirely gone was theslight crust of acerbity that had threatened her in her maiden days, when, thanks to her misplaced affections, it had seemed for a time asif the purple prizes of life--love, offers of marriage, a home of herown--were going to pass her by. She was now a stout, high-colouredwoman with a roar of a laugh, full, yet firm lips, and the whitest ofteeth. Mary thought her decidedly toned down and improved since hermarriage; but Mahony put it that the means Tilly now had at herdisposal were such as to make people shut an eye to her want ofrefinement. However that might be, "old Mrs. Ocock" was welcomedeverywhere--even by those on whom her bouncing manners grated. She wasinvariably clad in a thick and handsome black silk gown, over which shewore all the jewellery she could crowd on her person--huge cameobrooches, ear-drops, rings and bracelets, lockets and chains. Her nametopped subscription-lists, and, having early weaned her old husband ofhis dissenting habits, she was a real prop to Archdeacon Long and hischurch, taking the chief and most expensive table at tea-meetings, themost thankless stall at bazaars. She kept open house, too, and gavedelightful parties, where, while some sat at loo, others were free toturn the rooms upside-down for a dance, or to ransack wardrobes andpresses for costumes for charades. She drove herself and her friendsabout in various vehicles, briskly and well, and indulged besides inmany secret charities. Her husband thought no such woman had evertrodden the earth, and publicly blessed the day on which he first seteyes on her. 

"After the dose I'd 'ad with me first, 'twas a bit of a risk, that Iknew. And it put me off me sleep for a night or two before'and. But myTilly's the queen o' women--I say the queen, sir! I've never 'ad awrong word from 'er, an' when I go she gits every penny I've got. Why, I'm jiggered if she didn't stop at 'ome from the Races t'other day, an'all on my account!"

"Now then, pa, drop it. Or the doctor'll think you've been mixing yourliquors. Give your old pin here and let me poultice it. "

He had another sound reason for gratitude. Somewhere in the backgroundof his house dwelt his two ne'er-do-well sons; Tilly had accepted theirpresence uncomplainingly. Indeed she sometimes stood up for Tom, against his father. "Now, pa, stop nagging at the boy, will you? You'llnever get anything out of 'im that way. Tom's right enough if you knowhow to take him. He'll never set the Thames on fire, if that's what youmean. But I'm thankful, I can tell you, to have a handy chap like himat my back. If I 'ad to depend on your silly old paws, I'd never getanything done at all. "

And so Tom, a flaxen-haired, sheepish-looking man of something overthirty, led a kind of go-as-you-please existence about the place, ajack-of-all-trades--in turn carpenter, whitewasher, paper-hanger--anexpert fetcher and carrier, bullied by his father, sheltered under hisstepmother's capacious wing. "It isn't his fault 'e's never come toanything. 'E hadn't half a chance. The truth is, Mary, for all they sayto the opposite, men are harder than women--so unforgiving-like. Justbecause Tom made a slip once, they've never let 'im forget it, but tiedit to 'is coat-tails for 'im to drag with 'im through life. Littleminded I call it. --Besides, if you ask me, my dear, it must havebeen a case of six of one and half a dozen of the other. Tom assedoocer!--can you picture it, Mary? It's enough to make one split. "And with a meaning glance at her friend, Tilly broke out in acontagious peal of laughter. 

As for Johnny--well . .. And she shrugged her shoulders. "A bad egg'sbad, Mary, and no amount o' cooking and doctoring 'll sweeten it. Buthe didn't make 'imself, did 'e?--and my opinion is, parents should lookto themselves a bit more than they do. "

As she spoke, she threw open the door of the little room where Johnnyhoused. It was an odd place. The walls were plastered over withnewspaper-cuttings, with old prints from illustrated journals, withsnippets torn off valentines and keepsakes. Stuck one on another, theseformed a kind of loose wallpaper, which stirred in the draught. Tillywent on: "I see myself to it being kept cleanish; 'e hates the girl tocome bothering round. Oh, just Johnny's rubbish!" For Mary had stoopedcuriously to the table which was littered with a queer collection ofobjects: matchboxes on wheels; empty reels of cotton threaded onstrings; bits of wood shaped in rounds and squares; boxes made ofpaper; dried seaweed glued in patterns on strips of cardboard. "He'sfor ever pottering about with 'em. What amusement 'e gets out of it, only the Lord can tell. "

She did not mention the fact, known to Mary, that when Johnny had adrinking-bout it was she who looked after him, got him comfortably tobed, and made shift to keep the noise from his father's ears. Yes, Tilly's charity seemed sheerly inexhaustible. 

Again, there was the case of Jinny's children. 

For in this particular winter Tilly had exchanged her black silk for astuff gown, heavily trimmed with crepe. She was in mourning for poorJinny, who had died not long after giving birth to a third daughter. 

"Died OF the daughter, in more senses than one, " was Tilly's verdict. 

John had certainly been extremely put out at the advent of yet anothergirl; and the probability was that Jinny had taken his reproaches toomuch to heart. However it was, she could not rally; and one day Maryreceived a telegram saying that if she wished to see Jinny alive, shemust come at once. No mention was made of Tilly, but Mary ran to herwith the news, and Tilly declared her intention of going, too. "Isuppose I may be allowed to say good-bye to my own sister, even thoughI'm not a Honourable?"

"Not that Jinn and I ever really drew together, " she continued as thetrain bore them over the ranges. "She'd too much of poor pa in 'er. AndI was all ma. Hard luck that it must just be her who managed to getsuch a domineering brute for a husband. You'll excuse me, Mary, won'tyou?--a domineering brute!"

"And to think I once envied her the match!" she went on meditatively, removing her bonnet and substituting a kind of nightcap intended tokeep her hair free from dust. "Lauks, Mary, it's a good thing fatedoesn't always take us at our word. We don't know which side ourbread's buttered on, and that's the truth. Why, my dear, I wouldn'texchange my old boy for all the Honourables in creation!"

They were in time to take leave of Jinny lying white as her pillowsbehind the red rep hangings of the bed. The bony parts of her face hadsprung into prominence, her large soft eyes fallen in. John, stalkingsolemnly and noiselessly in a long black coat, himself led the twowomen to the bedroom, where he left them; they sat down one on eachside of the great fourposter. Jinny hardly glanced at her sister: itwas Mary she wanted, Mary's hand she fumbled for while she told hertrouble. "It's the children, Mary, " she whispered. "I can't die happybecause of the children. John doesn't understand them. " Jinny's wholeexistence was bound up in the three little ones she had brought intothe world. 

"Dearest Jinny, don't fret. I'll look after them for you, and take careof them, " promised Mary wiping away her tears. 

"I thought so, " said the dying woman, relieved, but without gratitude:it seemed but natural to her, who was called upon to give upeverything, that those remaining should make sacrifices. Her fingersplucked at the sheet. "John's been good to me, " she went on, withclosed eyes. "But. .. If it 'adn't been for the children . .. Yes, thechildren. .. . I think I'd 'a' done better--" her speech lapsed oddly, after her years of patient practice--"to 'ave taken . .. To 'a'taken"--the name remained unspoken. 

Tilly raised astonished eyebrows at Mary. "Wandering!" she telegraphedin lip-language, forming the word very largely and distinctly; forneither knew of Jinny having had any but her one glorious chance. 

Tilly's big heart yearned over her sister's forlorn little ones; theycould be heard bleating like lambs for the mother to whom till now theyhad never cried in vain. Her instant idea was to gather all three up inher arms and carry them off to her own roomy, childless home, where shewould have given them a delightful, though not maybe a particularlydiscriminating upbringing. But the funeral over, the blinds raised, thetwo ladies and the elder babes clad in the stiff, expensive mourningthat befitted the widower's social position, John put his foot down:and to Mary was extremely explicit: "Under no circumstances will Ipermit Matilda to have anything to do with the rearing of my childrenexcellent creature though she be!"

On the other hand, he would not have been unwilling for Mary to motherthem. This, of course, was out of the question: Richard had accustomedhimself to Trotty, but would thank you, she knew, for any freshencroachment on his privacy. Before leaving, however, she promised tosound him on the plan of placing Trotty as a weekly boarder at a YoungLadies' Seminary, and taking the infant in her place. For it came outthat John intended to set Zara--Zara, but newly returned from a secondvoyage to England and still sipping like a bee at the sweets of varioussituations--at the head of his house once more. And Mary could notimagine Zara rearing a baby. 

Equally hard was it to understand John not having learnt wisdom fromhis two previous failures to live with his sister. But, in seekingtactfully to revive his memory, she ran up against such an ingrainedbelief in the superiority of his own kith and kin that she was baffled, and could only fold her hands and hope for the best. 

"Besides, Jane's children are infinitely more tractable than poorEmma's, " was John's parting shot. --Strange, thought Mary, how attachedJohn was to his second family. 

He had still another request to make of her. The reports he received ofthe boy Johnny, now a pupil at the Geelong Grammar School, grew worsefrom term to term. It had become clear to him that he was unfortunateenough to possess an out-and-out dullard for a son. Regretfully givingup, therefore, the design he had cherished of educating Johnny for thelaw, he had resolved to waste no more good money on the boy, but totake him, once he was turned fifteen, into his own business. YoungJohn, however, had proved refractory, expressing a violent antipathy tothe idea of office-life. "It is here that I should be glad of anotheropinion--and I turn to you, Mary, my dear. Jane was of no use whateverin such matters, none whatever, being, and very properly so, entirelywrapped up in her own children. " So Mary arranged to break her homewardjourney at Geelong, for the purpose of seeing and summing up her nephew. 

Johnny--he was Jack at school, but that, of course, his tomfools ofrelations couldn't be expected to remember--Johnny was waiting on theplatform when the train steamed in. "Oh, what a bonny boy!" said Maryto herself. "All poor Emma's good looks. "

Johnny had been kicking his heels disconsolately: another of thesewretched old women coming down to jaw him! He wished every one of themat the bottom of the sea. However he pulled himself together and wentforward to greet his aunt: he was not in the least bashful. And as theyleft the station he took stock of her, out of the tail of his eye. Witha growing approval: this one at any rate he needn't feel ashamed of;and she was not so dreadfully old after all. Perhaps she mightn't turnout quite such a wet blanket as the rest; though, from experience, hecouldn't connect any pleasure with relatives' visits: they were nastypills that had to be swallowed. He feared and disliked his father; AuntZara had been sheerly ridiculous, with her frills and simpers--the boyshad imitated her for weeks after--and once, most shameful of all, hisstepmother had come down and publicly wept over him. His cheeks stillburnt at the remembrance; and he had been glad to hear that she wasdead: served her jolly well right! But this Aunt Mary seemed a horse ofanother colour; and he did not sneak her into town by a back way, as hehad planned to do before seeing her. 

Greatly as Mary might admire the tall fair lad by her side, she foundherself at a loss how to deal with him, the mind of a schoolboy ofthirteen being a closed book to her. Johnny looked demure and answered"Yes, Aunt Mary, " to everything she said; but this was of smallassistance in getting at the real boy inside. 

Johnny had no intention, in the beginning, of taking her into hisoften-betrayed and badly bruised confidence. However a happy instinctled her to suggest a visit to a shop that sold brandy-snaps andgingerbeer; and this was too much for his strength of mind. Golly, didn't he have a tuck-in! And a whole pound of bull's-eyes to take backwith him to school!

It was over the snaps, with an earth-brown moustache drawn round hisfresh young mouth, the underlip of which swelled like a ripe cherry, that he blurted out: "I say, Aunt Mary, DON'T let the pater stick me inthat beastly old office of his. I . .. I want to go to sea. "

"Oh, but Johnny! Your father would never consent to that, I'm sure. "

"I don't see why not, " returned the boy in an aggrieved voice. "I hatefigures and father knows it. I tell you I mean to go to sea. " And as hesaid it his lip shot out, and suddenly, for all his limpid blue eyesand flaxen hair, it was his father's face that confronted Mary. 

