The Fortunes of Richard Mahony

by Henry Handel Richardson

  Then her mind reverted to herself and to what the break would mean to her; and her little world rocked to its foundations. For no clear call went out to Mary from her native land. She docilely said “home” with the rest, and kept her family ties intact; but she had never expected to go back, except on a flying visit. She thought of England rather vaguely as a country where it was always raining, and where—according to John—an assemblage of old fogies, known as the House of Commons, persistently intermeddled in the affairs of the colony. For more than half her life—and the half that truly counted—Australia had been her home.

  Her home! In fancy she made a round of the house, viewing each cosy room, 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 how to make it. Now, everything she loved and valued—the piano, the wax-candle chandelier, the gilt cornices, the dining-room horsehair—would fall under the auctioneer’s hammer, go to deck out the houses of other people. Richard said she could buy better and handsomer things in England; but Mary allowed herself no illusions on this score. Where was the money to come from? She had learnt by personal experience what slow work building up a practice was. It would be years and years before they could hope for another such home. And sore and sorry as she might feel at having to relinquish her pretty things, in Richard’s case it would mean a good deal more than that. To him the loss of them would be a real misfortune, so used had he grown to luxury and comfort, so strongly did the need of it run in his blood.

  Worse still was the prospect of parting from relatives and friends. The tears came at this, freely. John’s children!—who would watch over them when she was gone? How could she, from so far away, keep the promise she had made to poor Jinny on her death-bed? She would have to give up the baby of which she had grown so fond—give it back into Zara’s unmotherly hands. And never again of a Saturday would she fetch poor little long-legged Trotty from school. She must say good-bye to one and to all—to John, and Zara, and Jerry—and would know no more, at close quarters, how they fared. When Jerry married there would be no one to see 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’s unsteadiness—he could not keep any job long because of it—they only just contrived to make ends meet. How they would do it when she was not there to lend a helping hand, she could not imagine. And outside her brothers and sisters there was good Mrs. Devine. Mary had engaged to guide her friend’s tottery steps on the slippery path of Melbourne society, did Mr. Devine enter the ministry. And poor little Agnes with her terrible weakness and Amelia and her sickly babes. . . .and Tilly, dear, good, warmhearted Tilly! Never again would the pair of them enjoy one of their jolly laughs; or cook for a picnic; or drive out to a mushroom hunt. No, the children would grow up anyhow; her brothers forget her in carving out their own lives; her friends find other friends.

  For some time, however, she kept her own counsel. But when she had tried by hook and by crook to bring Richard to reason, and failed; when she saw that he was actually beginning, on the quiet, to make ready for departure, and that the day was coming on which every one would have to know: then she threw off her reserve. She was spending the afternoon with Tilly. They sat on the verandah together, John’s child, black-eyed, fat, self-willed, playing, after the manner of two short years, at their feet. At the news that was broken to her Tilly began by laughing immoderately, believing that Mary was “taking a rise out of her.” But having studied her friend’s face she let her work fall, slowly opened mouth and eyes, and was at first unequal to uttering a word.

  Thereafter she bombarded Mary with questions.

  “Wants to leave Ballarat? To go home to England?” she echoed, with an emphasis 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 ’e been 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 would leap to every tongue: why was he going? She sat on the horns of a dilemma. It was not in her to wound people’s feelings by blurting out the truth—this would also put Richard in a bad light—and, did she give no reason at all, many would think he had taken leave of his senses. Weakly, in a very un-Maryish fashion, she mumbled that his health was not what it should be, and he had got it into his head that for this the climate of the colony was to blame. Nothing would do him but 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 I understand. You know I’ve seen quite well, love, you’ve been looking a bit down in the mouth of late. And so ’as pa noticed it, too. After you’d gone the other day, ’e said to me: ‘Looks reflexive-like does the little lady nowadays; as if she’d got something on ’er mind.’ And I to him: ‘Pooh! Isn’t it enough that she’s got to put up with the cranks and crotchets of one o’ your sect?’—Oh Mary, my dear, there’s many a true word said in jest. Though little did I think what the crotchet would be.” And slowly the rims of Tilly’s eyes and the tip of her nose reddened 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 been together, you and me, pretty much ever since you came to us that time at the ’otel—a little black midget of a thing in short frocks. I can still 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 the wrong side of our mouths. And ma was right as usual. For if ever a clever little kid trod the earth, it was you.”

