The Fortunes of Richard Mahony

by Henry Handel Richardson

  How happy all this made Mary, she could not have told. To know Richard even moderately contented would have satisfied her; to see him actually taking pleasure in life caused her cup to run over. She had now not a care left, hardly a wish unfulfilled. And she showed it. The eclipse in health and good looks she had suffered by reason of her transplantation was past: never had she felt better than at present; while in appearance she bloomed anew—enjoyed a kind of Indian summer. At thirty-two, an age when, in the trying climate of the colony, a woman was, as often as not, hopelessly faded, Mary did not need to fear comparison with ladies ten years her junior. Her skin was still flawless, her eye as brilliant, her hair as glossy as of old. In figure she inclined to the statuesque, without being either too tall or too full: arms and shoulders were unsurpassed in their rounded whiteness. A certain breadth of brow alone prevented her, at this stage of her life, from being classed among the acknowledged beauties of her sex: it lent her a thoughtful air, where she should have been merely pleasing.—But, after all, what did this matter? Her real beauty, as Richard often reflected, consisted in the warmth and loving-kindness that beamed from her eyes, illuminating a face which never a malicious thought had twisted or deformed. Her expression was, of course, no more one of utter unsuspicion—experience had seen to that—just as her mind was no longer afflicted with the adorable blindness that had been its leading trait in girlhood. Mary now knew very well that evil existed, and that mortals were prone to it. But she would not allow that it could be inborn; held fast to her unconquerable belief in the innate goodness of every living soul; and was never at a loss to exonerate the sinner. “No wonder he’s what he is, after the life he has been forced to lead. We mightn’t have turned out any better ourselves, with his temptations.” Or: “She has never had a chance, poor thing! Circumstances have always been against her.”

  With her anxieties on Richard’s behalf, Mary’s ambitions for him—that he should climb the tree, make a name—also gradually sank to rest. Her mind was thus at liberty to follow its own bent. Fond though she was of her fellow-creatures, the formal round of social life had never made a very deep appeal to her: she liked to see people merry and enjoying themselves, but she herself needed something more active to engross her. Her house, well staffed, well run, claimed only a fraction of her attention. Hence she had plenty of time to devote herself to what Richard called her true mission in life: the care of others—especially of the poor and suffering, the unhappy and unsure. And many a heart was lightened by having Mary to lean on, her strong common sense for a guide. Her purse, too, was an unending solace. Even in the latter years in Ballarat, she had had to dispense her charities carefully, balancing one against another. Now her income was equal to all the calls made on it. . . .and more. . . .Richard generously bidding her add to her own pin-money anything left over from the handsome cheque he gave her for housekeeping expenses. And since he, mindful of his promise, never inquired what she did with it, she was at last free to give as royally as she chose. . . .in any direction. But if he did not ask to see her pass-book, neither did she see his: he would not have her troubling her head, he said, about their general expenditure. At first she rather demurred at this: she would have liked to know how their outlay per month tallied with the sum at their disposal; and she missed the talks they had been used to have, about how best to portion out their income. But Richard said those days were over and done with: she would lose her way, he teased her, among sums of four figures—for, in a twinkling, his late-found affluence had thrown him back on the traditional idea that money affairs were the man’s province, not the woman’s. For her comfort, he stressed once more the fact that he did not intend to speculate; also that at long last, he would, despite the enormous premium, be able to insure his life. In the event of anything happening to him, she would be well provided for, and thus might spend what he gave her freely and without scruple. Yielding to these persuasions, Mary acquiesced in the new arrangement, and gradually slipped into the delightful habit of taking money for granted. After all, the confidence was mutual: he trusted her not to run up bills at milliner’s or jeweller’s; she, too, had to trust in her turn. She valued his faith in her, and was careful not to abuse it. Her own accounts were scrupulously kept: just as in the old days, she wrote down every shilling she spent, and knitted her brows over the halfpennies; with the result that she soon began to accumulate a tidy little nest-egg.