"He wouldn't think it respectable enough, dear. He wants you to risehigher in the world, and to make money. You must remember who he is. "

"Bosh!" said Johnny. "Look at Uncle Ned . .. And Uncle Jerry . .. And thegovernor himself. He didn't have to sit in a beastly old hole of anoffice when he was my age. "

"That was quite different, " said Mary weakly. "And as for your UncleJerry, Johnny--why, afterwards he was as glad as could be to get intoan office at all. "

"Well, I'd sooner be hanged!" retorted young John. But the next minuteflinging away dull care, he inquired briskly: "Can you play tipcat, Aunt Mary?" And vanquished by her air of kindly interest, he gave herhis supreme confidence. "I say, don't peach, will you, but I've got awhite rat. I keep it in a locker under my bed. "

A NICE FRANK HANDSOME BOY, wrote Mary. DON'T BE TOO HARD ON HIM, JOHN. HIS GREAT WISH IS TO TRAVEL AND SEE THE WORLD--OR AS HE PUTS IT, TO GOTO SEA. MIGHTN'T IT BE A GOOD THING TO HUMOUR HIM IN THIS? A TASTE OFTHE HARDSHIPS OF LIFE WOULD SOON CURE HIM OF ANY SUCH FANCIES. 

"Stuff and nonsense!" said John the father, and threw the letter fromhim. "I didn't send Mary there to let the young devil get round herlike that. " And thereupon he wrote to the Headmaster that the screw wasto be applied to Johnny as never before. This was his last chance. Ifit failed, and his next report showed no improvement, he would be takenaway without further ado and planked down under his father's nose. Noson of his should go to sea, he was damned if they should! For, likemany another who has yielded to the wandering passion in his youth, John had small mercy on it when it reared its head in his descendants. 

Chapter IX

Henry Ocock was pressing for a second opinion; his wife had been inpoor health since the birth of her last child. Mahony drove to PlevnaHouse one morning between nine and ten o'clock. 

A thankless task lay before him. Mrs. Henry's case had been a fruitfulsource of worry to him; and he now saw nothing for it but a straighttalk with Henry himself. 

He drove past what had once been the Great Swamp. From a bed ofcattle-ploughed mud interspersed with reedy water-holes; in summer adry and dust-swept hollow: from this, the vast natural depression hadbeen transformed into a graceful lake, some three hundred acres inextent. On its surface pleasure boats lay at their moorings by jettiesand boatsheds; groups of stiff-necked swans sailed or ducked andstraddled; while shady walks followed the banks, where the whiplikebranches of the willows, showing shoots of tenderest green, trailed inthe water or swayed like loose harp-strings to the breeze. 

All the houses that had sprung up round Lake Wendouree had well-stockedspreading grounds; but Ocock's outdid the rest. The groom opening apair of decorative iron gates which were the showpiece of theneighbourhood, Mahony turned in and drove past exotic firs, Moreton Bayfig-trees and araucarias; past cherished English hollies growing sideby side with giant cacti. In one corner stood a rockery, where afountain played and goldfish swam in a basin. The house itself, ofbrick and two-storeyed, with massive bay-windows, had an ornamentalverandah on one side. The drawing-room was a medley of gilt andlustres, mirrors and glass shades; the finest objects from Dandaloo hadbeen brought here, only to be outdone by Henry's own additions. Yes, Ocock lived in grand style nowadays, as befitted one of the mostimportant men in the town. His old father once gone--and Mahony aloneknew why the latter's existence acted as a drag--he would no doubtstand for Parliament. 

Invited to walk into the breakfast-room, Mahony there found the familyseated at table. It was a charming scene. Behind the urn Mrs. Henry, inbe-ribboned cap and morning wrapper, dandled her infant; while Henry, in oriental gown and Turkish fez, had laid his newspaper by to ride hisyoung son on his foot. Mahony refused tea or coffee; but could notavoid drawing up a chair, touching the peachy cheeks of the childrenheld aloft for his inspection, and meeting a fire of playful salliesand kindly inquiries. As he did so, he was sensitively aware that itfell to him to break up the peace of this household. Only he knew thecanker that had begun to eat at its roots. 

The children borne off, Mrs. Henry interrogated her husband's pleasurewith a pretty: "May I?" or "Should I?" lift of the brows; and gatheringthat he wished her to retire, laid her small, plump hand in Mahony's, sent a graceful message to "dearest Mary, " and swept the folds of hergown from the room. Henry followed her with a well-pleased eye--hisopinion was no secret that, in figure and bearing, his wife bore amarked resemblance to her Majesty the Queen--and admonished her not tofail to partake of some light refreshment during the morning, in theshape of a glass of sherry and a biscuit. "Unless, my love, you preferme to order cook to whip you up an egg-nog. --Mrs. Ocock is, I regret tosay, entirely without appetite again, " he went on, as the door closedbehind his wife. "What she eats is not enough to keep a sparrow going. You must prove your skill, doctor, and oblige us by prescribing a stillmore powerful tonic or appetiser. The last had no effect whatever. " Hespoke from the hearthrug, where he had gone to warm his skirts at thewood fire, audibly fingering the while a nest of sovereigns in awaistcoat pocket. 

"I feared as much, " said Mahony gravely; and therewith took the plunge. 

When some twenty minutes later he emerged from the house, he wasunaccompanied, and himself pulled the front door to behind him. Hestood frowning heavily as he snapped the catches of his gloves, andfell foul of the groom over a buckle of the harness, in a fashion thatleft the man open-mouthed. "Blow me, if I don't believe he's got thesack!" thought the man in driving townwards. 

The abrupt stoppage of Richard's visits to Plevna House staggered Mary. And since she could get nothing out of her husband, she tied on herbonnet and went off hotfoot to question her friend. But Mrs. Henrytearfully declared her ignorance she had listened in fear and tremblingto the sound of the two angry voices--and Henry was adamant. They hadalready called in another doctor. 

Mary came home greatly distressed, and, Richard still wearing hisobstinate front, she ended by losing her temper. He knew well enough, said she, it was not her way to interfere or to be inquisitive abouthis patients; but this was different; this had to do with one of herdearest friends; she must know. In her ears rang Agnes's words: "Henrytold me, love, he wouldn't insult me by repeating what your husbandsaid of me. Oh, Mary, isn't it dreadful? And when I liked him so as adoctor!"--She now repeated them aloud. 

This was too much for Mahony. He blazed up. "The confoundedmischiefmonger--the backbiter! Well, if you will have it, wife, hereyou are . .. Here's the truth. What I said to Ocock was: I said, my goodman, if you want your wife to get over her next confinement morequickly, keep the sherry-decanter out of her reach. "

Mary gasped and sank on a chair, letting her arms flop to her side. "Richard!" she ejaculated. "Oh, Richard, you never did!"

"I did indeed, my dear. --Oh well, not in just those words, of course;we doctors must always wrap the truth up in silver paper. --And I shouldfeel it my duty to do the same again to-morrow; though there arepleasanter things in life, Mary, I can assure you, than informing a lowmongrel like Ocock that his wife is drinking on the sly. You can haveno notion, my dear, of the compliments one calls down on one's head byso doing. The case is beyond my grasp, of course, and I am cloaking myown shortcomings by making scandalous insinuations against a delicatelady, who 'takes no more than her position entitles her to'--his verywords, Mary!--'for the purpose of keeping up her strength. '" And Mahonylaughed hotly. 

"Yes, but was it--I mean. .. Was it really necessary to say it?"stammered Mary still at sea. And as her husband only shrugged hisshoulders: "Then I can't pretend to be surprised at what has happened, Richard. Mr. Henry will NEVER forgive you. He thinks so much ofeverything and every one belonging to him. "

"Pray, can I help that? . .. Help his infernal pride? And, good God, Mary, can't you see that, far more terrible than my having had to tellhim the truth, is the fact of there being such a truth to tell?"

"Oh yes, indeed I can, " and the warm tears rushed to Mary's eyes. "Poor, poor little Agnes!--Richard, it comes of her having once beenmarried to that dreadful man. And though she doesn't say so, yet Idon't believe she's really happy in her second marriage either. Thereare so many things she's not allowed to do--and she's afraid of Mr. Henry, I know she is. You see he's displeased when she's dull orunwell; she must always be bright and look pretty; and I expect thetruth is, since her illness she has taken to taking things, just tokeep her spirits up. " Here Mary saw a ray of light, and snatched at it. "But in that case mightn't the need for them pass, as she growsstronger?"

"I lay no claim to be a prophet, my dear. "

"For it does seem strange that I never noticed anything, " went on Mary, more to herself than to him. "I've seen Agnes at all hours of theday. .. When she wasn't in the least expecting visitors. --Yes, Richard, I do know people sometimes eat things to take the smell away. But theidea of Agnes doing anything so . .. So low--oh, isn't it JUST possiblethere might be some mistake?"

"Oh, well, if you're going to imitate Ocock and try to teach me mybusiness!" gave back Mahony with an angry gesture, and sitting down atthe table, he pulled books and papers to him. 

"As if such a thing would ever occur to me! It's only that . .. Thatsomehow my brain won't take it in. Agnes has always been such a deargood little soul, all kindness. She's never done anybody any harm orsaid a hard word about any one, all the years I've known her. I simplyCAN'T believe it of her, and that's the truth. As for what people willsay when it gets about that you've been shown the door in a house likeMr. Henry's--why, I'm afraid even to think of it!" and powerless anylonger to keep back her tears, Mary hastened from the room. 

But she also thought it wiser to get away before Richard had time toframe the request that she should break off all intercourse with PlevnaHouse. This, she could never promise to do; and the result might be aquarrel. Whereas if she avoided giving her word, she would be free toslip out now and then to see poor Agnes, when Richard was on his roundsand Mr. Henry at business. But this was the only point clear to her. Instanding up for her friend she had been perfectly sincere: to think illof a person she cared for, cost Mary an inward struggle. Against this, however, she had an antipathy to set that was almost stronger thanherself. Of all forms of vice, intemperance was the one she hated most. She lived in a country where it was, alas! only too common; but she hadnever learnt to tolerate it, or to look with a lenient eye on those whosuccumbed: and whether these were but slaves of the nipping habit; orthe eternal dram-drinkers who felt fit for nothing if they had not apeg inside them; or those seasoned topers who drank their companionsunder the table without themselves turning a hair; or yet again thosewho, sober for three parts of the year, spent the fourth in secretdebauches. Herself she had remained as rigidly abstemious as in thedays of her girlhood. And she often mused, with a glow at her heart, onher great good fortune in having found in Richard one whose views onthis subject were no less strict than her own. Hence her distress athis disclosure was caused not alone by the threatened loss of afriendship: she wept for the horror with which the knowledge filled her. 

Little by little, though, her mind worked round to what was, after all, the chief consideration: Richard's action and its probableconsequences. And here once more she was divided against herself. For amoment she had hoped her husband would own the chance of him being inerror. But she soon saw that this would never do. A mistake on his partwould be a blow to his reputation. Besides making enemies of peoplelike the Henrys for nothing. If he had to lose them as patients, itmight as well be for a good solid reason, she told herself with a dashof his own asperity. No, it was a case of either husband or friend. Andthough she pitied Agnes from the bottom of her heart, yet there wereliterally no lengths she would have shrunk from going to, to spareRichard pain or even anxiety. And this led her on to wonder whether, granted things were as he said, he had approached Mr. Henry in the mostdiscreet way. Could he not have avoided a complete break? She sat andpondered this question till her head ached, finding herself up againstthe irreconcilability of the practical with the ideal which complicatesa man's working life. What she belatedly tried to think out for herhusband was some little common-sense stratagem by means of which hecould have salved his conscience, without giving offence. He might havesaid that the drugs he was prescribing would be nullified by the use ofwine or spirits; even better, have warned Agnes in private. Somehow, itmight surely have been managed. Mr. Henry had no doubt been extremelyrude and overbearing; but in earlier years Richard had known how tobehave towards ill-breeding. She couldn't tell why, but he was findingit more and more difficult to get on with people nowadays. He certainlyhad a very great deal to do, and was often tired out. Again, he did notneed to care so much as formerly whether he offended people ornot--ordinary patients, that was; the Henrys, of course, were of theutmost consequence. Still, once on a time he had been noted for histact; it was sad to see it leaving him in the lurch. Several times oflate she had been forced to step in and smooth out awkwardnesses. But aweek ago he had had poor little Amelia Grindle up in arms, by tellingher that her sickly first-born would mentally never be quite like otherchildren. To every one else this had been plain from the outset; butAmelia had suspected nothing, having, poor thing, no idea when a babeought to begin to take notice or cut its teeth. Richard said it wasbetter for her to face the truth betimes than to spend her life vainlyhoping and fretting; indeed, it would not be right of him to allow it. Poor dear Richard! He set such store by truth and principle--and she, Mary, would not have had him otherwise. All the same, she thought thatin both cases a small compromise would not have hurt him. Butcompromise he would not . .. Or could not. And as, recalled to realityby the sight of the week's washing, which strained, ballooned, collapsed, on its lines in the yard--Biddy was again letting theclothes get much too dry!--as Mary rose to her feet, she manfullysquared her shoulders to meet the weight of the new burden that wasbeing laid on them. 