  Mary pooh-poohed the cleverness. “I knew very little more than you yourselves. No, it was you who were all so kind to me. I had been feeling so lonely—as if nobody wanted me—and I shall never forget how mother put her arms round me and cuddled me, and how safe and comfortable 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 you something, plump and plain. ’Ave you really been happy in your marriage, my dear, or ’ave you not? You’re such a loyal little soul, I know you’d never show it if you weren’t; and sometimes I’ve ’ad my doubts about you, Mary. For you and the doctor are just as different as chalk and cheese.”

  “Of course I have—as happy as the day’s long!” cried Mary, sensitive as ever to a reflection on her husband. “You mustn’t think anything like that, Tilly. I couldn’t imagine myself married to anyone but Richard.”

  “Then that only makes it harder for you now, poor thing, pulled two ways like, as you are,” said Tilly, and trumpeted afresh. “All the same, there isn’t anything I’d stick at, Mary, to keep you here. Don’t be offended, my dear, but it doesn’t matter half so much about the doctor going as you. There’s none cleverer than ’im, of course, in ’is own line. But ’e’s never fitted in properly here—I don’t want to exactly 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 go on like anything about ’im behind ’is back: nothing would induce them to have ’im and ’is haughty airs inside their doors again, etcetera.”

  Mary flushed. “Yes, I know, people do sometimes judge Richard very unkindly. For at heart he’s the most modest of men. It’s only his manner. And he can’t help that, can he?”

  “There are those who
say a doctor ought to be able to, my dear.—But never mind him. Oh, it’s you I feel for, Mary, being dragged off like this. Can’t you do anything, dear? Put your foot down?”

  Mary shook her head. “It’s no use. Richard is so. . . .well, so queer in some ways, Tilly. Besides, you know, I don’t think it would be right of me to really pit my will against his.”

  “Poor little you!—Oh! men are queer fish, Mary, aren’t they? Not that I can complain; I drew a prize in the lucky-bag when I took that old Jawkins in there. But when I look round me, or think back, and see what we women put up with! There was poor old ma; she ’ad to be man for both. And Jinn, Mary, who didn’t dare to call ’er soul ’er own. And milady Agnes is travelling the selfsame road—why, she ’as to cock ’er eye at Henry nowadays before she trusts ’erself to say whether it’s beef or mutton she’s eating! And now ’ere’s you, love, carted off with never a with-your-leave or by-your-leave, just because the doctor’s tired of it and thinks ’e’d like a change. There’s no question of whether you’re tired or not—oh, my, no!”

  “But he has to earn the money, Tilly. It isn’t quite fair to put it that way,” protested her friend.

  “Well! I don’t know, Mary, I’m sure,” and Tilly’s plump person rose and sank in a prodigious sigh. “But if I was ’is wife ’e wouldn’t get off so easy—I know that! It makes me just boil.”

  Mary answered with a rueful smile. She could never be angry with Richard in cold blood, or for long together.

  As time went on, though, and the break-up of her home began—by the auctioneer’s man appearing to paw over and appraise the furniture—a certain dull resentment did sometimes come uppermost. Under its sway she had forcibly to remind herself what a good husband Richard had always been; had to tell off his qualities one by one, instead of taking 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 her husband alone not be as robust and hardy as all the other husbands in the place? None of their healths threatened to fail, nor did any of them find the conditions of the life intolerable. That was another shabby trick Fate had played Richard in not endowing him with worldly wisdom, and a healthy itch to succeed. Instead of that, he had been blessed with ideas and impulses that stood directly in his way.—And it was here that Mary bore more than one of her private ambitions for him to 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 one unhappy business with Purdy, wrongs and complications had passed her by. Now she saw that no more than anyone else could she hope to escape them.

  Out of this frame of mind she wrote a long, confidential letter to John: John must not be left in ignorance of what hung over her; it was also a relief to unbosom herself to one of her own family. And John was good 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 showed the whites of his eyes at the latter’s flimsy reasons for seeking a change. But when, in spite of her warning, he bearded his brother-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 the head of the harmless question that John’s airy remonstrance died in his throat.

  “Mad as a March hare!” was his private verdict, as he shook down his ruffled plumes. To Mary he said ponderously: “Well, upon my soul, my dear girl, I don’t know—I am frankly at a loss what to say. Measured by every practical standard, the step he contemplates is little short of suicidal. I fear he will live to regret it.”

