Mahony was indignant. “And do you think no one considers the children but you? When their welfare is more to me than anything on earth?”
“But if that’s true, how can you even think of giving up this place?. . . .the house—our comfortable home! You know quite well you’re not a young man any more. The openings would be so few. You’d never get a place to suit you better.”
“I tell you I cannot stop here!”
“But why? Give me a single convincing reason. As to the idea of going up-country. . . .that’s madness pure and simple. How often did you vow you’d never again take up a country practice, because of the distances. . . .and the work? How will you be able to stand it now?. . . .when you’re getting on for fifty. You say there’s nothing doing here; but, my opinion is, there’s just as much as you’re able for.”
This was so exactly Mahony’s own belief that he grew violently angry. “Good God, woman! is there no sympathy in you?. . . .or only where your children are concerned? I tell you, if I stop here I shall end by going demented!”
“I never heard such talk. The practice may be slow to move—I think a town practice always would be—but it’ll come right, I’m sure it will, if you’ll only give it the chance.” Here, however, another thought struck her. “But what I don’t understand is, why we’re not able to get on. What becomes of the money you make? There must be something very wrong somewhere. Hand over the accounts to me; let me look into your books. With no rent to pay, and three or four hundred coming in. . . .besides the dividends. . . .oh, would any one else—any one but you—want to throw up a certainty and drag us off up-country, just when the children are getting big and need decent companions. . . .and, schooling—what about their education?—have you thought of that?. . . .or thought of anything but your own likes and dislikes?” And as he maintained a stony silence; she broke out: “I think men are the most impossible creatures God ever made!” and pressing her face into the pillow burst into tears.
Mahony set his teeth. If she could not see for herself that it was a case, for once, of putting him and his needs first, then he could not help her. To confide in her still went beyond him. Mary had such a heavy hand. He could hope for no tenderness of approach; no instinctive understanding meeting him half-way. She would pounce on his most intimate thoughts and feelings, drag them out into daylight and anatomise them; would put into words those phantom fears, and insidious evasions, which he had so far managed to keep in the twilight where they belonged. He shuddered at the thought.
But Mary had not finished. Drying her eyes she returned to the charge. “You say this place is a failure. I deny it, and always shall. But if it hasn’t done as well as it might, there’s a reason for it. It’s because you haven’t the way with you any longer. You’ve lost your manner—the good, doctor’s manner you used to do so much with. You’re too short with people nowadays; and they resent it; and go to some one who’s pleasanter. I heard you just the other day with that lawyer’s wife who called. . . .how you blew her up! She’ll never come again.—A morbid hypochondriac? I daresay. But in old days you’d never have told a patient to her face that she was either shamming or imagining.”
“I’m too old to cozen and pander.”
“Too old to care, you mean. Oh, for God’s sake, think what you’re doing! Try to stop on here a little longer, and if it’s only for six months. Listen! I’ve got an idea.” She raised herself on her elbow. “Why shouldn’t we take in boarders?. . . .just to tide us over till things get easier. This house is really much too big for us. One nursery would be enough for the children; and there’s the spare room, and the breakfast-room. . . .I could probably fill all three; and make enough that way to cover our living expenses.”
“Boarders?. . . .you? Not while I’m above the sod!”
The children wilted. . . .oh, it was a dreadful week! Papa never spoke, and slammed the doors and the gate whenever he went out. Mamma sat in the bedroom and cried, hastily blowing her nose and pretending she wasn’t, if you happened to look in. And Cook and Eliza made funny faces, and whispered behind their hands. Cuffy, mooning about the house, pale and dejected, was—as usual when Mamma and Papa quarrelled—harassed by the feeling that somehow or other he was the guilty person. He tried cosseting Mamma, hanging round her: he tried talking big to the Dumplings of what he meant to do when he was a man; he even glanced at the idea of running away. But none of these things lightened the weight that lay on his chest. It felt just as it had done the night Luce had the croup and crowed like a cock.
And then one afternoon Mahony came home transfigured. His bang of the gate, his very step, as it crunched the gravel, told its own tale. He ran up the stairs two at a time, calling for Mary; and, the door of the bedroom shut on them, broke into excited talk. It appeared that in a chance meeting that day with a fellow-medico (“Pincock, that well-known Richmond man!”) he had heard of what seemed to him “an opening in a thousand,” a flourishing practice to be had for the asking, at a place called Barambogie in the Ovens District.
“A rising township, my dear, half mining, half agricultural, and where there has never been but one doctor. He’s an old friend of Pincock’s, and is giving up—after ten years in the place—for purely personal reasons. . . .nothing to do with the practice. It arose through Pincock asking me if I knew of any one who would like to step into a really good thing. This Rummel wants to retire, but will wait on of course till he hears of a successor. Nor is he selling. Whoever goes there has only to walk in and settle down. Such a chance won’t come my way again. I should be mad to let it slip.”
This news rang the knell of any hopes Mary might still have nursed of bringing him to his senses. She eyed him sombrely as he stood before her, pale with excitement; and such a wave of bitterness ran through her that she quickly looked away again, unable to find any but bitter words to say. In this glance, however, she had for once really seen him—had not just looked, without seeing, after the habit of those who spend their lives together—and the result was the amazed reflection: “But he’s got the eyes of a child!. . . .for all his wrinkles and grey hairs.”