With regard to Mahony, it might be supposed that having faithfully donewhat he believed to be his duty, he would enjoy the fruits of a quietmind. This was not so. Before many hours had passed he was wrestlingwith the incident anew; and a true son of that nation which, for allits level-headedness, spends its best strength in fighting shadows, hefelt a great deal angrier in retrospect than he had done at the moment. It was not alone the fact of him having got his conge--no medico wassafe from THAT punch below the belt. His bitterness was aimed athimself. Once more he had let himself be hoodwinked; had written downthe smooth civility it pleased Ocock to adopt towards him to respectand esteem. Now that the veil was torn, he saw how poor the lawyer'sopinion of him actually was. And always had been. For a memory wasstruggling to emerge in him, setting strings in vibration. And suddenlythere rose before him a picture of Ocock that time had dimmed. He sawthe latter standing in the dark, crowded lobby of the court-house, cursing at him for letting their witness escape. There it was! There, in these two scenes, far apart as they lay, you had the whole man. Theunctuous blandness, the sleek courtesy was but a mask, which he worefor you just so long as you did not hinder him by getting in his way. That was the unpardonable sin. For Ocock was out to succeed--to succeedat any price and by any means. In tracing his course, no goal but thishad ever stood before him. The obligations that bore on your ordinarymortal--a sense of honesty, of responsibility to one's fellows, thesoft pull of domestic ties--did not trouble Ocock. He laughed themdown, or wrung their necks like so many pullets. And should the poorlittle woman who bore his name become a drag on him, she would betossed on to the rubbish-heap with the rest. In a way, so complete afreedom from altruistic motives had something grandiose about it. Butthose who ran up against it, and could not fight it with its ownweapons, had not an earthly chance. 

Thus Mahony sat in judgment, giving rein for once to his ingraineddislike for the man of whom he had now made an enemy. In whose debt, for the rest, he stood deep. And had done, ever since the day he hadbeen fool enough, like the fly in the nursery rhyme, to seek out Ocockand his familiars in their grimy little "parlour" in Chancery Lane. 

But his first heat spent he soon cooled down, and was able to laugh atthe stagy explosiveness of his attitude. So much for the personal sideof the matter. Looked at from a business angle it was more serious. Thefact of him having been shown the door by a patient of Ocock's standingwas bound, as Mary saw, to react unfavourably on the rest of thepractice. The news would run like wildfire through the place; neverwere such hotbeds of gossip as these colonial towns. Besides, thecolleague who had been called in to Mrs. Agnes in his stead, was nonetoo well disposed towards him. 

His fears were justified. It quickly got about that he had made ablunder: all Mrs. Henry needed, said the new-comer, was change of airand scene; and forthwith the lady was packed off on a trial trip toSydney. Mahony held his head high, and refused to notice looks andhints. But he knew all about what went on behind his back: he wasmorbidly sensitive to atmosphere; could tell how a house was charged assoon as he crossed the threshold. People were saying: a mistake there, why not here, too? Slow recoveries asked themselves if a freshtreatment might not benefit them; lovers of blue pills hungered formore drastic remedies. The disaffection would blow over, of course; butit was painful while it lasted; and things were not bettered by one ofhis patients choosing just this inconvenient moment to die--an elderlyman, down with the Russian influenza, who disobeyed orders, got up tooearly and was carried off by double pneumonia inside a week. --Worryover the mishap robbed his poor medical attendant of sleep for severalnights on end. 

Not that this was surprising; he found it much harder than of old tokeep his mind from running on his patients outside working-hours. Inhis younger days he had laid down fixed rules on this score. Everybrainworker, he held, must in his spare time be able to detach histhoughts from his chief business, pin them to something of quiteanother kind, no matter how trivial: keep fowls or root round gardens, play the flute or go in for carpentry. Now, he might have dug till hispalms blistered, it would not help. Those he prescribed for teased himlike a pack of spirit-presences, which clamour to be heard. And if aserious case took a turn for the worse, he would find himself rising ina sweat of uncertainty, and going lamp in hand into the surgery, to conover a prescription he had written during the day. And one knew whereTHAT kind of thing led!

Now, as if all this were not enough, there was added to it the old, evergreen botheration about money. 

Chapter X

Thus far, Ocock had nursed his mining investments for him with afatherly care. He himself had been free as a bird from responsibility. Every now and again he would drop in at the office, just to make surethe lawyer was on the alert; and each time he came home cheerful withconfidence. That was over now. As a first result of the breach, hemissed--or so he believed--clearing four hundred pounds. Among theshares he held was one lot which till now had proved a sorry bargain. Soon after purchase something had gone wrong with the management of theclaim; there had been a lawsuit, followed by calls unending and never adividend. Now, when these shares unexpectedly swung up to a highlevel--only to drop the week after to their standing figure--Ocockfailed to sell out in the nick of time. Called to account, he repliedthat it was customary in these matters for his clients to advise him;thus deepening Mahony's sense of obligation. Stabbed in his touchiness, he wrote for all his scrip to be handed over to him; and thereafterloss and gain depended on himself alone. It certainly brought a newelement of variety into his life. The mischief was, he could get to hisstudy of the money-market only with a fagged brain. And the fear lesthe should do something rash or let a lucky chance slip kept him ontenter-hooks. 

It was about this time that Mary, seated one evening in face of herhusband, found herself reflecting: "When one comes to think of it, howseldom Richard ever smiles nowadays. "

For a wonder they were at a soiree together, at the house of one ofMahony's colleagues. The company consisted of the inner circle offriends and acquaintances: "Always the same people--the old job lot!One knows before they open their mouths what they'll say and howthey'll say it, " Richard had grumbled as he dressed. The Henry Ocockswere not there though, it being common knowledge that the two mendeclined to meet; and a dash of fresh blood was present in the shape ofa lady and gentleman just "out from home. " Richard got into talk withthis couple, and Mary, watching him fondly, could not but be struck byhis animation. His eyes lit up, he laughed and chatted, made merryrepartee: she was carried back to the time when she had known himfirst. In those days his natural gravity was often cut through by amood of high spirits, of boyish jollity, which, if only by way ofcontrast, rendered him a delightful companion. She grew a littlewistful, as she sat comparing present with past. And loath though shewas to dig deep, for fear of stirring up uncomfortable things, shecould not escape the discovery that, in spite of all his success--andhis career there had surpassed their dearest hopes--in spite of thenatural gifts fortune had showered on him, Richard was not what youwould call a happy man. No, nor even moderately happy. Why this shouldbe, it went beyond her to say. He had everything he could wish for:yes, everything, except perhaps a little more time to himself, andbetter health. He was not as strong as she would have liked to see him. Nothing radically wrong, of course, but enough to fidget him. Might notthis . .. This--he himself called it "want of tone"--be a reason for thescant pleasure he got out of life? And: "I think I'll pop down and seeDr. Munce about him one morning, without a word to him, " was how sheeased her mind and wound up her reverie. 

But daylight, and the most prosaic hours of the twenty-four, made theplan look absurd. 

Once alive though to his condition, she felt deeply sorry for him inhis patent inability ever to be content. It was a thousand pities. Things might have run so smoothly for him, he have got so muchsatisfaction out of them, if only he could have braced himself toregard life in cheerier fashion. But at this Mary stopped . .. Andwondered . .. And wondered. Was that really true? Positively herexperiences of late led her to believe that Richard would be less happystill if he had nothing to be unhappy about. --But dear me! this wasgetting out of her depth altogether. She shook her head and rebukedherself for growing fanciful. 

All the same, her new glimpse of his inmost nature made her doublytender of thwarting him; hence, she did not set her face as firmly asshe might otherwise have done, against a wild plan he now formed ofagain altering, or indeed rebuilding the house; although she couldscarcely think of it with patience. She liked her house so well as itstood; and it was amply big enough: there was only the pair of them. .. And John's child. It had the name, she knew, of being one of the mostcomfortable and best-kept in Ballarat. Brick for solidity, where woodprevailed, with a wide snowy verandah up the posts of which rarecreepers ran, twining their tendrils one with another to form a screenagainst the sun. Now, what must Richard do but uproot the creepers andpull down the verandah, thus baring the walls to the fierce summerheat; plaster over the brick; and, more outlandish still, add a topstorey. When she came back from Melbourne, where she had gonea-visiting to escape the upset--Richard, ordinarily so sensitive, hadmanaged to endure it quite well, thus proving that he COULD put up withdiscomfort if he wanted to--when she saw it again, Mary hardlyrecognised her home. Personally she thought it ugly, for all itsgrandeur; changed wholly for the worse. Nor did time ever reconcile herto the upper storey. Domestic worries bred from it: the servant wentoff in a huff because of the stairs; they were at once obliged todouble their staff. To cap it all, with its flat front unbroken by bayor porch, the house looked like no other in the town. Now, instead ofpassing admiring remarks, people stood stock-still before the gate tolaugh at its droll appearance. 

Yet, she would gladly have made the best of this, had Richard been thehappier for it. He was not--or only for the briefest of intervals. Thenhis restlessness broke out afresh. 

There came days when nothing suited him; not his fine consulting room, or the improved furnishings of the house, or even her cookery of whichhe had once been so fond. He grew dainty to a degree; she searched hercookery-book for piquant recipes. Next he fell to imagining it wasunhealthy to sleep on feathers, and went to the expense of having ahard horsehair mattress made to fit the bed. Accustomed to the softestdown, he naturally tossed and turned all night long, and rose in themorning declaring he felt as though he had been beaten with sticks. Themattress was stowed away in a lean-to behind the kitchen, and there itremained. It was not alone. Mary sometimes stood and considered, with arueful eye, the many discarded objects that bore it company. Richard--oddly enough he was ever able to poke fun at himself--hadchristened this outhouse "the cemetery of dead fads. " Here was a set ofIndian clubs he had been going to harden his muscles with everymorning, and had used for a week; together with an india-rubbergymnastic apparatus bought for the same purpose. Here stood a patentshower-bath, that was to have dashed energy over him after a bad night, and had only succeeded in giving him acute neuralgia; a standing-deskhe had broken his back at for a couple of days; a homoeopathicmedicine-chest and a phrenological head--both subjects he had meant tosatisfy his curiosity by looking into, had time not failed him. Marysighed, when she thought of the waste of good money these and similararticles stood for. (Some day he would just have them privately cartedaway to auction!) But if Richard set his heart on a thing he wanted itso badly, so much more than other people did, that he knew no peacetill he had it. 

Mahony read in his wife's eyes the disapproval she was too wise toutter. At any other time her silent criticism would have galled him; inthis case, he took shelter behind it. Let her only go on setting himdown for lax and spendthrift, incapable of knowing his own mind. Hewould be sorry, indeed, for her to guess how matters really stood withhim. The truth was, he had fallen a prey to utter despondency, wasbecome so spiritless that it puzzled even himself. He thought he couldtrace some of the mischief back to the professional knocks and jarsOcock's action had brought down on him: to hear one's opinion doubted, one's skill questioned, was the tyro's portion; he was too old to treatsuch insolence with the scorn it deserved. Of course he had lived theaffair down; but the result of it would seem to be a bottomless ENNUI, a TEDIUM VITAE that had something pathological about it. Under itsinfluence the homeliest trifles swelled to feats beyond his strength. There was, for instance, the putting on and off one's clothing: thisinfinite boredom of straps and buttons--and all for what? For a daythat would be an exact copy of the one that had gone before, a night asunrefreshing as the last. Did any one suspect that there were momentswhen he quailed before this job, suspect that more than once he hadeven reckoned the number of times he would be called on to perform it, day in, day out, till that garment was put on him that came off nomore; or that he could understand and feel sympathy with those faintsouls--and there were such--who laid hands on themselves rather than goon doing it: did this get abroad, he would be considered ripe forBedlam. 

