Uncle Jerry was a nice man though he didn’t have any whiskers. Mamma said he looked a perfect sketch, and he’d only cut them off to please Aunt Fanny who must always be ahlamode. Mamma said he had to work like a nigger to make money, she spent such a lot, but he gave him and Luce each a shilling. At first it was only a penny, and first in one hand, then in the other, but at the end it was a shilling, to spend exactly as they liked.
And then they had to go home, and got up ever so early to catch the train. This time it wasn’t so jolly. It was too hot: you could only lie on the seat and watch the sky run past. Mamma took off their shoes and said, well, chicks, we shall soon be seeing dear Papa again now, won’t that be lovely? And he said, oh yes, won’t it. But inside him he didn’t feel it a bit. Mamma had been so nice all the time at the seaside and now she’d soon be cross and sorry again. . . .about Lallie and Papa. She looked out of the window, and wasn’t thinking about them any more. . . .thinking about Papa.—Well, he was glad he hadn’t spent his shilling. He nearly had. Mamma said what fun it would be if he bought something for Papa with it. But he hadn’t. For Papa wrote a letter and said for God’s sake don’t buy me anything, but Mamma did. . . .a most beautiful silver fruit knife. Luce had bought her doll new shoes. . . .perhaps some day he’d buy a kite that ’ud fly up and up to the sky till you couldn’t see a speck of it. . . .much higher than a swing. . . .high like a . . .
Good gracious! he must have gone to sleep, for Mamma was shaking his arm saying come children, wake up. And they put on their shoes again and their hats and gloves and stood at the window to watch for Papa, but it was a long, long time till they came to Barambogie. Papa was on the platform, and when he saw them he waved like anything and ran along with the train. And then he suddenly felt most awfly glad, and got out by himself direckly the door was open, and Mamma got out too, but as soon as she did she said oh Richard, what have you been doing to yourself? And Papa didn’t say anything, but only kissed and kissed them, and said how well they looked, and he was too tired to jump them high, and while he was saying this he suddenly began to cry. And the luggage-man stared like anything and so did the stationmaster, and Mamma said, oh dear whatever is it, and not before everybody Richard, and please just send the luggage after us, and then she took Papa’s arm and walked him away. And Luce and him had to go on in front. . . .so’s not to see. But he did, and went all hot inside, and felt most awfly ashamed.
And Papa cried and cried. . . .he could hear him through the surgery door.
CHAPTER FIVE
When Mary came out of the surgery and shut the door behind her, she leaned heavily up against it for a moment, pressing her hand to her throat; then, with short steps and the blank eyes of a sleepwalker, crossed the passage to the bedroom and sat stiffly down. She was still in bonnet and mantle, just as she had got out of the train: it had not occurred to her to remove them. And she was glad of the extra covering, for in spite of the heat of the day she felt very cold. Cold. . . .and old. The scene she had just been through with Richard seemed, at a stroke, to have added years to her age. It had been a dreadful experience. With his arms on the table, his head on his arms, he had cried like a child, laying himself bare to her, too, with a child’s pitiful abandon. He told of his distraction at the abrupt stoppage of the practice; of his impression of being deliberately shunned; of his misery and loneliness, his haunting dread of illness—and, on top of this, blurted out pell-mell, as if he could keep nothing back, as if, indeed, he got a wild satisfaction out of making it, came the confession of his mad folly, the debt, the criminal debt in which he had entangled them, and under the shadow of which, all unknown to her, they had lived for the past year. Oh! well for him that he could not see her face as he spoke; or guess at the hideous pictures his words set circling in her brain; the waves of wrath and despair that ran through her. After her first spasmodic gasp of: “Richard! Eight hundred pounds!” the only outward sign of her inner commotion had been a sudden stiffening of her limbs, an involuntary withdrawal of the arm that had lain round his shoulders. Not for a moment could she afford to let her real feelings escape her: her single exclamation had led to a further bout of self-reproaches. Before everything, he had to be calmed, brought back to his senses, and an end put to this distressing scene. What would the children think, to hear their father behave like this?. . . .his hysterical weeping. . . .his loud, agitated tones. And so, without reflection, she snatched at any word of comfort that offered; repeated the old, threadbare phrases about things not being as black as he painted them; of everything seeming worse if you were alone; of how they would meet this new misfortune side by side and shoulder to shoulder—they still had each other, which was surely half the battle? With never a hint of censure; till she had him composed.