Mahony did not notice her silence. He continued to dilate on what he had said and the other had replied, till, in alarm, she burst out: “I hope to goodness you’ve not committed yourself in any way?. . . .all in the dark as you are.”
“Come, come now, my dear!” he half cozened, half fell foul of her: “Give me credit for at least a ha’p’orth of sense. You surely don’t imagine I showed Pincock my cards? I flatter myself I was thoroughly off-hand with him. . . .so much so, indeed, that before night he’ll no doubt have cracked the place up to half a dozen others.—Come, Mary, come! I’m not quite the fool you imagine. Nor do I mean to be unreasonable. But I confess my inclination is, just to slip off and see the place, and make a few confidential inquiries. There can surely be nothing against that—can there?”
There could not. Two days later, he took the early morning train to the north.
CHAPTER FIVE
I
The Sun Hotel,
Barambogie.
My own dear Wife,
I hope you got my note announcing my safe arrival. I could not write more; the train was late and I tired out. The journey took eight hours and was most fatiguing. About noon a north wind came up, with its usual effect on me of headache and lassitude. The carriage was like a baking-oven. As for the dust, I’ve never seen its equal. Ballarat in summer was nothing to it. It rose in whirlwinds to the tops of the gums. We were simply smothered. But what a country this of ours is for size! You have only to get away from the sea-board and travel across it, to be staggered by its vastness.—And emptiness. Mile after mile of bush, without the trace of a settlement. And any townships we could see for dust, very small and mean. Of course everything looks its worst just now. There have been no rains here yet, and they are sadly needed. Grass burnt to a cinder, creeks bone-dry
and so on. However as it was all quite new to me, I found plenty to interest me. The landscape improved as we got further north, grew hillier and more wooded: and beyond Benalla we had a fine view of the high ranges.
So much for the journey. As I mentioned, Rummel met me at the station, walked to the hotel with me and stopped for a chat. He is a most affable fellow, well under forty I should say, tall and handsome and quite the gentleman—I shall find considerable difficulty in coming after him. I was too tired that night to get much idea of the place, but now that I have had a couple of days to look about me, I can honestly say I am delighted with it. To begin with, I am most comfortably lodged; my bed is good, the table plentiful, landlady very attentive. It is a larger and more substantial township than those we passed on the way up; the houses are mostly of brick—for coolness in summer—and all have luxuriant gardens. There is a very pretty little lake, or lagoon as they call it here, skirted by trees and pleasant paths; and we are surrounded by wooded ranges. Vineyards cover the plains.
As to the information I had from Pincock, it was rather under than above the mark. Barambogie is undoubtedly a rising place. For one thing, there’s a great mine in the neighbourhood, that has only been partially worked. This is now about to be reorganised: and when started will employ no fewer than a hundred and fifty men. Every one is sanguine of it paying.—I was out and about all yesterday and again this morning, introducing myself to people. I have met with the greatest courtesy and civility—the Bank Manager went so far as to say I should be a real acquisition. I think I can read between the lines that some will not be displeased to see the last of Rummel. He is by no means the universal favourite I should have imagined. Between ourselves, I fancy he takes a drop too much. He is still seeing patients, but intends leaving in a couple of days. The chemist says I should easily do eight hundred to a thousand per annum. And Rummel himself told me he has had as many as a hundred midwifery cases in a year. There are three or four nice families, so you, my dear, will not be entirely cut off from society. It is said to be a splendid winter climate. Even now, in late autumn, we have clear blue skies and bracing winds from the south. And we should certainly save. No one here keeps more than one servant, and grand entertainments are unknown. No clubs either, thank God! You know what a drawback they. . . .or rather the lack of them has been to me at Hawthorn. They’re all very well if you hold them yourself, but play the dickens with a practice if you don’t. I should only be too glad to settle somewhere where they’re non-existent.
The difficulty is going to be to find a house. There are only two vacant in all Barambogie. One of these is in poor repair, and the owner—the leading draper—declines to do anything to it. Besides he wants a rental of eighty pounds p.a., on a four years’ lease—which of course puts it out of the question. The other is so small that none of our furniture would go into it. But where there’s a will there’s a way; and I have an idea—and I think a brilliant one. There’s a fine old Oddfellows’ Hall here, which is in disuse and up for auction. It’s of brick—looks like a chapel—and is sixty feet long by twenty broad. Well, my plan is to buy this, and convert it into a dwelling-house. The body of the hall will give us six splendid rooms, with a passage down the middle, and we can add kitchen, scullery, outhouses, etc. I would also throw out a verandah. There’s a fair piece of land which we could turn into a garden. The alterations will be easy to make and not cost much; and there we are, with out and away the best house in the town!—I fear, though, even under the most favourable circumstances we shall not be able to use all our furniture here. I haven’t yet seen a room that would hold your wardrobe, or the dining-room sideboard.