Physician, heal thyself! He swallowed doses of a tonic preparation, andput himself on a fatty diet. 

Thereafter he tried to take a philosophic view of his case. He had now, he told himself, reached an age when such a state of mind gave causeneither for astonishment nor alarm. How often had it not fallen to him, in his role of medical adviser, to reassure a patient on this score. The arrival of middle age brought about a certain lowness of spirits ineven the most robust: along with a more or less marked bodily languorwent an uneasy sense of coming loss: the time was at hand to bidfarewell to much that had hitherto made life agreeable; and for mostthis was a bitter pill. Meanwhile, one held a kind of mentalstocktaking. As often as not by the light of a completedisillusionment. Of the many glorious things one had hoped to do--or tobe--nothing was accomplished: the great realisation, in youthbreathlessly chased but never grasped, was now seen to be amist-wraith, which could wear a thousand forms, but invariably turnedto air as one came up with it. In nine instances out of ten there wasnothing to put in its place; and you began to ask yourself in a kind ofhorrific amaze: "Can this be all? . .. THIS? For this the pother ofgrowth, the struggles, and the sufferings?" The soul's climacteric, ifyou would, from which a mortal came forth dulled to resignation; orgreedy for the few physical pleasures left him; or prone to that tragicclinging to youth's skirts, which made the later years of many womenand not a few men ridiculous. In each case the motive power was thesame: the haunting fear that one had squeezed life dry; worse still, that it had not been worth the squeezing. 

Thus his reason. But, like a tongue of flame, his instinct leapt up togive combat. By the gods, this cap did NOT fit him! Squeezed life try?. .. Found it not worth while? Why, he had never got within measurabledistance of what he called life, at all! There could be no question ofhim resigning himself: deep down in him, he knew, was an enormousresidue of vitality, of untouched mental energy that only waited to bedrawn on. It was like a buried treasure, jealously kept for the eventof his one day catching up with life: not the bare scramble for aliving that here went by that name, but Life with a capital L, theexistence he had once confidently counted on as his--a tourney ofspiritual adventuring, of intellectual excitement, in which the prizestriven for was not money or anything to do with money. Far away, thousands of miles off, luckier men than he were in the thick of it. He, of his own free will, had cut himself adrift, and now it was toolate. 

But was it? Had the time irretrievably gone by? The ancient idea ofescape, long dormant, suddenly reawoke in him with a new force. And, once stirring, it was not to be silenced, but went on sounding like aground-tone through all he did. At first he shut his ears to it, todally with side issues. For example, he worried the question why thebreaking-point should only now have been reached and not six months, ayear ago. It was quibbling to lay the whole blame on Ocock's shoulders. The real cause went deeper, was of older growth. And driving his mindback over the past, he believed he could pin his present loss of gripto that fatal day on which he learnt that his best friend had betrayedhim. Things like that gave you a crack that would not mend. He had beenrendered suspicious where he had once been credulous; prone to see evilwhere no evil was. For, deceived by Purdy, in whom could he trust? Of asurety not in the pushful set of jobbers and tricksters he wascondemned to live amongst. No discoveries he might make about themwould surprise him. --And once more the old impotent anger with himselfbroke forth, that he should ever have let himself take root in suchdetestable surroundings. 

Why not shake the dust of the country off his feet?--From this directattack he recoiled, casting up his hands as if against the evil eye. What next? But exclaim as he might, now that the idea had put on words, it was by no means so simple to fend it off as when it had been a merevague humming at the back of his mind. It seized him; swept his brainbare of other thoughts. He began to look worn. And never more so thanwhen he imagined himself taking the bull by the horns and asking Mary'sapproval of his wild-goose scheme. He could picture her face, when sheheard that he planned throwing up his fine position and decamping onnothing a year. The vision was a cold douche to his folly. No, no! itwould not do. You could not accustom a woman to ease and luxury andthen, when you felt YOU had had enough and would welcome a return toSpartan simplicity, to an austere clarity of living, expect her to beprepared, at the word, to step back into poverty. One was bound . .. Bound . .. And by just those silken threads which, in premarital days, had seemed sheerly desirable. He wondered now what it would be like tostand free as the wind, answerable only to himself. The bare thought ofit filled him as with the rushing of wings. 

Once he had been within an ace of cutting and running. That was in theearly days, soon after his marriage. Trade had petered out; and therewould have been as little to leave behind as to carry with him. But, even so, circumstances had proved too strong for him: what with Mary'spersuasions and John's intermeddling, his scheme had come to nothing. And if, with so much in his favour, he had not managed to carry it out, how in all the world could he hope to now, when every thing conspiredagainst him. It was, besides, excusable in youth to challenge fortune;a very different matter for one of his age. 

Of his age! . .. The words gave him pause. By their light he saw why hehad knuckled under so meekly, at the time of his first attempt. It wasbecause then a few years one way or another did not signify; he hadthem to spare. Now, each individual year was precious to him; he partedwith it lingeringly, unwillingly. Time had taken to flashing past, too;Christmas was hardly celebrated before it was again at the door. Another ten years or so and he would be an old man, and it would invery truth be too late. The tempter voice--in this case also the voiceof reason--said: now or never!

But when he came to look the facts in the face his heart failed himanew, so heavily did the arguments against his taking such a step--and, true to his race, it was these he began by marshalling--weigh down thescales. He should have done it, if done it was to be, five . .. Three. .. Even a couple of years ago. Each day that dawned added to thetangle, made the idea seem more preposterous. Local dignities had beenshowered on him: he sat on the Committees of the District Hospital andthe Benevolent Asylum; was Honorary Medical Officer to this Society andthat; a trustee of the church; one of the original founders of theMechanics' Institute; vice-president of the Botanical Society; and soon, AD INFINITUM. His practice was second to none; his visiting-bookrarely shewed a blank space; people drove in from miles round toconsult him. In addition, he had an extremely popular wife, a goodhouse and garden, horses and traps, and a sure yearly income of sometwelve or thirteen hundred. Of what stuff was he made, that he couldlightly contemplate turning his back on prizes such as these?

Even as he told them off, however, the old sense of hollowness was uponhim again. His life there reminded him of a gaudy drop-scene, let downbefore an empty stage; a painted sham, with darkness and vacuitybehind. At bottom, none of these distinctions and successes meantanything to him; not a scrap of mental pabulum could be got from them:rather would he have chosen to be poor and a nobody among people whosethoughts flew to meet his half-way. And there was also another side toit. Stingy though the years had been of intellectual grist, they hadnot scrupled to rob him of many an essential by which he set store. Hisold faculty--for good or evil--of swift decision, for instance. It waslost to him now; as witness his present miserable vacillation. It hadgone off arm-in-arm with his health; physically he was but a ghost ofthe man he had once been. But the bitterest grudge he bore the life wasfor the shipwreck it had made of his early ideals. He remembered thepure joy, the lofty sentiments with which he had returned to medicine. Bah!--there had been no room for any sentimental nonsense of that kindhere. He had long since ceased to follow his professiondisinterestedly; the years had made a hack of him--a skilled hack, ofcourse--but just a hack. He had had no time for study; all his strengthhad gone in keeping his income up to a certain figure; lest the wifeshould be less well dressed and equipped than her neighbours; orpatients fight shy of him; or his confreres wag their tongues. --Oh! hehad adapted himself supremely well to the standards of this Australia, so-called Felix. And he must not complain if, in so doing, he had beenstripped, not only of his rosy dreams, but also of that spiritual forceon which he could once have drawn at will. Like a fool he had believedit possible to serve mammon with impunity, and for as long as it suitedhim. He knew better now. At this moment he was undergoing thesensations of one who, having taken shelter in what he thinks a lightand flimsy structure, finds that it is built of the solidest stone. Worse still: that he has been walled up inside. 

And even suppose he COULD pull himself together for the effortrequired, how justify his action in the eyes of the world? His motiveswould be double-dutch to the hard-headed crew around him; nor would anygo to the trouble of trying to understand. There was John. All Johnwould see was an elderly and not over-robust man deliberately throwingaway the fruits of year-long toil--and for what? For the privilege of, in some remote spot, as a stranger and unknown, having his way to makeall over again; of being free to shoulder once more the risks andhazards the undertaking involved. And little though he cared for Johnor any one else's opinion, Mahony could not help feeling a trifle sore, in advance, at the ridicule of which he might be the object, at thezanyish figure he was going to be obliged to cut. 

But a fig for what people thought of him! Once away from here he would, he thanked God, never see any of them again. No, it was Mary who wasthe real stumbling-block, the opponent he most feared. Had he been lessattached to her, the thing would have been easier; as it was, he shrankfrom hurting her. And hurt and confuse her he must. He knew Mary aswell--nay, better than he knew his own unreckonable self. For Mary wasnot a creature of moods, did not change her mental envelope a dozentimes a day. And just his precise knowledge of her told him that hewould never get her to see eye to eye with him. Her clear, sereneoutlook was attuned to the plain and the practical; she would discovera thousand drawbacks to his scheme, but nary a one of the incorporealbenefits he dreamed of reaping from it. There was his handling of moneyfor one thing: she had come, he was aware, to regard him as incurablyextravagant; and it would be no easy task to convince her that he couldlearn again to fit his expenses to a light purse. She had a woman'sinstinctive distrust, too, of leaving the beaten track. Another pointmade him still more dubious. Mary's whole heart and happiness werebound up in this place where she had spent the flower-years of herlife: who knew if she would thrive as well on other soil? He found itintolerable to think that she might have to pay for his want ofstability. --Yes, reduced to its essentials, it came to mean the pittingof one soul's welfare against that of another; was a toss-up betweenhis happiness and hers. One of them would have to yield. Who wouldsuffer more by doing so--he or she? He believed that a sacrifice on hispart would make the wreck of his life complete. On hers--well, thanksto her doughty habit of finding good everywhere, there was a chance ofher coming out unscathed. 

Here was his case in a nutshell. 

Still he did not tackle Mary. For sometimes, after all, a disturbeddoubt crept upon him whether it would not be possible to go on as hewas; instead of, as she would drastically word it, cutting his throatwith his own hand. And to be perfectly honest, he believed it would. Hecould now afford to pay for help in his work; to buy what books heneeded or fancied; to take holidays while putting in a LOCUM; even tokeep on the LOCUM, at a good salary, while he journeyed overseas tovisit the land of his birth. But at this another side of him--what hethought of as spirit, in contradistinction to soul--cried out in alarm, fearful lest it was again to be betrayed. Thus far, though by rightscoequal in the house of the body, it had been rigidly kept down. Nevertheless it had persisted, like a bright cold little spark at deadof night: his restlessness, the spiritual malaise that encumbered himhad been its mute form of protest. Did he go on turning a deaf ear toits warnings, he might do himself irreparable harm. For time wasflying, the sum of his years mounting, shrinking that roomy future towhich he had thus far always postponed what seemed too difficult forthe moment. Now he saw that he dared delay no longer in setting freethe imprisoned elements in him, was he ever to grow to that completewhole which each mortal aspires to be. --That a change of environmentwould work this miracle he did not doubt; a congenial environment wasmeat and drink to him, was light and air. Here in this country, he hadremained as utterly alien as any Jew of old who wept by the rivers ofBabylon. And like a half-remembered tune there came floating into hismind words he had lit on somewhere, or learnt on theschool-bench--Horace, he thought, but, whatever their source, wordsthat fitted his case to a nicety. COELUM, NON ANIMUM, MUTANT, QUI TRANSMARE CURRUNT. "Non animum"? Ah! could he but have foreseenthis--foreknown it. If not before he set sail on what was to have beenbut a swift adventure, then at least on that fateful day long pastwhen, foiled by Mary's pleadings and his own inertia, he had lethimself be bound anew. 

