The Fortunes of Richard Mahony

by Henry Handel Richardson

  “Have you ever thought, Richard, how strange it will seem when there are 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 worry you if he does—like Hempel’s cough. And then you won’t love him properly.”

  “I shall love it because it is yours, my darling. And the baby of such a dear little mother is sure to be good.”

  “Oh, babies will be babies, you know!” said Polly, with a new air of wisdom 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. And of 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 to leave 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,” said Mahony, with more than a hint of impatience. “Especially Ned the well-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 into any trouble, I’m here to look after him; and I know that makes mother’s mind easier—Ned was always her favourite.”

  “And an extraordinary thing, too! I believe it’s the boy’s good looks that blind you women to his faults.”

  “Oh no, indeed it isn’t!” declared Polly warmly. “It’s just because Ned’s Ned. The dearest fellow, if you really know him.”

  “And so your heart’s anchored here, little wife, and would remain here even if I carried your body off to England?”

  “Oh no, Richard,” said Polly again. “My heart would always be where you are. But I can’t help wondering how Ned would get on alone. And Jerry will soon be here too, now, and he’s younger still. And how I should like to see dear Tilly settled before I go!”

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

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

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

  This was what she ruminated while she tucked and hemmed. She could imagine, of course, what his answer would be. He would say there were too many doctors on Ballarat already; not more than a dozen of them made satisfactory incomes. But this argument did not convince Polly. Richard wasn’t, perhaps, a great success at storekeeping; but that was only because he was too good for it. As a doctor, he with his cleverness and gentlemanly manners would soon, she was certain, stand head and shoulders above the rest. And then there would be money galore. It was true he did not care for Ballarat—was down on both place and people. But this objection, too, Polly waived. It passed belief that anybody could really dislike this big, rich, bustling, go-ahead township, where such handsome buildings were springing up and every one was so friendly. In her heart she ascribed her husband’s want of love for it to the “infra dig.” position he occupied. If he mixed with his equals again and got rid of the feeling that he was looked down on, it would make all the difference in the world to him. He would then be out of reach of snubs and slights, and people would understand him better—not the residents on Ballarat alone, but also John, and Sarah, and the Beamishes, none of whom really appreciated Richard. In her mind’s eye Polly had a vision of him going his rounds mounted on a chestnut horse, dressed in surtout and choker, and hand and glove with the bigwigs of society—the gentlemen at the Camp, the Police Magistrate and Archdeacon Long, the rich squatters who lived at the foot of Mount Buninyong. It brought the colour to her cheeks merely to think of it.

  She did not, however, breathe a word of this to Richard. She was a shade wiser than the night before, when she had vexed him by blurting out her thoughts. And the present was not the right time to speak. In these days Richard was under the impression that she needed to be humoured. He might agree with her against his better judgment, or, worse still, pretend to agree. And Polly didn’t want that. She wished fairly to persuade him that, by setting up here on the diggings where he was known and respected, he would get on quicker, and make more money, than if he buried himself in some poky English village where no one had ever heard of him.

  Meanwhile the unconscious centre of her ambitions wore a perplexed frown. Mahony was much exercised just now over the question of medical attendance for Polly. The thought of coming into personal contact with a member of the fraternity was distasteful to him; none of them had an inkling who or what he was. And, though piqued by their unsuspectingness, he at the same time feared lest it should not be absolute, and he have the ill-luck to hit on a practitioner who had heard of his stray spurts of doctoring and written him down a charlatan and a quack. For this reason he would call in no one in the immediate neighbourhood—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. It was true, since he did not intend to disclose his own standing, the distance would make the fellow’s fees mount up. But Rogers was at least properly qualified (half those claiming the title of physician were impudent impostors, who didn’t know a diploma from the Ten Commandments), of the same alma mater as himself—not a contemporary, though, he took good care of that!—and, if report spoke true, a skilful and careful obstetrician.

  When, however, in response to a note carried by Long Jim Rogers drew rein in front of the store, Mahony was not greatly impressed by him. He proved to be a stout, reddish man, some ten years Mahony’s senior, with a hasty-pudding face and an undecided manner. There he sat, his ten spread finger-tips meeting and gently tapping one another across his paunch, and nodding: “Just so, just so!” to all he heard. He had the trick of saying everything twice over. “Needs to clinch his own opinion!” was Mahony’s swift diagnosis. Himself, he kept in the background. And was he forced to come forward his manner was both stiff and forbidding, so on tenterhooks was he lest the other should presume to 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 piece of gratuitous friendliness that could well have been dispensed with; even though Mahony felt it keenly that, at this juncture, Polly should lack companions of her own sex. But Rogers had married beneath him, and the sight of the pursy upstart—there were people on the Flat who remembered her running barefoot and slatternly—sitting there, in satin and feathers, lording it over his own little Jenny Wren, was more than Mahony could tolerate. The distance was put forward as an excuse for Polly not returning the call, and Polly was docile as usual; though for her 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 suggested that she should write and ask one of the Beamish girls to stay with her: it would keep her from feeling the days long.

  But Polly onl
y laughed. “Long?—when I have so much sewing to do?”

  No, she did not want company. By now, indeed, she regretted having sent off 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 lived hard by it in a twitter of anxiety. The steep slopes of Black Hill showed thinly green; the roads were ploughed troughs of sticky mire. Occasional night frosts whitened the ground, bringing cloudless days in their wake. Then down came the rain once more, and fell for a week on end. The diggers were washed out of their holes, the Flat became an untraversable bog. And now there were floods in earnest: the creeks turned to foaming torrents that swept away trees and the old roots of trees; and the dwellers on the river banks had to fly for their bare lives.