  Her charities were her sole extravagance, her personal wants remaining few and simple. Besides, Richard was for ever making her presents. It could not be said of him that his tastes did not expand with his purse. He put his men-servants into livery, stocked his cellars, bought silver table-appliances and egg-shell china, had his crest stamped wherever it could find a place. And the things he bought for her were of the same costly nature. In addition to the carriage, which she had to admit was both useful and necessary, his gifts included jewellery (which she wore more to please him than because she had any real liking for it)—rings and chains, brooches and bracelets—all things his wife ought to have and never had had: curling ostrich feathers for hat and fan; gold-mounted mother-of-pearl opera-glasses; hand-painted fans; carved ivory card-cases; ivory-backed brushes and silver vinaigrettes: any fal-lal, in short, that struck his eye or caught his fancy.

  There came a day on which he fairly outdid himself. Soon after inscribing their names in the visiting-book at Government House, they received invitations to a ball there, in honour of two men-of-war that were anchored in the Bay—a very select affair indeed: none of your promiscuous May Day crushes! As it would be their first appearance in style, Mahony—a trifle uncertain whether Mary would do the thing handsomely enough—insisted on fitting her out. The pale blue silk he chose for her gown was finest Lyons, the cost of which, without making, ran to thirty pounds: Mary had never seen a silk like it. It was got privatim through John, who had it direct from the French factory. John, too, was responsible for the crowning glory of Mary’s attire. For after Richard had added a high, pearl-studded Spanish comb for her hair, John one day showed him a wonderful shawl that had just come into the warehouse, suggesting it would look well on Mary. And for once Mahony found himself in agreement with his brother-in-law. Of softest cashmere, supple as silk—and even softer to the touch—the scarlet ground of the shawl was well-nigh hidden by a massive white Indian embroidery; so that the impression gained was one of sumptuous white silk, broken by flecks of red. It was peaked, burnous-like, to form a hood, and this and the corners were hung with heavy white silk tassels. So magnificent an affair was it that Mary had severe qualms about wearing it: in her heart she considered it far too showy and elaborate. But Richard had no doubt paid an enormous price for it, and would be hurt into the bargain if she said what she thought.

  He himself was charmed with the effect, when she draped it over the sky-blue of the gown. “Upon my word, my dear, you’ll put every other woman in the shade!”

  But even he was not prepared for the stir that ran through the ballroom on their arrival. In among the puces and magentas, the rose-budded pinks and forget-me-notted blues came Mary, trailing a bit of oriental splendour, and wearing it, as only she could, with a queenly yet unconscious air.

  Seated on a dais among the matrons—for nowadays she danced only an occasional “square,” leaving round dances to the young—Mary drew the fire of all eyes.

  And it was not the opera-cloak alone.

  “A skin like old Florentine ivory!” declared an Englishman fresh from “home.” The guest of the Governor, he was wandering through this colonial assembly much as a musical connoisseur might wander through a cattle-yard. Till Mary caught his eye. . . .And when she dropped the cloak, for the honour of a quadrille with his Excellency, this same visitor was heard to dilate on the tints cast by the blue on the ivory. . . .to murmur of Goya. . . .Velasquez.

  Subsequently he was introduced, and sat by her side for the better part of an hour.

  At two o�
��clock, when Mahony handed her to the carriage, it was with something of the lover-like élan that even the least fond husband feels on seeing his wife the centre of attraction.

  “Now, madam!. . . .wasn’t I right? Who was the success of the evening I should like to know?”

  “Oh, Richard. . . .Put up the window, dear, it’s cold. If there can be any talk of a success. . . .then it’s the cloak you mean, not me.”

  “It took you to carry it off, love. Not another woman in the room could have done it. Made it seem very well worth the price I had to pay for it.”

  “Which reminds me, you haven’t yet told me what that was.”

  “My business, sweetheart! Yours to play the belle and get compared to the old masters by admiring strangers.”