Thus the summer dragged by; a summer to try the toughest. Mahonythought he had never gone through its like for heat and discomfort. Thedrought would not break, and on the great squatting-stations roundBallarat and to the north, the sheep dropped like flies at an earlyfrost. The forest reservoirs dried up, displaying the red mud of theirbottoms, and a bath became a luxury--or a penance--the scanty waterrunning thick and red. Then the bush caught fire and burnt for threedays, painting the sky a rusty brown, and making the air hard tobreathe. Of a morning his first act on going into his surgery was topick up the thermometer that stood on the table. Sure as fate, thoughthe clock had not long struck nine, the mercury marked somethingbetween a hundred and a hundred and five degrees. He let it fall with anerveless gesture. Since his sunstroke he not only hated, he feared thesun. But out into it he must, to drive through dust-clouds so opaquethat one could only draw rein till they subsided, meanwhile holloaingoff collisions. Under the close leather hood he sat and stifled; or, removing his green goggles for the fiftieth time, climbed down to enteryet another baked wooden house, where he handled prostrate bodies rankwith sweat, or prescribed for pallid or fever-speckled children. Thenhome, to toy with the food set before him, his mind already running onthe discomforts of the afternoon. --Two bits of ill-luck came his waythis summer. Old Ocock fell, in dismounting from a vehicle, andsustained a compound fracture of the femur. Owing to his advanced agethere was for a time fear of malunion of the parts, and this keptMahony on the rack. Secondly, a near neighbour, a common little fellowwho kept a jeweller's shop in Bridge Street, actually took the plunge:sold off one fine day and sailed for home. And this seemed theunkindest cut of all. 

But the accident that gave the death-blow to his scruples was another. On the advice of a wealthy publican he was treating, whose judgment hetrusted, Mahony had invested--heavily for him, selling off other stockto do it--in a company known as the Hodderburn Estate. This was agovernment affair and ought to have been beyond reproach. One day, however, it was found that the official reports of the work done by thediamond drill-bore were cooked documents; and instantly every oneconnected with the mine--directors, managers, engineers--lay under thesuspicion of fraudulent dealings. Shares had risen as high as tenpounds odd; but when the drive reached the bore and, in place of thedeep gutter-ground the public had been led to expect, hard rock wasfound overhead, there was a panic; shares dropped to twenty-fiveshillings and did not rally. Mahony was a loser by six hundred pounds, and got, besides, a moral shaking from which he could not recover. Hesat and bit his little-finger nail to the quick. Was he, he savagelyasked himself, going to linger on until the little he had managed tosave was snatched from him?

He dashed off a letter to John, asking his brother-in-law to recommenda reliable broker. And this done, he got up to look for Mary, determined to come to grips with her at last. 

Chapter XI

How to begin, how reduce to a few plain words his subtle tangle ofthought and feeling, was the problem. 

He did not find his wife on her usual seat in the arbour. In searchingfor her, upstairs and down, he came to a rapid decision. He would laychief stress on his poor state of health. 

"I feel I'm killing myself. I can't go on. "

"But Richard dear!" ejaculated Mary, and paused in her sewing, herneedle uplifted, a bead balanced on its tip. Richard had run her toearth in the spare bedroom, to which at this time she often repaired. For he objected to the piece of work she had on hand--that of coveringyards of black cashmere with minute jet beads--vowing that she wouldruin her eyesight over it. So, having set her heart on a fashionablepolonaise, she was careful to keep out of his way. 

"I'm not a young man any longer, wife. When one's past forty . .. "

"Poor mother used to say forty-five was a man's prime of life. "

"Not for me. And not here in this God-forsaken hole!"

"Oh dear me! I do wonder why you have such a down on Ballarat. I'm surethere must be many worse places in the world to live in", and loweringher needle, Mary brought the bead to its appointed spot. "Of course youhave a lot to do, I know, and being such a poor sleeper doesn't improvematters. " But she was considering her pattern sideways as she spoke, thinking more of it than of what she said. Every one had to work hardout here; compared with some she could name, Richard's job of drivinground in a springy buggy seemed ease itself. "Besides I told you at thetime you were wrong not to take a holiday in winter, when you had thechance. You need a thorough change every year to set you up. You cameback from the last as fresh as a daisy. "

"The only change that will benefit me is one for good and all, " saidMahony with extreme gloom. He had thrown up the bed-curtain andstretched himself on the bed, where he lay with his hands clasped underhis neck. 

Tutored by experience, Mary did not contradict him. 

"And it's the kind I've finally made up my mind to take. "

"Richard! How you do run on!" and Mary, still gently incredulous but athought wider awake, let her work sink to her lap. "What is the use oftalking like that?"

"Believe it or not, my dear, as you choose. You'll see--that's all. "

At her further exclamations of doubt and amazement, Mahony's patienceslipped its leash. "Surely to goodness my health comes first . .. Beforeany confounded practice?"

"Ssh! Baby's asleep. --And don't get cross, Richard. You can hardlyexpect me not to be surprised when you spring a thing of this sort onme. You've never even dropped a hint of it before. "

"Because I knew very well what it would be. You dead against it, ofcourse!"

"Now I call that unjust. You've barely let me get a word in edgeways. "

"Oh, I know by heart everything you're going to say. It's nonsense . .. Folly . .. Madness . .. And so on: all the phrases you women fish up fromyour vocabulary when you want to stave off a change--hinder anyalteration of the STATUS QUO. But I'll tell you this, wife. You'll buryme here, if I don't get away soon. I'm not much more than skin and boneas it is. And I confess, if I've got to be buried I'd rather lieelsewhere--have good English earth atop of me. "

Had Mary been a man, she might have retorted that this was a verywoman's way of shifting ground. She bit her lip and did not answerimmediately. Then: "You know I can't bear to hear you talk like that, even in fun. Besides, you always say much more than you mean, dear. "

"Very well then, if you prefer it, wait and see! You'll be sorry someday. "

"Do you mean to tell me, Richard, you're in earnest, when you talk ofselling off your practice and going to England?"

"I can buy another there, can't I?"

With these words he leapt to his feet, afire with animation. And whileMary, now thoroughly uneasy, was folding up her work, he dilated uponthe benefits that would accrue to them from the change. Good-bye todust, and sun, and drought, to blistering hot winds and PAPIER MACHEwalls! They would make their new home in some substantial old stonehouse that had weathered half a century or more, tangled over withcreepers, folded away in its own privacy as only an English house couldbe. In the flower-garden roses would trail over arch and pergola; therewould be a lawn with shaped yews on it; while in the orchard oldapple-trees would flaunt their red abundance above grey, lichened walls. 

("As if there weren't apples enough here!" thought Mary. )

He got a frog in his throat as he went on to paint in greater detailfor her, who had left it so young, the intimate charm of the homecountry--the rich, green, dimpled countryside. And not till now did hegrasp how sorely he had missed it. "Oh, believe me, to talk of 'goinghome' is no mere figure of speech, Mary!" In fancy he trod windinglanes that ran between giant hedges: hedges in tender bud, with dew onthem; or snowed over with white mayflowers; or behung with the fairywebs and gossamer of early autumn, thick as twine beneath their load ofmoisture. He followed white roads that were banked with primroses andran headlong down to the sea; he climbed the shoulder of a down on aspring morning, when the air was alive with larks carolling. Butchiefly it was the greenness that called to him--the greenness of thegreenest country in the world. Viewed from this distance, the homelandlooked to him like one vast meadow. Oh, to tread its grass again!--notwhat one knew as grass here, a poor annual, that lasted for a few briefweeks; but lush meadow-grass, a foot high; or shaven emerald lawns onwhich ancient trees spread their shade; or the rank growth in oldorchards, starry with wild flowers, on which fruit-blossoms fluttereddown. He longed, too, for the exquisite finishedness of the mothercountry, the soft tints of cloud-veiled northern skies. His eyes ached, his brows had grown wrinkled from gazing on iron roofs set against thehard blue overhead; on dirty weatherboards innocent of paint; onhiggledy-piggledy backyards and ramshackle fences; on the stragglinglandscape with its untidy trees--all the unrelieved ugliness, in short, of the colonial scene. 

He stopped only for want of breath. Mary was silent. He waited. Stillshe did not speak. 

He fell to earth with a bump, and was angry. "Come . .. Out with it! Isuppose all this seems to you just the raving of a lunatic?"

"Oh, Richard, no. But a little . .. Well, a little unpractical. I neverheard before of any one throwing up a good income because he didn'tlike the scenery. It's a step that needs the greatest consideration. "

"Good God! Do you think I haven't considered it?--and from every angle?There isn't an argument for or against, that I haven't gone over athousand and one times. "

"And with never a word to me, Richard?" Mary was hurt; and showed it. "It really is hardly fair. For this is my home as well as yours. --Butnow listen. You're tired out, run down with the heat and that lastattack of dysentery. Take a good holiday--stay away for three months ifyou like. Sail over to Hobart Town, or up to Sydney, you who'er so fondof the water. And when you come back strong and well we'll talk aboutall this again. I'm sure by then you'll see things with other eyes. "

"And who's to look after the practice, pray?"

"Why, a LOCUM TENENS, of course. Or engage an assistant. "

"Aha! you'd agree to that now, would you? I remember how opposed youwere once to the idea. "

"Well, if I have to choose between it and you giving up altogether. .. Now, for your own sake, Richard, don't go and do anything rash. If onceyou sell off and leave Ballarat, you can never come back. And then, ifyou regret it, where will you be? That's why I say don't hurry todecide. Sleep over it. Or let us consult somebody--John perhaps--"

"No you don't, madam, no you don't!" cried Richard with a grim dash ofhumour. "You had me once . .. Crippled me . .. Handcuffed me--you andyour John between you! It shan't happen again. "

"I crippled you? I, Richard! Why, never in my life have I done anythingbut what I thought was for your good. I've always put you first. " AndMary's eyes filled with tears. 

"Yes, where it's a question of one's material welfare you haven't yourequal--I admit that. But the other side of me needs coddling too--yes, and sympathy. But it can whistle for such a thing as far as you'reconcerned. "

Mary sighed. "I think you don't realise, dear, how difficult itsometimes is to understand you . .. Or to make out what you really dowant, " she said slowly. 

Her tone struck at his heart. "Indeed and I do!" he cried contritely. "I'm a born old grumbler, mavourneen, I know--contrariness in person!But in this case . .. Come, love, do try to grasp what I'm after; itmeans so much to me. " And he held out his hand to her, to beseech her. 

Unhesitatingly she laid hers in it. "I am trying, Richard, though youmayn't believe it. I always do. And even if I sometimes can't manageit--well, you know, dear, you generally get your own way in the end. Think of the house. I'm still not clear why you altered it. I liked itmuch better as it was. But I didn't make any fuss, did I?--though Ishould have, if I'd thought we were only to occupy it for a single yearafter. --Still, that was a trifle compared with what you want to donow. Though I lived to a hundred I should never be able to approve ofthis. And you don't know how hard it is to consent to a thing onedisapproves of. You couldn't do it yourself. Oh, what WAS the use, Richard, of toiling as you have, if now, just when you can afford tocharge higher fees and the practice is beginning to bring in money--"

Mahony let her hand drop, even giving it a slight push from him, andturned to pace the floor anew. "Oh, money, money, money! I'm sick ofthe very sound of the word. But you talk as if nothing else mattered. Can't you for once, wife, see through the letter of the thing to thespirit behind? I admit the practice HAS brought in a tidy income oflate; but as for the rest of the splendours, they exist, my dear, onlyin your imagination. If you ask me, I say I lead a dog's life--why, even a navvy works only for a fixed number of hours per diem! My dayshave neither beginning nor end. Look at yesterday! Out in the blazingsun from morning till night--I didn't get back from the second roundtill nine. At ten a confinement that keeps me up till three. From threetill dawn I toss and turn, far too weary to sleep. By the time sixo'clock struck--you of course were slumbering sweetly--I was in hellwith tic. At seven I could stand it no longer and got up for thechloroform bottle: an hour's rest at any price--else how face the crowdin the waiting-room? And you call that splendour?--luxurious ease? Ifso, my dear, words have not the same meaning any more for you and me. "

Mary did not point out that she had said nothing of the kind, or thathe had set up an extreme case as typical. She tightened her lips; herbig eyes were very solemn. 

"And it's not the work alone, " Richard was declaring, "it's the place, wife--the people. I'm done with 'em, Mary--utterly done! Upon my word, if I thought I had to go on living among them even for anothertwelvemonth . .. "

"But PEOPLE are the same all the world over!" The protest broke fromher in spite of herself. 