But as she sat in the bedroom, with arms and legs like stone, resentment and bitterness overwhelmed her. . . .oh, a sheerly intolerable bitterness! Never! not to her dying day, would she forgive him the trick he had played on her. . . .the deceit he had practised. On her. . . .his own wife. So this was why he had left Hawthorn!—why he had not been able to wait to let the practice grow—this the cause of his feverish alarm here, did a single patient drop off. Now she understood—and many another thing besides. Oh, what had he done. . . .so recklessly done!. . . .to her, to his children? For there had been no real need for this fresh load of misery: they could just as easily—more easily—have rented a house. His pride alone had barred the way. It wouldn’t have been good enough for him; nothing ever was good enough; he was always trying to outshine others. No matter how she might suffer over it, who feared debt more than anything in the world. But with him it had always been self first. Look at the home-coming he had prepared for her! He had hardly let her step inside before he had sprung his mine. Of course he had lost his head with excitement at their arrival. . . .had hardly known what he was saying. Yes! but no doubt he had also thought to himself: at the pass to which things were come, the sooner his confession was made, the better for him. What a home-coming!
Further than this, however, she did not get. For the children, still in their travelling clothes and hot, tired and hungry, were at the door, clamouring for attention. With fumbly hands she took off her bonnet, smoothed her hair, pinned on her cap, tied a little black satin apron round her waist; and went out to them with the pinched lips and haggard eyes it so nipped Cuffy’s heart to see.
Her pearl necklace would have to go: that was the first clear thought she struck from chaos. It was night now: the children had been fed and bathed and put to bed, the trunks unpacked, drawers and wardrobes straightened, the house—it was dirty and neglected—looked through, and Richard, pale as a ghost but still pitifully garrulous, coaxed to bed in his turn. She sat alone in the little dining-room, her own eyes feeling as if they would never again need sleep. Her necklace. . . .even as the thought came to her she started up and, stealing on tiptoe into the bedroom, carried her dressing-case back with her. . . .just to make sure: for an instant she had feared he might have been beforehand with her. But there the pearls lay, safe and sound. Well! as jewellery she would not regret them: she hadn’t worn them for years, and had never greatly cared for being bedizened and behung. Bought in those palmy days when money slid like sand through Richard’s fingers, they had cost him close on a hundred pounds. Surely she ought still to get enough for them—and for their companion brooches, rings, chains, ear-rings and bracelets—to make up the sums of money due for the coming months, which he admitted not having been able to get together. For consent to let the mortgage lapse she never would: not if she was forced to sell the clothes off her back, or to part, piece by piece, with the Paris ornaments, the table silver. . . .Richard’s books. It would be sheer madness; after having paid out hundreds and hundreds of pounds. Besides, the knowledge that you had this house behind you made all the difference. If the worst came to the worst they could retire to Hawthorn, and she take in boarders. She didn’t care a rap what she did, so long as they co
ntrived to pay their way.
How to dispose of the necklace was the puzzle. To whom could she turn? She ran over various people but dismissed them all. Even Tilly. When it came to making Richard’s straits public, she was hedged on every side. Ah! but now she had it: Zara! If, as seemed probable, Zara came to take up her abode with them to teach the children, she would soon see for herself how matters stood. (And at least she was one’s own sister.) Zara. . . .trailing her weeds—why yes, even these might be turned to account. Widows did not wear jewellery; and were often left poorly off. People would pity her, perhaps give more, because of it.
And so, having fetched pen, ink and paper, Mary drew the kerosene lamp closer and set to writing her letter.
It wasn’t easy; she made more than one start. Not even to Zara could she tell the unvarnished truth. She shrank, for instance, from admitting that only now had she herself learnt of Richard’s difficulties. Zara might think strange things. . . .about him and her. So she put the step she was forced to take, down to the expenses of their seaside holiday. Adding, however, that jewellery was useless in a place like this where you had no chance of wearing it; and even something of a risk, owing to the house standing by itself and having so many doors.
The letter written she made a second stealthy journey, this time to the surgery, where she ferreted out Richard’s case-books. She had a lurking hope that, yet once more, he might have been guilty of his usual exaggeration. But half a glance at the blank pages taught her better. Things were even worse than he had admitted. What could have happened during her absence? What had he done, to make people turn against him? Practices didn’t die out like this in a single day—somehow or other he must have been to blame. Well! it would be her job, henceforth, to put things straight again: somehow or other to re-capture the patients. And if Richard really laid himself out to conciliate people—he could be so taking, if he chose—and not badger them. . . .Let him only scrape together enough for them to live on, and she would do the rest: her thoughts leapt straightway to a score of petty economies. The expenses of food and clothing might be cut down all round; and they would certainly go on no more long and costly holidays: had she only known the true state of affairs before setting out this summer! But she had been so anxious about the children. . . .oh! she was forgetting the children. And here, everything coming back to her with a rush, Mary felt her courage waver. Merciless to herself; with only a half-hearted pity for Richard, grown man that he was and the author of all the trouble; she was at once a craven and wrung with compassion where her children were concerned.