  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 of waiting. But whereas she, like a sensible little woman, pinned her thoughts fast to the matter in hand, he let his range freely over the future. Of the many good things this had in store for him, one in particular whetted his impatience. It took close on a twelvemonth out here to get hold of a new book. On Ballarat not even a stationer’s existed; nor were there more than a couple of shops in Melbourne itself that could be relied on to carry out your order. You perforce fell behind in the race, remained ignorant of what was being said and done—in science, letters, religious controversy—in the great world overseas. To this day he didn’t know whether Agassiz had or had not been appointed to the chair of Natural History in Edinburgh; or whether fresh heresies with regard to the creation of species had spoiled his chances; did not know whether Hugh Miller had actually gone crazy over the Vestiges; or even if those arch-combatants, Syme and Simpson, had at length sheathed their swords. Now, however, God willing, he would before very long be back in the thick of it all, in intimate touch with the doings of the most wide-awake city in Europe; and new books and pamphlets would come into his possession as they dropped hot from the press.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  And then one morning—it was spring now, and piping hot at noon—Long Jim brought home from the post-office a letter for Polly, addressed in her sister Sarah’s sloping hand. Knowing the pleasure it would give her, Mahony carried it at once to his wife; and Polly laid aside broom and duster and sat down to read.

  But he was hardly out of the room when a startled cry drew him back to her side. Polly had hidden her face, and was shaken by sobs. As he could not get her to speak, Mahony picked up the letter from the floor and read 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 skipped the phrases, and learnt that owing to a carriage accident Emma Turnham had been prematurely confined, and, the best medical aid notwithstanding—John spared absolutely “no” expense—had died two days later. John is like a madman. Directly I heard the “shocking” news, I at once threw up my engagement—at “serious” loss to myself, but that is a matter of small consequence—and came to take my place beside our poor dear brother in his great trial. But all my efforts to bring him to a proper and “Christian” frame of mind have been fruitless. I am indeed 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 on receipt of this, and help me in the “truly awful” task that has been laid upon me. And pray forgive me for using this plain paper. I have had literally no time to order mourning “of any kind.”

  So that was Sarah! With a click of the tongue Mahony tossed the letter on the table, and made it clear to Polly that under no consideration would he allow her to attempt the journey to town. Her relatives seemed utterly to have forgotten her condition; if, indeed, they had ever grasped 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’s assistance himself, the following day.

  They had been entirely in the dark about things. For John Turnham thought proper to erect a jealous wall about his family life. What went on behind it was nobody’s business but his own. You felt yourself—were meant to feel yourself—the alien, the outsider. And Mahony marvelled once more at the wealth of love and sympathy his little Polly had kept fresh 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 good deal of pother, pulling open the wrong drawers, tumbling up their contents and generally making havoc of his wife’s arrangements. But the sight of his clumsiness acted as a kind of tonic on Polly: she liked to feel that he was dependent on her for his material comfort and well-being.

  They spoke of John’s brief married life.

  “He loved her like a pagan, my dear,” said Mahony. “And if what your sister Sarah writes is not exaggerated, he is bearing his punishment in a truly pagan way.”

  “But you won’t say that to him, dear Richard. . . .will you? You’ll be very gentle with him?” pleaded Polly anxiously.

  “Indeed I shall, little woman. But one can’t help thinking these things, all the same. You know it is written: ‘Thou shalt have none other gods but Me.’”

  “Yes, I know. But then this was just Emma. . . .and she was so pretty and so good”—and Polly cried anew.

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

  “For Sarah, with my dear love. You see, Richard, I know she always wears coloured dresses. And she will feel so much happier if she has something black to put on.” Little Polly’s voice was deep with persuasion. Richard was none too well pleased, she could see, at having to unlock his bag again; she feared too, that, after the letter of the day before, his opinion of Sarah had gone down to zero.

  Mahony secured a corner seat; and so, though his knees interlocked with those of his vis-à-vis, only one of the eight inside passengers was jammed against him. The coach started; and the long, dull hours of the journey began to wear away. Nothing broke the monotony but speculations whether the driver—a noted tippler—would be drunk before Melbourne was reached and capsize them; and the drawling voice of a Yankee prospector, 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 like the job. He was not one of your born good Samaritans: he relished intruding as little as being intruded on. Besides, morally to sustain, to forbear with, a fellow-creature in misfortune, seemed to him as difficult and thankless a task as any required of one. Infinite tact was essential, and a skin thick enough to stand snubs and rebuffs. But here he smiled. “Or my little wife’s inability to recognise them!”

  House and garden had lost their air of well-groomed smartness: the gate stood ajar, the gravel was unraked, the verandahflooring black with footmarks. With all the blinds still down, the windows looked like so many dead eyes. Mahony’s first knock brought no response; at his second, the door was opened by Sarah Turnham herself. But a very different Sarah this, from the elegant and sprightly young person who had graced his wedding. Her chignon was loose, her dress dishevelled. On recognising Mahony, she uttered a cry and fell on his neck—he had to disengage her arms by force and speak severely to her, declaring that he would go away again, if she carried out her intention of swooning.

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

  Mahony, in no hesitancy now how to deal with the situation, laid his hat aside and drew off his gloves. “Prepare some food,” he said briefly. “A glass of port and a sandwich or two, if you can manage nothing 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 a butcher’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 she indicated, he added: “Now control yourself, madam! And if you have not got what I want in a quarter of an hour’s time, I’ll walk out of the house and leave you to your own devices!” At which Sarah, cowed and shaken, began tremblingly to tie her bonnet-strings.

  Mahony knocked three times at the door of John Turnham’s room, each time more loudly. Then he took to battering with his fist on the panels, and cried: “It is I, John, your brother-in-law! Have the goodness to unlock this door at once!”