"No, by God, they're not!" And here Richard launched out into adiatribe against his fellow-colonists: "This sordid riff-raff! Thesehard, mean, grasping money-grubbers!" that made Mary stand aghast. Whatcould be the matter with him? What was he thinking of, he who wasordinarily so generous? Had he forgotten the many kindnesses shown him, the warm gratitude of his patients, people's sympathy, at the time ofhis illness? But he went on: "My demands are most modest. All I ask isto live among human beings with whom I have half an idea in common--menwho sometimes raise their noses from the ground, instead of eternallyscheming how to line their pockets, reckoning human progress solely interms of l. S. D. No, I've sacrificed enough of my life to this country. I mean to have the rest for myself. And there's another thing, mydear--another bad habit this precious place breeds in us. It begins bymaking us indifferent to those who belong to us but are out of oursight, and ends by cutting our closest ties. I don't mean by distancealone. I have an old mother still living, Mary, whose chief prayer isthat she may see me once again before she dies. I was herlast-born--the child her arms kept the shape of. What am I to her now?. .. What does she know of me, of the hard, tired, middle-aged man Ihave become? And you are in much the same box, my dear; unless you'veforgotten by now that you ever had a mother. "

Mary was scandalised. "Forget one's mother? . .. Richard! I think you'retrying what dreadful things you can find to say . .. When I write homeevery three months!" And provoked by this fresh piece of unreason sheopened fire in earnest, in defence of what she believed to be theirtrue welfare. Richard listened to her without interrupting; even seemedto grant the truth of what she said. But none the less, even as shepleaded with him, a numbing sense of futility crept over her. Shestuttered, halted, and finally fell silent. Her words were like so manylassos thrown after his vagrant soul; and this was out of reach. It hadsniffed freedom--it WAS free; ran wild already on the boundless plainsof liberty. 

After he had gone from the room she sat with idle hands. She was all ina daze. Richard was about to commit an out-and-out folly, and she waspowerless to hinder it. If only she had had some one she could havetalked things over with, taken advice of! But no--it went against thegrain in her to discuss her husband's actions with a third person. Purdy had been the sole exception, and Purdy had become impossible. 

Looking back, she marvelled at her own dullness in not fore-seeing thatsomething like this might happen. What more natural than that themultitude of little whims and fads Richard had indulged shouldculminate in a big whim of this kind? But the acknowledgment caused herfresh anxiety. She had watched him tire, like a fickle child, of firstone thing, then another; was it likely that he would now suddenly provemore stable? She did not think so. For she attributed his present moodof pettish aversion wholly to the fact of his being run down in health. It was quite true: he had not been himself of late. But, here again, hewas so fanciful that you never knew how literally to take his ailments:half the time she believed he just imagined their existence; and thelong holiday she had urged on him would have been enough to sweep thecobwebs from his brain. Oh, if only he could have held on in patience!Four or five years hence, at most, he might have considered retiringfrom general practice. She almost wept as she remembered how they hadonce planned to live for that day. Now it was all to end in smoke. 

Then her mind reverted to herself and to what the break would mean toher; and her little world rocked to its foundations. For no clear callwent out to Mary from her native land. She docilely said "home" withthe rest, and kept her family ties intact; but she had never expectedto go back, except on a flying visit. She thought of England rathervaguely as a country where it was always raining, and where--accordingto John--an assemblage of old fogies, known as the House of Commons, persistently intermeddled in the affairs of the colony. For more thanhalf her life--and the half that truly counted--Australia had been herhome. 

Her home! In fancy she made a round of the house, viewing each cosyroom, lingering fondly over the contents of cupboards and presses, recollecting how she had added this piece of furniture for convenience'sake, that for ornament, till the whole was as perfect as she knew howto make it. Now, everything she loved and valued--the piano, thewax-candle chandelier, the gilt cornices, the dining-roomhorsehair--would fall under the auctioneer's hammer, go to deck out thehouses of other people. Richard said she could buy better and handsomerthings in England; but Mary allowed herself no illusions on this score. Where was the money to come from? She had learnt by personal experiencewhat slow work building up a practice was. It would be years and yearsbefore they could hope for another such home. And sore and sorry as SHEmight feel at having to relinquish her pretty things, in Richard's caseit would mean a good deal more than that. To him the loss of them wouldbe a real misfortune, so used had he grown to luxury and comfort, sostrongly did the need of it run in his blood. 

Worse still was the prospect of parting from relatives and friends. Thetears came at this, freely. John's children!--who would watch over themwhen she was gone? How could she, from so far away, keep the promiseshe had made to poor Jinny on her death-bed? She would have to give upthe baby of which she had grown so fond--give it back into Zara'sunmotherly hands. And never again of a Saturday would she fetch poorlittle long-legged Trotty from school. She must say good-bye to one andto all--to John, and Zara, and Jerry--and would know no more, at closequarters, how they fared. When Jerry married there would be no one tosee to it that he chose the right girl. Then Ned and Polly--poor souls, poor souls! What with the rapid increase of their family and Ned'sunsteadiness--he could not keep any job long because of it--they onlyjust contrived to make ends meet. How they would do it when she was notthere to lend a helping hand, she could not imagine. And outside herbrothers and sisters there was good Mrs. Devine. Mary had engaged toguide her friend's tottery steps on the slippery path of Melbournesociety, did Mr. Devine enter the ministry. And poor little Agnes withher terrible weakness. .. And Amelia and her sickly babes . .. And Tilly, dear, good, warm-hearted Tilly! Never again would the pair of themenjoy one of their jolly laughs; or cook for a picnic; or drive out toa mushroom hunt. No, the children would grow up anyhow; her brothersforget her in carving out their own lives; her friends find otherfriends. 

For some time, however, she kept her own counsel. But when she hadtried by hook and by crook to bring Richard to reason, and failed; whenshe saw that he was actually beginning, on the quiet, to make ready fordeparture, and that the day was coming on which every one would have toknow: then she threw off her reserve. She was spending the afternoonwith Tilly. They sat on the verandah together, John's child, black-eyed, fat, self-willed, playing, after the manner of two shortyears, at their feet. At the news that was broken to her Tilly began bylaughing immoderately, believing that Mary was "taking a rise out ofher. " But having studied her friend's face she let her work fall, slowly opened mouth and eyes, and was at first unequal to uttering aword. 

Thereafter she bombarded Mary with questions. 

"Wants to leave Ballarat? To go home to England?" she echoed, with anemphasis such as Tilly alone could lay. "Well! of all the . .. What for?What on earth for? 'As somebody gone and left 'im a fortune? Or 'as 'ebeen appointed pillmonger-in-ordinary to the Queen 'erself? What is it, Mary? What's up?"

What indeed! This was the question Mary dreaded, and one that wouldleap to every tongue: why was he going? She sat on the horns of adilemma. It was not in her to wound people's feelings by blurting outthe truth--this would also put Richard in a bad light--and, did shegive no reason at all, many would think he had taken leave of hissenses. Weakly, in a very un-Maryish fashion, she mumbled that hishealth was not what it should be, and he had got it into his head thatfor this the climate of the colony was to blame. Nothing would do himbut to return to England. 

"I never! No, never in my born days did I hear tell of such a thing!"and Tilly, exploding, brought her closed fist heavily down on her knee. "Mary! . .. For a mere maggot like that, to chuck up a practice such as'e's got. Upon my word, my dear, it looks as if 'e was touched'ere, "--and she significantly tapped her forehead. "Ha! Now Iunderstand. You know I've seen quite well, love, you've been looking abit down in the mouth of late. And so 'as pa noticed it, too. Afteryou'd gone the other day, 'e said to me: 'Looks reflexive-like does thelittle lady nowadays; as if she'd got something on 'er mind. ' And I tohim: 'Pooh! Isn't it enough that she's got to put up with the cranksand crotchets of one o' YOUR sect?'--Oh Mary, my dear, there's many atrue word said in jest. Though little did I think what the crotchetwould be. " And slowly the rims of Tilly's eyes and the tip of her nosereddened and swelled. 

"No, I can't picture it, Mary--what it'ull be like 'ere without you, "she said; and pulling out her handkerchief blew snort after snort, which was Tilly's way nowadays of having a good cry. "There, there, Baby, Auntie's only got the sniffles. --For just think of it, Mary:except that first year or so after you were married, we've beentogether, you and me, pretty much ever since you came to us that timeat the 'otel--a little black midget of a thing in short frocks. I canstill remember 'ow Jinn and I laughed at the idea of you teaching us;and 'ow poor ma said to wait and make sure we weren't laughing on thewrong side of our mouths. And ma was right as usual. For if ever aclever little kid trod the earth, it was you. "

Mary pooh-poohed the cleverness. "I knew very little more than youyourselves. No, it was you who were all so kind to me. I had beenfeeling so lonely--as if nobody wanted me--and I shall never forget howmother put her arms round me and cuddled me, and how safe andcomfortable I felt. It was always just like home there to me. "

"And why not, I'd like to know!--Look 'ere, Mary, I'm going to ask yousomething, plump and plain. 'Ave you really been happy in yourmarriage, my dear, or 'ave you not? You're such a loyal little soul, Iknow you'd never show it if you weren't; and sometimes I've 'ad mydoubts about you, Mary. For you and the doctor are just as different aschalk and cheese. "

"Of course I have--as happy as the day's long!" cried Mary, sensitiveas ever to a reflection on her husband. "You mustn't think anythinglike that, Tilly. I couldn't imagine myself married to anyone butRichard. "

"Then that only makes it harder for you now, poor thing, pulled twoways like, as you are, " said Tilly, and trumpeted afresh. "All thesame, there isn't anything I'd stick at, Mary, to keep you here. Don'tbe offended, my dear, but it doesn't matter half so much about thedoctor going as you. There's none cleverer than 'im, of course, in 'isown line. But 'e's never fitted in properly here--I don't want toexactly say 'e thinks 'imself too good for us; but there is something, Mary love, and I'm not the only one who's felt it. I've known people goon like anything about 'im behind 'is back: nothing would induce themto have 'im and 'is haughty airs inside their doors again, etcetera. "

Mary flushed. "Yes, I know, people do sometimes judge Richard veryunkindly. For at heart he's the most modest of men. It's only hismanner. And he can't help that, can he?"

"There are those who say a doctor ought to be able to, my dear. --Butnever mind him. Oh, it's you I feel for, Mary, being dragged off likethis. Can't you DO anything, dear? Put your foot down?"

Mary shook her head. "It's no use. Richard is so . .. Well, so queer insome ways, Tilly. Besides, you know, I don't think it would be right ofme to really pit my will against his. "

"Poor little you!--Oh! men are queer fish, Mary, aren't they? Not thatI can complain; I drew a prize in the lucky-bag when I took that oldJawkins in there. But when I look round me, or think back, and see whatwe women put up with! There was poor old ma; she 'ad to be man forboth. And Jinn, Mary, who didn't dare to call 'er soul 'er own. Andmilady Agnes is travelling the selfsame road--why, she 'as to cock 'ereye at Henry nowadays before she trusts 'erself to say whether it'sbeef or mutton she's eating! And now 'ere's you, love, carted off withnever a with-your-leave or by-your-leave, just because the doctor'stired of it and thinks 'e'd like a change. There's no question ofwhether you're tired or not--oh, my, no!"

"But he has to earn the money, Tilly. It isn't quite fair to put itthat way, " protested her friend. 

"Well! I don't know, Mary, I'm sure, " and Tilly's plump person rose andsank in a prodigious sigh. "But if I was 'is wife 'e wouldn't get offso easy--I know that! It makes me just boil. "

Mary answered with a rueful smile. She could never be angry withRichard in cold blood, or for long together. 

As time went on, though, and the break-up of her home began--by theauctioneer's man appearing to paw over and appraise the furniture--acertain dull resentment did sometimes come uppermost. Under its swayshe had forcibly to remind herself what a good husband Richard hadalways been; had to tell off his qualities one by one, instead oftaking them as hitherto for granted. No, her quarrel, she began to see, was not so much with him as with the Powers above. Why should HERhusband alone not be as robust and hardy as all the other husbands inthe place? None of THEIR healths threatened to fail, nor did any ofthem find the conditions of the life intolerable. That was anothershabby trick Fate had played Richard in not endowing him with worldlywisdom, and a healthy itch to succeed. Instead of that, he had beenblessed with ideas and impulses that stood directly in his way. --And itwas here that Mary bore more than one of her private ambitions for himto its grave. A new expression came into her eyes, too--an unsure, baffled look. Life was not, after all, going to be the simple, straightforward affair she had believed. Thus far, save for the oneunhappy business with Purdy, wrongs and complications had passed herby. Now she saw that no more than anyone else could she hope to escapethem. 

