He had to remind himself more than once, during this fortnight, that she would be able to devote only a fraction of her day to flag-making. But he was at the end of his tether by the time a parcel and a letter were left for him at the store—again by hand: little Polly had plainly no sixpences to spare. The needlework was perfect, of course; he hardly glanced at it, even when he had opened and read the letter. This was of the same decorous nature as the first. Polly returned a piece of stuff that had remained over. He had really sent material enough for two flags, 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 very pleased 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 his hand. It was unsatisfactory.
Yourself ats. Bolliver. We think that action will be set down for trial in about six weeks’ time. In these circumstances we do not think any useful purpose will be served by you calling to see us until this is done. 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 meanwhile Purdy was stealing a march on him, was paying clandestine visits to Geelong. Was it conceivable that anyone in his five senses could prefer Tilly to Polly? It was not. In the clutch of a sudden fear Mahony went to Bath’s and ordered a horse for the following morning.
This time he left his store in charge of a young consumptive, whose plight had touched his heart: the poor fellow was stranded on Ballarat without a farthing, having proved, like many another of his physique, quite unfit for work on the diggings. A strict Baptist this Hempel, and one who believed hell-fire would be his portion if he so much as guessed at the “plant” of his employer’s cash-box. He also pledged his word to bear and forbear with Long Jim. The latter saw himself superseded with an extreme bad grace, and was in no hurry to find a new job.
Mahony’s nag was in good condition, and he covered the distance in a trifle over six hours.
He had evidently hit on the family washing-day. The big boiler in the yard belched clouds of steam: the female inmates of the Hotel were gathered in the out-house: he saw them through the door as he rode in at the gate. All three girls stood before tubs, their sleeves rolled up, their arms in the lather. At his apparition there was a characteristic chorus of cheeps and shrills; and the door was banged to. Mrs. Beamish alone came out to greet him. She was moist and blown, and smelt of soap.
Not in a mood to mince matters, he announced straightway the object of his visit. He was prepared for some expression of surprise on the part of the good woman; but the blend of sheep-faced amazement and uncivil incredulity to which she subjected him made him hot and angry; and he vouchsafed no further word of explanation.
Mrs. Beamish presently so far recovered as to be able to finish wiping the 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 suspeck somethin’ of it, right from the start! 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’ever goin’ to get on without Polly, I reelly don’t know. Don’t I wish it ’ad bin 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 young Smith’s danglin’ round. An’ Polly’s still a bit young—only just turned sixteen. Not as she’s any the worse o’ that though; you’ll get ’er h’all the easier into your ways. An’ now I mus’ look smart, an’ get you a bite o’ somethin’ after your ride.”
In vain did Mahony assure her that he had lunched on the road. He did not know Mrs. Beamish. He was forced not only to sit down to the meal she spread, but also, under her argus eye, to eat of it.
When after a considerable delay Polly at length appeared, she had removed 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, he thought, looking down at her with tender eyes. Small doubt that vulgar creature within-doors had betrayed him to Polly, and exaggerated the ordeal that lay before her. When once she was his wife he would not consent to her remaining intimate with people of the Beamishes’ kidney: what a joy to get her out of their clutches! Nor should she spoil her pretty shape by stooping over a wash-tub.
In his annoyance he forgot to moderate his pace. Polly had to trip many small steps to keep up with him. When they reached the entrance to the cave, she was flushed and out of breath.
Mahony stood and looked down at her. How young she was. . . .how young and innocent! Every feature of her dear little face still waited, as it were, for the strokes of time’s chisel. It should be the care of his life that none but the happiest lines were graved upon its precious surface.
“Polly,” he said, fresh from his scrutiny. “Polly, I’m not going to beat about the bush with you. I think you know I came here to-day only to see you.”