  “Really, Richard!” Mary made the deprecating movement of the chin with which she was wont to rebuke extravagances. “Why, dear, he was so high-falutin I didn’t know half the time what he was talking about.” Then fearing she had been too severe, she added: “Of course I’m very glad you were pleased,”—and hoped that was the end of it. Compliments, even from one’s husband, were things to be evaded if possible. “Well, I must remember poor Jinny and not hoard it up for the moths to get at.” But there was more than a dash of doubt in Mary’s tone, and she sighed. Not merely for Jinny. She did not know when another opportunity so splendid as this evening’s would arise. For an ordinary one, such finery would certainly be out of place.

  “Wear it or not as you please, love. It has served its end. . . .stamped itself on a moment of time,” said Mahony; and fell therewith into a brown study.

  But as he helped her from the carriage he stooped and kissed her. . . .which Mary was very much afraid the coachman saw.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Than queening it at balls, she felt more in her element seated in a rather dingily furnished drawing-room, holding poor Agnes Ocock’s hand.

  Although it had struck five and the worst heat of the day was over, Agnes was still in her bedgown—she had been lying down with the headache, she said—nor could Mary persuade her to exchange this for bonnet and shawl, and drive out with her in the brougham that stood at the door.

  “Another time, dearest, if you do not mind. To-day I have no fancy for it.”

  Mary was shocked by the change the past six months had worked in her friend; and disagreeably impressed by the common-featured house in which she found her: it had no garden, but stood right on the dusty St. Kilda Parade. Agnes was growing very stout; her fine skin looked as creased as her robe, her cheek was netted with veins, her hair thin, under a cap set awry. Mary knew the rumours that were current; and her heart swelled with pity.

  “Just as you like, dear. And how are the children? Are they in? May I see them?”

  “Oh, yes, the children. Why. . . .the truth is, dearest Mary, I haven’t. . . .they are not with me. Henry thought. . . .he thought. . . .”

  Agnes’s voice broke, and after a painful struggle to compose herself she hid her face in her hands.

  Leaning forward Mary laid an arm round her shoulders. “Dearest Agnes, won’t you tell me your trouble? Is it the little one you. . . .you lost, you are fretting over?”

  And now there was no sound in the room but that of crying—and such crying! It seemed difficult to connect these heavy nerve-racking sobs with the lovely, happy little Agnes of former days. Holding her close, Mary let her weep unstintedly.

  “Oh, Mary, Mary! I am the most miserable creature alive.”

  Yes, it was the loss of the child that was breaking her heart. . . .or rather the way in which she had lost it.

  “It was the finest baby you ever saw, Mary—neither of the others could compare with it. They were all very well; but this one. . . .His tiny limbs were so round and smooth—it was like kissing velvet. And dimples everywhere. And he was born with a head of golden hair. I never knew Henry so pleased. He said such a child did me credit. . . .and this used rather to make me wonder, Mary; for Baby wasn’t a bit like Henry. . . .or like the other two. He took after my family and had blue eyes. But do you know who he reminded me of most of all? It was of Eddie, Mary. . . .and through Eddie of Mr. Glendinning. When Eddie was born he used to lie in my lap, just as soft and fair. . . .and sometimes I think I forgot, and imagined this baby was Eddie over again. . . .and that made me still fonder of him; for one’s first is one’s first, love, no matter how many come after. And then. . . .then. . . .He was five months old, and beginning to try to grasp things and take notice—oh, such a happy babe! And then one morning, I wasn’t feeling well, Mary—the doctor said the nursing of such a hearty child was a great strain on me; then a giddy fit took me—I had been giving him the breast and got up to lay him down—nurse wasn’t there. I must have been dizzy with sitting so long stooped over him—and he was heavy for his age. I got up and came over faint all of a sudden—the doctor says so. . . .and I tottered, Mary, and Baby fell—fell out of my arms. . . .on his little head—I heard the thud—yes, the thud. . . .but not a cry or a sound. . . .nothing. . . .nothing. . . .he never cried again.”

  “Oh, my poor Agnes! Oh, you poor, poor thing!”

  Mary was weeping, too; the tears ran down her cheeks. But she made no attempt to palliate or console; did not speak of an accident for which it was impossible to blame yourself; or of God’s will, mysterious, inscrutable: she just grieved, with an intensity of feeling that made her one with the bereft. Things of this kind went too deep for words; were hurts from which there could be no recovery. Time might grow its moss over them. . . .hide them from mortal sight. . . .that was all.