Out of this frame of mind she wrote a long, confidential letter toJohn: John must not be left in ignorance of what hung over her; it wasalso a relief to unbosom herself to one of her own family. And John wasgood enough to travel up expressly to talk things over with her, and, as he put it, to "call Richard to order. " Like every one else he showedthe whites of his eyes at the latter's flimsy reasons for seeking achange. But when, in spite of her warning, he bearded hisbrother-in-law with a jocose and hearty: "Come, come, my dear Mahony!what's all this? You're actually thinking of giving us the slip?"Richard took his interference so badly, became so agitated over thehead of the harmless question that John's airy remonstrance died in histhroat. 

"Mad as a March hare!" was his private verdict, as he shook down hisruffled plumes. To Mary he said ponderously: "Well, upon my soul, mydear girl, I don't know--I am frankly at a loss what to say. Measuredby every practical standard, the step he contemplates is little shortof suicidal. I fear he will live to regret it. "

And Mary, who had not expected anything from John's intervention, andalso knew the grounds for Richard's heat--Mary now resigned herself, with the best grace she could muster, to the inevitable. 

Chapter XII

House and practice sold for a good round sum; the brass plates wereremoved from gate and door, leaving dirty squares flanked byscrew-holes; carpets came up and curtains down; and, like rats from adoomed ship, men and women servants fled to other situations. One fineday the auctioneer's bell was rung through the main streets of thetown; and both on this and the next, when the red flag flew in front ofthe house, a troop of intending purchasers, together with an evenlarger number of the merely curious, streamed in at the gate andoverran the premises. At noon the auctioneer mounted his perch, gathered the crowd round him, and soon had the sale in full swing, catching head-bobs, or wheedling and insisting with, when persuasioncould do no more, his monotonous parrot-cry of: "Going. .. Going . .. Gone!"

It would have been in bad taste for either husband or wife to bevisible while the auction was in progress; and, the night before, Maryand the child had moved to Tilly's, where they would stay for the restof the time. But Mahony was still hard at work. The job of winding upand getting in the money owed him was no light one. For the report hadsomehow got abroad that he was retiring from practice because he hadmade his fortune; and only too many people took this as a tacitpermission to leave their bills unpaid. 

He had locked himself and his account-books into a small back room, where stood the few articles they had picked out to carry with them:Mary's sewing-table, his first gift to her after marriage; their modeststock of silver; his medical library. But he had been forced to lowerthe blind, to hinder impertinent noses flattening themselves againstthe window, and thus could scarcely see to put pen to paper; while theauctioneer's grating voice was a constant source of distraction--not tomention the rude comments made by the crowd on house and furniture, theceaseless trying of the handle of the locked door. 

When it came to the point, this tearing up of one's roots was amurderous business--nothing for a man of his temperament. Mary was agood deal better able to stand it than he. Violently as she had opposedthe move in the beginning, she was now, dear soul, putting a cheeryface on it. But then Mary belonged to that happy class of mortals whocould set up their Lares and Penates inside any four walls. Whereas hewas a very slave to associations. Did she regret parting with a prettytable and a comfortable chair, it was soley because of the prettinessand convenience: as long as she could replace them by other articles ofthe same kind, she was content. But to him each familiar object wasbound by a thousand memories. And it was the loss of these which couldnever be replaced that cut him to the quick. 

Meanwhile this was the kind of thing he had to listen to. 

"'Ere now, ladies and gents, we 'ave a very fine pier glass--a verychaste and tasty pier glass indeed--a red addition to any lady'sdrawin'room. --Mrs. Rupp? Do I understand you aright, Mrs. Rupp? Mrs. Rupp offers twelve bob for this very 'andsome article. Twelve bob . .. Going twelve. .. . Fifteen? Thank you, Mrs. Bromby! Going fifteen . .. Going--going--Eighteen? Right you are, my dear!" and so on. 

It had a history had that pier glass; its purchase dated from a time intheir lives when they had been forced to turn each shilling in thepalm. Mary had espied it one day in Plaistows' Stores, and had set herheart on buying it. How she had schemed to scrape the moneytogether!--saving so much on a new gown, so much on bonnet and mantle. He remembered, as if it were yesterday, the morning on which she hadburst in, eyes and cheeks aglow, to tell him that she had managed it atlast, and how they had gone off arm in arm to secure the prize. Yes, for all their poverty, those had been happy days. Little extravagancessuch as this, or the trifling gifts they had contrived to make eachother had given far more pleasure than the costlier presents of lateryears. 

"The next article I draw your attention to is a sofer, " went on thevoice, sounding suddenly closer; and with a great trampling andshuffling the crowd trooped after it to the adjoining room. "And a veryeasy and comfortable piece o' furniture it is, too. A bit shabby andworn 'ere and there, but not any the worse of that. You don't need toworry if the kids play puff-puffs on it; and it fits the shape o' thebody all the better. --Any one like to try it? Jest the very thing for atired gent 'ome from biz, or 'andy to pop your lady on when shefaints--as the best of ladies will! Any h'offers? Mr. De laPlastrier"--he said "Deelay plastreer"--"a guinea? Thank you, mister. One guinea! Going a guinea!--Now, COME on, ladies and gen'elmen! D'yethink I've got a notion to make you a present of it? What's that?Two-and-twenty? Gawd! Is this a tiddlin' match?"

How proud he had been of that sofa! In his first surgery he had hadnowhere to lay an aching head. Well worn? Small wonder! He would liketo know how many hundreds of times he had flung himself down on it, utterly played out. He had been used to lie there of an evening, too, when Mary came in to chat about household affairs, or report on herday's doings. And he remembered another time, when he had spent thelast hours of a distracted night on it . .. And how, between sleepingand waking, he had strained his ears for footsteps that never came. 

The sofa was knocked down to his butcher for a couple of pounds, andthe crying--or decrying--of his bookcases began. He could stand no moreof it. Sweeping his papers into a bag, he guiltily unlocked the doorand stole out by way of kitchen and back gate. 

But once outside he did not know where to go or what to do. Leaving thetown behind him he made for the Lake, and roved aimlessly anddisconsolately about, choosing sheltered paths and remote roads wherehe would be unlikely to run the gauntlet of acquaintances. For heshrank from recognition on this particular day, when all his domesticprivacies were being bared to the public view. But altogether of latehe had fought shy of meeting people. Their hard, matter-of-fact facesshowed him only too plainly what they thought of him. At first he hadbeen fool enough to scan them eagerly, in the hope of finding onesaving touch of sympathy or comprehension. But he might as well havelooked for grief in the eyes of an undertaker's mute. And so he hadshrunk back into himself, wearing his stiffest air as a shield andleaving it to Mary to parry colonial inquisitiveness. 

When he reckoned that he had allowed time enough for the disposal ofthe last pots and pans, he rose and made his way--well, the word "home"was by now become a mere figure of speech. He entered a scene of thewildest confusion. The actual sale was over, but the work of strippingthe house only begun, and successful bidders were dragging off theirspoils. His glass-fronted bookcase had been got as far as thesurgery-door. There it had stuck fast; and an angry altercation wasgoing on, how best to set it free. A woman passed him bearing Mary'sgirandoles; another had the dining-room clock under her arm; a thirdtrailed a whatnot after her. To the palings of the fence several cartsand buggies had been hitched, and the horses were eating down hisneatly clipped hedge--it was all he could do not to rush out and calltheir owners to account. The level sunrays flooded the rooms, showingup hitherto unnoticed smudges and scratches on the wall-papers; showingthe prints of hundreds of dusty feet on the carpetless floors. Voicesechoed in hollow fashion through the naked rooms; men shouted and spatas they tugged heavy articles along the hall, or bumped them down thestairs. It was pandemonium. The death of a loved human being could not, he thought, have been more painful to witness. Thus a home went topieces; thus was a page of one's life turned. --He hastened away torejoin Mary. 

There followed a week of Mrs. Tilly's somewhat stifling hospitality, when one was forced three times a day to over-eat oneself for fear ofgiving offence; followed formal presentations of silver and plate fromMasonic Lodge and District Hospital, as well as a couple of publictestimonials got up by his medical brethren. But at length all wasover: the last visit had been paid and received, the last evening partyin their honour sat through; and Mahony breathed again. He had feltstiff and unnatural under this overdose of demonstrativeness. Now--asalways on sighting relief from a state of things that irked him--heunderwent a sudden change, turned hearty and spontaneous, thusinnocently succeeding in leaving a good impression behind him. He kepthis temper, too, in all the fuss and ado of departure: the running toand fro after missing articles, the sitting on the lids of overflowingtrunks, the strapping of carpet-bags, affixing of labels. Their luggagehoisted into a spring-cart, they themselves took their seats in thebuggy and were driven to the railway station; and to himself Mahonymurmured an all's-well--that-ends-well. On alighting, however, he foundthat his greatcoat had been forgotten. He had to re-seat himself in thebuggy and gallop back to the house, arriving at the station only justin time to leap into the train. 

"A close shave that!" he ejaculated as he sank on the cushions andwiped his face. "And in more senses than one, my dear. In tearing rounda corner we nearly had a nasty spill. Had I pitched out and broken myneck, this hole would have got my bones after all. --Not that I wassorry to miss that cock-and-hen-show, Mary. It was really too much of agood thing altogether. "

For a large and noisy crowd had gathered round the door of the carriageto wish the travellers god-speed, among them people to whom Mahonycould not even put a name, whose very existence he had forgotten. Andit had fairly snowed last gifts and keepsakes. Drying her eyes, Marynow set to collecting and arranging these. "Just fancy so many turningup, dear. The railway people must have wondered what was thematter. --Oh, by the way, did you notice--I don't think you did, youwere in such a rush--who I was speaking to as you ran up? It was Jim, Old Jim, but so changed I hardly knew him. As spruce as could be, in ablack coat and a belltopper. He's married again, he told me, and hasone of the best-paying hotels in Smythesdale. Yes, and he was at thesale, too--he came over specially for it--to buy the piano. "

"He did, confound him!" cried Mahony hotly. 

"Oh, you can't look at it that way, Richard. As long as he has themoney to pay for it. Fancy, he told me had always admired the 'tune' ofit so much, when I played and sang. My dear little piano!"

"You shall have another and a better one, I promise you, oldgirl--don't fret. Well, that slice of our life's over and done with, "he added, and laid his hand on hers. "But we'll hold together, won'twe, wife, whatever happens?"

They had passed Black Hill and its multicoloured clay and gravel heaps, and the train was puffing uphill. The last scattered huts andweatherboards fell behind, the worked-out holes grew fewer, woodedrises appeared. Gradually, too, the white roads round Mount Buninyongcame into view, and the trees became denser. And having climbed theshoulder, they began to fly smoothly and rapidly down the other side. 

Mahony bent forward in his seat. "There goes the last of oldWarrenheip. Thank the Lord, I shall never set eyes on it again. Upon myword, I believe I came to think that hill the most tiresome feature ofthe place. Whatever street one turned into, up it bobbed at the foot. Like a peep-show . .. Or a bad dream . .. Or a prison wall. "

In Melbourne they were the guests of John--Mahony had reluctantlyresigned himself to being beholden to Mary's relatives and Mary'sfriends to the end of the chapter. At best, living in other people'shouses was for him more of a punishment than a pleasure; but for sheerdiscomfort this stay capped the climax. Under Zara's incompetent ruleJohn's home had degenerated into a lawless and slovenly abode: themeals were unpalatable, the servants pert and lazy, while the childrenran wild--you could hardly hear yourself speak for the racket. Wheneverpossible, Mahony fled the house. He lunched in town, looked up hishandful of acquaintances, bought necessaries--and unnecessaries--forthe voyage. He also hired a boat and had himself rowed out to the ship, where he clambered on board amid the mess of scouring and painting, andmade himself known to the chief mate. Or he sat on the pier and gazedat the vessel lying straining at her anchor, while quick rain-squallsswept up and blotted out the Bay. 

Of Mary he caught but passing glimpses; her family seemed determined tomake unblushing use of her as long as she was within reach. A couple ofdays prior to their arrival, John and Zara had quarrelled violently;and for the dozenth time Zara had packed her trunks and departed forone of those miraculous situations, the doors of which always stoodopen to her. 