Polly’s head drooped further forward; now, the rim of her bonnet hid her 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 him that she had carried his letters about with her by day, and slept with them under her pillow; that she knew every word in them by heart, and had copied and practised the bold flourish of the Dickens-like signature; that she had never let his name cross her lips; that she thought him the kindest, handsomest, cleverest man in the world, and would willingly have humbled herself to the dust before him: all this boiled 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 ask you 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 in her 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, my dear? 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 unmaidenly eagerness, 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 them stiffly 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 what you feel. This is a sacred moment for us. We are promising to take each other, you know, for richer for poorer, for better for worse—as the good old words have it. And I must warn you, my dear, you are not marrying a rich man. I live in a poor, rough place, and have only a poor home to offer you. Oh, I have had many scruples about asking you to 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 regret your choice.”
They were within sight of the house where they sat; and Mahony imagined rude, curious eyes. So he did not kiss her. Instead, he drew her arm through his, and together they paced up and down the path they had come by, whil
e he laid his plans before her, and confessed to the dreams he had dreamt of their wedded life. It was a radiant afternoon: in the distance the sea lay deep blue, with turquoise shallows; a great white bird 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 sun went down in a blaze behind a bank of emerald green. And little Polly agreed with everything he said—was all one lovely glow of acquiescence. He thought no happier mortal than himself trod the earth.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mahony remained at the Hotel till the following afternoon, then walked to Geelong and took the steam-packet to Melbourne. The object of his journey was to ask Mr. John Turnham’s formal sanction to his marriage. Polly accompanied him a little way an his walk. And whenever he looked back he saw her standing fluttering her handkerchief—a small, solitary figure on the bare, red road.
He parted from her with a sense of leaving his most precious possession behind, so close had words made the tie. On the other hand, he was not sorry 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 returned to the house—pacing the deck of the little steamer, he writhed anew at the remembrance. Jokes at their expense had been cracked all through supper: his want of appetite, for instance, was the subject of a dozen crude insinuations; and this, though everyone present knew that he had eaten a hearty meal not two hours previously; had been kept up till he grew stony and savage, and Polly, trying hard not to mind but red to the rims of her ears, slipped out of the room. Supper over, Mrs. Beamish announced in a loud voice that the verandah was at the disposal of the “turtle-doves.” She no doubt expected them to bill and coo in public, as Purdy and Matilda had done. On edge at the thought, he drew Polly into the comparative seclusion of the garden. Here they strolled up and down, their promenade bounded at the lower end by the dense-leaved arbour under which they had first met. In its screening shadow 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 waste land by the sea’s edge—he could see them at this moment as he leant over the taffrail: with the sun going down behind them they were the colour of smoked glass. Last night they had been white with moonlight, which lay spilled out upon them like milk. Strange old hills! Standing there unchanged, unshaken, from time immemorial, they made the troth that had been plighted under their shield seem pitifully frail. And yet. . . .The vows which Polly and he had found so new, so wonderful; were not these, in truth, as ancient as the hills themselves, and as undying? Countless generations of human lovers had uttered them. The lovers passed, but the pledges remained: had put on immortality.
In the course of their talk it leaked out that Polly would not feel comfortable 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 laughed easily, and was fond of a jest. Thus, when he admitted to her that he found it difficult to distinguish one fair, plump, sister Beamish from the other; that they seemed to him as much alike as two firm, pink-ribbed mushrooms, the little woman was hugely tickled by his masculine want of perception. “Why, Jinny has brown eyes and Tilly blue!”
What he did not know, and what Polly did not confess to him, was that much of her merriment arose from sheer lightness of heart.—She, silly goose that she was! who had once believed Jinny to be the picked object of his attentions.
But she grew serious again: could he tell her, please, why Mr. Smith wrote so seldom to Tilly? Poor Tilly was unhappy at his long silences—fretted over them in bed at night.