  As she drove home she reflected, pitifully, how strange it was that so soft and harmless a creature as Agnes should thus be singled out for some of life’s hardest blows. Agnes had so surely been born for happiness—and to make others happy. Misfortunes such as these ought to be kept for people of stronger, harder natures and with broader backs; who could suffer and still carry their heads high. Agnes was merely crushed to earth by them. . . .like a poor little trampled flower.

  But before she reached the house, a fearful suspicion crossed her mind.

  Tilly nodded confirmingly.

  “The plain English of it is, she was squiffy.”

  And went on: “It was hushed up, my dear, you bet!—kept dark as the grave. . . .doctor changed, etc. etc. They actually ’ad the face to put it down to the nurse’s carelessness: said nurse being packed off at once, handsomely remunerated, mind you, to hold ’er tongue. An’ a mercy the child died; the doctor seemed to think it might ’ave been soft, ’ad it lived—after such a knock on the pate—and can you see Henry dragging the village idiot at ’is heels? Never was a man in such a fury, Mary. Ugh! that white face with those little pitch-black eyes rolling round in it—it gave me the fair shakes to look at ’im. ’Pon my word I believe, if ’e’d dared, ’e’d ’ave slaughtered Agnes there and then. His child, his son!—you know the tune of it. ’E’ll never forgive ’er, mark my words he won’t!. . . .the disgrace and all that—for of course everybody knew all about it and a good deal more. She was odd enough beforehand, never going anywhere. Now she’s taking the sea-air at St. Kilda, and, if you ask me, she’ll go on taking it. . . .till Doomsday.”

  “The very way to drive her to despair!” cried Mary; and burned.

  Tilly shrugged. “It’s six of one and ’alf a dozen of the other to my mind. I’d almost rather be put away to rot like a poisoned rat in a hole, than live under the whip of Mossieu Henry’s tongue—not to mention ’is eye!”

  “Agnes shall not die like a rat in a hole if I can help it.”

  “Ah, but you can’t, my dear!. . . .don’t make any mistake about that. You might as well try to bend a bar of iron as ’Enry.—And I must say, Mary, it does sometimes seem a good deal of fuss to make over one small kid. She can ’ave more for the asking.”

  “Tilly!” Mary looked up from
her sewing—the two women sat on the verandah of Tilly’s house in Ballarat, where Mary was visiting—in reproof and surprise at a speech so unlike her friend. It was not the first either; Tilly often wore a mopy, world-weary air nowadays, which did not sit naturally on her. “Each child that lives is just itself,” added Mary. “That’s why one loves it so.”

  “Oh, well, I s’pose so. And as you know, love, I’d ’ave ’ad a dozen if I could. It wouldn’t ’ave been one too many to fill this ’ouse.”

  Mary believed she read the answer to the riddle. “Look here, Tilly, you’re lonely. . . .that’s what’s the matter with you.”

  And Tilly nodded, dumpily—again unlike herself.

  “Fact is, Mary, I want something to do. As long as dear old Pa lived, and I ’ad the boys to look after, it was all right—I never knew what it was to be dull. But now. . . .P’r’aps if they’d let me keep Tom and Johnny. . . .or if I could groom my own ’orses or ride ’em at the stakes. . . .No, no, of course, I know it wouldn’t do or be commy faut. It’s only my gab.”

  “I wonder, Tilly,” said Mary, “I wonder if. . . .have you never thought, dear, at times like these that. . . .that perhaps you might some day marry again?” She put the question very tentatively, knowing Tilly’s robust contempt for the other sex.

  But Tilly answered pat: “Why, that’s just what I ’ave, Mary.”

  “Oh!” said Mary. And to cover up her amazement, added: “I think it would be the very best thing that could happen.”

  There followed a pause of some length. Mary did not know what to make of it. Tilly was humming and hawing: she fidgeted, coloured, shifted her eyes.