At the breakfast-table next morning she sat preoccupied; and directly the meal was over put the first of her schemes into action by sending for the defaulting Maria and soundly rating her. But she could get no sensible reason from the girl for running away—or none but the muttered remark that it had been “too queer” in the house with them all gone. After which, tying on her bonnet Mary set out for the township, a child on either hand. Lucie trotted docilely; but Cuffy was restive at being buttoned into his Sunday suit on a week-day, and dragged back and shuffled his feet in the dust till they were nearly smothered. Instead of trying to help Mamma by being an extra good boy!
“But I don’t feel good.”
Once out of sight of the house, Mary took two crêpe bands from her pocket and slipped them over the children’s white sleeves. Richard’s ideas about mourning were bound to give. . . .had perhaps already given offence. People of the class they were now dependent on thought so much of funerals and mourning. But he never stopped to consider the feelings of others. She remembered how he had horrified Miss Prestwick, with his heathenish ideas about the children’s prayers. All of a sudden one day he had declared they were getting too big to kneel down and pray “into the void,” or to “a glorified man”; and had had them taught a verse which said that loving all things big and little was the best kind of prayer and so on; making a regular to-do about it when he discovered that Miss Prestwick was still letting them say their “Gentle Jesus” on the sly.
Here she righted two hats and took Cuffy’s elastic out of his mouth; for they were entering the township; and for once the main street was not in its usual state of desertedness, when it seemed as if the inhabitants must all lie dead of the plague. . . .or be gone en masse to a fairing. The butcher’s cart drove briskly to and fro; a spring-cart had come in from the bush; buggies stood before the Bank. The police-sergeant touched his white helmet; horses were being backed between the shafts of the coach in front of the “Sun.” Everybody of course eyed her and the children very curiously, and even emerged from their shops to stare after them. It was the first time she had ever walked her own children out, and on top of that she had been absent for over two months. (Perhaps people imagined she had gone for good! Oh, could that possibly be a reason?) However she made the best of it: smiled, and nodded, and said good-day; and in spite of their inquisitive looks every one she met was very friendly. She went into the butcher’s to choose a joint, and took the opportunity of thanking the butcher for having served the doctor so well during her absence. The man beamed: and showed the children a whole dead pig he had hanging in the shop. She gave an order to the grocer, who leaned over the counter with two bunches of raisins, remarking “A fine little pair of nippers you have there, Mrs. Mahony!” To the baker she praised his bread, comparing it favourably with what she had eaten in Melbourne; and the man’s wife pressed sweets on the children. At the draper’s, which she entered to buy some stuff for pinafores, the same fuss was made over them. . . .till she bade them run outside and wait for her there. For the drapery woman began putting all sorts of questions about Lallie’s illness, and what they had done for her, and how they had treated it. . . .odd and prying questions, and asked with a strange air. Still, there was kindness behind the curiosity. “We did all feel that sorry for you, Mrs. Mahony. . . .losing such a fine sturdy little girl!” And blinking her eyes to keep the tears back, Mary began to think that Richard must have gone deliberately out of his way, to make enemies of these simple, well-meaning souls. Bravely she re-told the tale of her loss, being iron in her resolve to win people round; but she was thankful when the questionnaire ended and she was free to quit the shop. To see what the children were doing, too. She could hear Cuffy chattering away to somebody.
This proved to be the Reverend Mr. Thistlethwaite, who had engaged the pair in talk with the super-heartiness he reserved for what he called the “young or kitchen fry” of his parish. In his usual state of undress—collarless, with unbuttoned vest, his bare feet thrust in carpet slippers—he was so waggish that Mary could not help suspecting where his morning stroll had led him.
“Good morning, Madam, good morning to you! Back again, back again? And the little Turks! Capital. . . .quite capital!”
He slouched along beside them, his paunch, under its grease spots, a-shake with laughter at his own jokes. The children of course were all ears; and she would soon have slipped into another shop and so have got rid of him—you never knew what he was going to say next—if a sudden bright idea had not flashed into her mind.
The Fortunes of Richard Mahony Page 96