Mahony made excuses for Purdy, urging his unsettled mode of life. But it pleased him to see that Polly took sides with her friend, and loyally 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 the better part of the next day. His first visit was to a jeweller’s in Great Collins Street. Here, he pushed aside a tray of showy diamonds—a successful digger was covering the fat, red hands of his bride with them—and chose a slender, discreetly chased setting, containing three small 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 to find that the boy had again disappeared. Before parting from Purdy, the time before, he had lent him half the purchase-money for a horse and dray, thus enabling him to carry out an old scheme of plying for hire at the city wharf. According to the landlord of the “Hotel Vendôme,” to whom Mahony was referred for fuller information, Purdy had soon tired of this job, and selling dray and beast for what he could get had gone off on a new rush to “Simson’s Diggings” or the “White Hills.” Small wonder Miss Tilly was left languishing for news of him.
Pricked by the nervous disquietude of those who have to do with the law, Mahony next repaired to his solicitor’s office. But Henry Ocock was closeted with a more important client. This, Grindle the clerk, whom he met on the stairs, informed him, with an evident relish, and with some hidden, hinted meaning in the corners of his shifty little eyes. It was lost on Mahony, who was not the man to accept hints from a stranger.
The hour was on lunch-time; Grindle proposed that they should go together to a legal chop-house, which offered prime value for your money, and where, over the meal, he would give Mahony the latest news of his suit. At a loss how to get through the day, the latter followed him—he was resolved, too, to practise economy from now on. But when he sat down to a dirty cloth and fly-spotted cruet he regretted his compliance. Besides, the news Grindle was able to give him amounted to nothing; the case had not budged since last he heard of it. Worse still was the clerk’s behaviour. For after lauding the cheapness of the establishment, Grindle disputed the price of each item on the “meenew,” and, when he came to pay his bill, chuckled over having been able to diddle 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 his wit, he applied himself to demonstrating to his table-companion what a sad, sad dog he was.
“Women are the deuce, sir,” he asserted, lying back in his chair and sending two trails of smoke from his nostrils. “The very deuce! You should 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 the case? Fact! ’Pon my word there is. And a devilish fine woman, too!” He shut one eye and laid a finger along his nose. “You won’t blow the gab?—that’s why you couldn’t have your parleyvoo this morning. When milady comes to town H. O.’s non est as long as she’s here. And she with 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 a purely business one. I have no intention of trespassing on his private affairs, 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 between the city and the seaside suburb of St. Kilda, three miles off. A cool breeze went; the hoofs of the horses beat a rataplan on the hard surface; the great road, broad enough to make three of, was aliv
e with smart gigs and trotters.
St. Kilda was a group of white houses facing the Bay. Most were of weatherboard with brick chimneys; but there were also a few of a more solid construction. Mahony’s goal was one of these: a low, stone villa surrounded by verandahs, in the midst of tasteful grounds. The drive up to the door led through a shrubbery, artfully contrived of the native ti-tree; behind the house stretched kitchen and fruit-gardens. Many rare plants grew in the beds. There was a hedge of geraniums close on fifteen feet high.
His knock was answered by a groom, who made a saucy face: Mr. Turnham and his lady were attending the Governor’s ball this evening and did not receive. Mahony insisted on the delivery of his visiting-card. And since the servant still blocked the entrance he added: “Inform your master, my man, that I am the bearer of a message from his sister, Miss Mary Turnham.”
The man shut him out, left him standing on the verandah. After a lengthy absence, he returned, and with a “Well, come along in then!” opened the door of a parlour. This was a large room, well furnished in horsehair and rep. Wax-lights stood on the mantelpiece before a gilt-framed pierglass; coloured prints hung on the walls.
While Mahony was admiring the genteel comfort to which he had long been a stranger, John Turnham entered the room. He had a quiet tread, but took determined strides at the floor. In his hand he held Mahony’s card, 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 the brusque tone of one accustomed to run through many applicants in the course of an hour. “I understand that you make use of my sister Mary’s name.” And, as Mahony did not instantly respond, he snapped out: “My time is short, sir!”
The Fortunes of Richard Mahony Page 10