  And Mary, who had not expected anything from John’s intervention, and also knew the grounds for Richard’s heat—Mary now resigned herself, with the best grace she could muster, to the inevitable.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  House and practice sold for a good round sum; the brass plates were removed from gate and door, leaving dirty squares flanked by screw-holes; carpets came up and curtains down; and, like rats from a doomed ship, men and women servants fled to other situations. One fine day the auctioneer’s bell was rung through the main streets of the town; and both on this and the next, when the red flag flew in front of the house, a troop of intending purchasers, together with an even larger number of the merely curious, streamed in at the gate and overran 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 persuasion could do no more, his monotonous parrot-cry of: “Going. . . .going. . . .gone!”

  It would have been in bad taste for either husband or wife to be visible while the auction was in progress; and, the night before, Mary and the child had moved to Tilly’s, where they would stay for the rest of the time. But Mahony was still hard at work. The job of winding up and getting in the money owed him was no light one. For the report had somehow got abroad that he was retiring from practice because he had made his fortune; and only too many people took this as a tacit permission 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 modest stock of silver; his medical library. But he had been forced to lower the blind, to hinder impertinent noses flattening themselves against the window, and thus could scarcely see to put pen to paper; while the auctioneer’s grating voice was a constant source of distraction—not to mention the rude comments made by the crowd on house and furniture, the ceaseless trying of the handle of the locked door.

  When it came to the point, this tearing up of one’s roots was a murderous business—nothing for a man of his temperament. Mary was a good deal better able to stand it than he. Violently as she had opposed the move in the beginning, she was now, dear soul, putting a cheery face on it. But then Mary belonged to that happy class of mortals who could set up their Lares and Penates inside any four walls. Whereas he was a very slave to associations. Did she regret parting with a pretty table and a comfortable chair, it was solely because of the prettiness and convenience: as long as she could replace them by other articles of the same kind, she was content. But to him each familiar object was bound by a thousand memories. And it was the loss of these which could never 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 very chaste and tasty pier glass indeed—a reel addition to any lady’s drawin’ 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 in their lives when they had been forced to turn each shilling in the palm. Mary had espied it one day in Plaistows’ Stores, and had set her heart on buying it. How she had schemed to scrape the money together!—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 had burst in, eyes and cheeks aglow, to tell him that she had managed it at last, and how they had gone off arm in arm to secure the prize. Yes, for all their poverty, those had been happy days. Little extravagances such as this, or the trifling gifts they had contrived to make each other, had given far more pleasure than the costlier presents of later years.

  “The next article I draw your attention to is a sofer,” went on the voice, sounding suddenly closer; and with a great trampling and shuffling the crowd trooped after it to the adjoining room. “And a very easy and comfortable piece o’ furniture it is, too. A bit shabby and worn ’ere and there, but not any the worse of that.
You don’t need to worry if the kids play puff-puffs on it; and it fits the shape o’ the body all the better.—Any one like to try it? Jest the very thing for a tired gent ’ome from biz, or ’andy to pop your lady on when she faints—as the best of ladies will! Any h’offers? Mr. de la Plastrier”—he said “Deelay plastreer”—“a guinea? Thank you, mister. One guinea! Going a guinea!—Now, come on, ladies and gen’elmen! D’ye think 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 had nowhere to lay an aching head. Well worn? Small wonder! He would like to 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 her day’s doings. And he remembered another time, when he had spent the last hours of a distracted night on it. . . .and how, between sleeping and waking, he had strained his ears for footsteps that never came.

  The sofa was knocked down to his butcher for a couple of pounds, and the crying—or decrying—of his bookcases began. He could stand no more of it. Sweeping his papers into a bag, he guiltily unlocked the door and stole out by way of kitchen and back gate.

  But once outside he did not know where to go or what to do. Leaving the town behind him he made for the Lake, and roved aimlessly and disconsolately about, choosing sheltered paths and remote roads where he would be unlikely to run the gauntlet of acquaintances. For he shrank from recognition on this particular day, when all his domestic privacies were being bared to the public view. But altogether of late he had fought shy of meeting people. Their hard, matter-of-fact faces showed him only too plainly what they thought of him. At first he had been fool enough to scan them eagerly, in the hope of finding one saving touch of sympathy or comprehension. But he might as well have looked for grief in the eyes of an undertaker’s mute. And so he had shrunk back into himself, wearing his stiffest air as a shield and leaving it to Mary to parry colonial inquisitiveness.