John was for Mary going after her and forcing her to admit the error ofher ways. Mary held it wiser to let well alone. 

"DO be guided by me this time, John, " she urged, when she had heard herbrother out: "You and Zara will never hit it off, however often youtry. "

But the belief was ingrained in John that the most suitable head forhis establishment was one of his own blood. He answered indignantly. "And why not pray, may I ask? Who IS to hit it off, as you put it, ifnot two of a family?"

"Oh, John. .. "--Mary felt quite apologetic for her brother. "Clever asZara is, she's not at all fitted for a post of this kind. She's no handwith the servants, and children don't seem to take to her--youngchildren, I mean. "

"Not fitted? Bah!" said John. "Every woman is fitted by nature to rearchildren and manage a house. "

"They should be, I know, " yielded Mary in conciliatory fashion. "Butwith Zara it doesn't seem to be the case. "

"Then she ought to be ashamed of herself, my dear Mary--ashamed ofherself--and that's all about it!"

Zara wept into a dainty handkerchief and was delivered of a rigmaroleof complaints against her brother, the servants, the children. According to her, the last were naturally perverse, and John indulgedthem so shockingly that she had been powerless to carry out reforms. Did she punish them, he cancelled the punishments; if she left theirnaughtiness unchecked, he accused her of indifference. Then herhousekeeping had not suited him: he reproached her with extravagance, with mismanagement, even with lining her own purse. "While the truthis, John is mean as dirt! I had literally to drag each penny out ofhim. "

"But what ever induced you to undertake it again, Zara?"

"Yes, what indeed!" echoed Zara bitterly. "However, once bitten, Mary, twice shy. NEVER again!"

But remembering the bites Zara had already received, Mary was silent. 

Even Zara's amateurish hand thus finally withdrawn, it became Mary'stask to find some worthy and capable person to act as mistress. Takingher obligations seriously, she devoted her last days in Australia toconning and penning advertisements, and interviewing applicants. 

"Now no one too attractive, if you please, Mrs. Mahony!--if you don'twant him to fall a victim, " teased Richard. "Remember our good John'sinflammability. He's a very Leyden jar again at present. "

"No, indeed I don't, " said Mary with emphasis. "But the children arethe first consideration. Oh, dear! it does seem a shame that Tillyshouldn't have them to look after. And it would relieve John of so muchresponsibility. As it is, he's even asked me to make it plain to Tillythat he wishes Trotty to spend her holidays at school. "

The forsaking of the poor little motherless flock cut Mary to theheart. Trotty had dung to her, inconsolable. "Oh, Auntie, TAKE me withyou! Oh, what shall I do without you?"

"It's not possible, darling. Your papa would never agree. But I tellyou what, Trotty: you must be a good girl and make haste and learn allyou can. For soon, I'm sure, he'll want you to come and be his littlehousekeeper, and look after the other children. "

Sounded on this subject, however, John said dryly: "Emma's influencewould be undesirable for the little ones. " His prejudice in favour ofhis second wife's children was an eternal riddle to his sister. Hedandled even the youngest, whom he had not seen since its birth, withvisible pleasure. 

"It must be the black eyes, " said Mary to herself; and shook her headat men's irrationality. For Jinny's offspring had none of the grace andbeauty that marked the two elder children. 

And now the last night had come; and they were gathered, a familyparty, round John's mahogany. The cloth had been removed; nuts and portwere passing. As it was a unique occasion the ladies had been excusedfrom withdrawing, and the gentlemen left their cigars unlighted. Mary'seyes roved fondly from one face to another. There was Tilly, come overfrom her hotel--("Nothing would induce me to spend a night under hisroof, Mary")--Tilly sat hugging one of the children, who had run in forthe almonds and raisins of dessert. "What a mother lost in her!" sighedMary once more. There was Zara, so far reconciled to her brother as toconsent to be present; but only speaking at him, not to him. And dearJerry, eager and alert, taking so intelligent a share in what was said. Poor Ned alone was wanting, neither Richard nor John having offered topay his fare to town. Young Johnny's seat was vacant, too, for the boyhad vanished directly dinner was over. 

In the harmony of the evening there was just one jarring note for Mary;and at moments she grew very thoughtful. For the first time Mrs. Kelly, the motherly widow on whom her choice had fallen, sat opposite John atthe head of the table; and already Mary was the prey of a naggingdoubt. For this person had doffed the neat mourning-garb she had wornwhen being engaged, and come forth in a cap trimmed with cherrycoloured ribbons. Not only this, she smiled in sugary fashion and fartoo readily; while the extreme humility with which she deferred toJohn's opinion, and hung on his lips, made another bad impression onMary. Nor was she alone in her observations. After a particularlyglaring example of the widow's complaisance, Tilly looked across andshut one eye, in an unmistakable wink. 

Meanwhile the men's talk had gradually petered out: there came longpauses in which they twiddled and twirled their wine-glasses, unable tothink of anything to say. At heart, both John and Mahony hailed with acertain relief the coming break. "After all I dare say such a queerfaddy fellow IS out of his element here. He'll go down better overthere, " was John's mental verdict. Mahony's, a characteristic: "ThankGod, I shall not have to put up much longer with his confoundedself-importance, or suffer under his matrimonial muddles!"

When at a question from Mary John began animatedly to discuss thetuition of the younger children, Mahony seized the chance to slip away. He would not be missed. He never was--here or anywhere. 

On the verandah a dark form stirred and made a hasty movement. It wasthe boy Johnny--now grown tall as Mahony himself--and, to judge fromthe smell, what he tried to smuggle into his pocket was a briar. 

"Oh well, yes, I'm smoking, " he said sullenly, after a feeble attemptat evasion. "Go in and blab on me, if you feel you must, Uncle Richard. "

"Nonsense. But telling fibs about a thing does no good. "

"Oh yes, it does; it saves a hiding, " retorted the boy. And added witha youthful vehemence: "I'm hanged if I let the governor take a stick tome nowadays! I'm turned sixteen; and if he dares to touch me--"

"Come, come. You know, you've been something of a disappointment toyour father, Johnny--that's the root of the trouble. "

"Glad if I have! He hates me anyway. He never cared for my mother'schildren, " answered Johnny with a quaint dignity. "I think he couldn'thave cared for her either. "

"There you're wrong. He was devoted to her. Her death nearly broke hisheart. --She was one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen, myboy. "

"Was she?" said Johnny civilly, but with meagre interest. This longdead mother had bequeathed him not even a memory of herself--was asunreal to him as a dream at second hand. From the chilly contemplationof her he turned back impatiently to his own affairs, which wereburning, insistent. And scenting a vague sympathy in this strangeruncle who, like himself, had drifted out from the intimacy of thecandle-lit room, he made a clean breast of his troubles. 

"I can't stand the life here, Uncle Richard, and I'm not going to--notif father cuts me off with a shilling! I mean to see the world. THISisn't the world--this dead-and-alive old country! . .. Though it's gotto seem like it to the governor, he's been here so long. And HE clearedout from his before he was even as old as I am. Of course there isn'tanother blessed old Australia for me to decamp to; he might be a bitsweeter about it, if there was. But America's good enough for me, andI'm off there--yes, even if I have to work my passage out!"

Early next morning, fully equipped for their journey, the Mahonys stoodon the William's Town pier, the centre of the usual crowd of relativesand friends. This had been further swelled by the advent of Mrs. Devine, who came panting up followed by her husband, and by Agnes Ocockand Amelia Grindle, who had contrived to reach Melbourne the previousevening. Even John's children were tacked on, clad in their Sundaybest. Everybody talked at once and laughed or wept; while the childrenplayed hide-and-seek round the ladies' crinolines. Strange eyes werebent on their party, strange ears cocked in their direction; and yetonce again Mahony's dislike to a commotion in public choked off hisgratitude towards these good and kindly people. But his star wasrising: tears and farewells and vows of constancy had to be cut short, a jaunt planned by the whole company to the ship itself abandoned; fora favourable wind had sprung up and the captain was impatient to weighanchor. And so the very last kisses and handclasps exchanged, thetravellers climbed down into a boat already deep in the water withother cuddy-passengers and their luggage, and were rowed out to wherelay that good clipper-ship, the RED JACKET. Sitting side by sidehusband and wife watched, with feelings that had little in common, thereceding quay, Mary fluttering her damp handkerchief till the separatefigures had merged in one dark mass, and even Tilly, planted in front, her handkerchief tied flagwise to the top of Jerry's cane, could nolonger be distinguished from the rest. 

Mahony's foot met the ribbed teak of the deck with the liveliestsatisfaction; his nostrils drank in the smell of tarred ropes and oiledbrass. Having escorted Mary below, seen to the stowing away of theirbelongings and changed his town clothes for a set of comfortable baggygarments, he returned to the deck, where he passed the greater part ofthe day tirelessly pacing. They made good headway, and soon the portsand towns at the water's edge were become mere whitey smudges. Thehills in the background lasted longer. But first the Macedon groupfaded from sight; then the Dandenong Ranges, grown bluer and bluer, were also lost in the sky. The vessel crept round the outside of thegreat Bay, to clear shoals and sandbanks, and, by afternoon, with thesails close rigged in the freshening wind, they were running parallelwith the Cliff--"THE Cliff!" thought Mahony with a curl of the lip. Andindeed there was no other; nothing but low scrub-grown sandhills whichflattened out till they were almost level with the sea. 

The passage through the Heads was at hand. Impulsively he went down tofetch Mary. Threading his way through the saloon, in the middle ofwhich grew up one of the masts, he opened a door leading off it. 

"Come on deck, my dear, and take your last look at the old place. It'snot likely you'll ever see it again. "

But Mary was already encoffined in her narrow berth. 

"Don't ask me even to lift my head from the pillow, Richard. Besides, I've seen it so often before. "

He lingered to make some arrangements for her comfort, fidgeted to knowwhere she had put his books; then mounted a locker and craned his neckat the porthole. "Now for the Rip, wife! By God, Mary, I little thoughtthis time last year, that I should be crossing it to-day. "

But the cabin was too dark and small to hold him. Climbing the steepcompanion-way he went on deck again, and resumed his flittings to andfro. He was no more able to be still than was the good ship under him;he felt himself one with her, and gloried in her growing unrest. Shewas now come to the narrow channel between two converging headlands, where the waters of Hobson's Bay met those of the open sea. They boiledand churned, in an eternal commotion, over treacherous reefs whichthrust far out below the surface and were betrayed by straight, whitelines of foam. Once safely out, the vessel hove to to drop the pilot. Leaning over the gunwale Mahony watched a boat come alongside, the manof oilskins climb down the rope-ladder and row away. 

Here, in the open, a heavy swell was running, but he kept his foot onthe swaying boards long after the last of his fellow-passengers hadvanished--a tall, thin figure, with an eager, pointed face, and hairjust greying at the temples. Contrary to habit, he had a word for everyone who passed, from mate to cabin-boy, and he drank a glass of winewith the Captain in his cabin. Their start had been auspicious, saidthe latter; seldom had he had such a fair wind to come out with. 

Then the sun fell into the sea and it was night--a fine, starry night, clear with the hard, cold radiance of the south. Mahony looked up atthe familiar constellations and thought of those others, long missed, that he was soon to see again. --Over! This page of his history wasturned and done with; and he had every reason to feel thankful. Formany and many a man, though escaping with his life, had left youth andhealth and hope on these difficult shores. He had got off scot-free. Still in his prime, his faculties green, his zest for livingunimpaired, he was heading for the dear old mother country--for home. Alone and unaided he could never have accomplished it. Strength to willthe enterprise, steadfastness in the face of obstacles had been lenthim from above. And as he stood gazing down into the black andfathomless deep, which sent crafty, licking tongues up the vessel'sside, he freely acknowledged his debt, gave honour where honour wasdue. --FROM THEE COMETH VICTORY, FROM THEE COMETH WISDOM, AND THINE ISTHE GLORY AND I AM THY SERVANT. 

The last spark of a coast-light went out. Buffeted by the rising wind, the good ship began to pitch and roll. Her canvas rattled, her jointscreaked and groaned as, lunging forward, she cut her way through thetroubled seas that break on the reef-bound coasts of this old, newworld.