If I decide to stay, I shall lose no time in consulting a builder. You for your part must at once see an agent and put the Hawthorn house in his hands. I feel sure we shall have no difficulty in letting it.
And now I must bring this long scrawl—it has been written at various odd moments—to a close. I have appointed to see Rummel again this afternoon, to have another parley with him. Not that I shall definitely fix on anything till I hear from you. From now on I intend to take your advice. But I do trust that what I have told you will prove to you that this is no wildgoose chase, but the very opening of which I am in search. It distresses me more than I can say, when you and I do not see eye to eye with each other. Now take good care of your dear self, and kiss the chicks for me. Forgive me, too, all my irritability and bad temper of the past six months. I have had a very great deal to worry me—far more than you knew, or than I wanted you to know. It is enough for one of us to bear the burden. But this will pass and everything be as of old, if I can once see the prospect of earning a decent income again. Which I am perfectly sure I shall do here.
Your own
R.T.M.
I
The Sun Hotel,
Barambogie.
My dear Mary,
I must say you are the reverse of encouraging. Your letter threw me into such a fit of low spirits that I could not bring myself to answer it till to-day. It’s bad enough being all alone, with never a soul to speak to, without you pouring cold water on everything I suggest. Of course, as you are so down on my scheme of rebuilding the Oddfellows’ Hall I will let this unique opportunity for a bargain slip, and dismiss the idea from my mind. Perhaps, though, you will tell me what we are to do—with not another house in the place vacant—or at least nothing big enough to swing a cat in. As you are so scathing about my poor plans, you had better evolve some of your own.
I had the news about the mine on reliable authority; it was not, as you try to make out, a mere wild rumour. Nor is what I said about people being glad to get rid of Rummel a product of my own imagination. I received more than one plain hint to that effect, in the course of my visits.
However, since I wrote last, I have begun to doubt the wisdom of settling here. It’s not the house-question alone. I’ve seen Greatorex the draper again, and he has so far come round as to agree to re-floor the verandah and whitewash the rooms, if I take the house on his terms. I repeat once more, it is the best house in Barambogie. Six large rooms, all necessary outhouses, a shed fitted with a shower-bath, and a fine garden—we might indeed consider ourselves lucky to get it. Rummel lives in a regular hovel; the parson in a four-roomed hut with not a foot of ground to it, nor any verandah to keep off the sun. Greatorex’s is a palace in comparison. Of course though, as you express yourself so strongly against the four-years’ lease, I shall give up all idea of coming to an agreement with him.
Besides, as I said above, I have practically decided not to remain. Your letter is chiefly responsible for this. I can see you have made up your mind beforehand not to like the place. And if you were unhappy I should be wretched, too, and reproach myself for having dragged you and the children into so outlandish an exile. I quite agree it would be hard work for you with but a single servant; but I can assure you, we should be eyed askance if we tried to keep more. In a place like this, where there is only one standard of living, it would render us most unpopular. But even should you change your mind, my advice would be, not to come for at least three months: By that time I should know better how the practice was shaping. Of course things may look brighter for me when Rummel goes, and I begin to get something to do. I’ve been here nearly a fortnight now, and he shows no more signs of leaving than at first. He is still attending patients; the people run after him in the streets. He has been extraordinarily popular; which is not to be wondered at, with his good looks and ingratiating manners. Only a few trifling cases have come my way. It is very disheartening. To add to this, I have been feeling anything but well. The change of water has upset me. Then my bedroom is dark and airless; and the noise in the hotel enough to drive one crazy. It goes on till long past midnight and begins again before six.
Another thing that worries me is the fact that I should be alone of the profession here, if I stayed. I daresay I should get used to it in time; but just now, in
my poor state, it would be an additional strain, never to have a second opinion to fall back on.—I don’t need you to tell me, my dear, that a hundred confinements in the year would be stiff work. But they would also mean a princely income. However, I have no intention of dragging you here against your will and shall now cast about for something else. I heard to-day of a place called Turramungi, where there is only one doctor and he a bit of a duffer. I will go over by coach one morning and see how the land lies.
But do try and write more cheerfully. I am sure you have no need to be so depressed—in our pleasant home, and with the children to bear you company. I am sorry to hear you have heard of no likely tenants. We ought to get a rent of at least two hundred, without taxes. As I said before, your wardrobe and the sideboard will have to be sold. Perhaps the incoming tenant will take them.
The flies are very troublesome to-day. I have constantly to flap my handkerchief while I write.
Shall hope to send you better news of myself next time.
R.T.M.
III
The Sun Hotel,
Barambogie.
My dear Wife,
A line in great haste. I have just seen an advertisement in the “Argus” calling for applications for medical officer to the Boorandoora Lodge, and have made up my mind to apply. I have written off posthaste for further particulars, in order to get my application in before Friday. After spending close on three weeks here, I have decided once and for all that it would be infinitely more satisfactory to make an extra couple of hundred a year at Hawthorn, with a decent house behind us, than to bury ourselves in this wild bush. A third lodge would give a tremendous fillip to the practice. And the more I see of this place, the less I like it.
The Fortunes of Richard Mahony Page 85