how truly “home” the poor little gimcrack shanty had become to him, mahony grasped only when he once more crossed its threshold and polly’s arms lay round his neck.
his search for johnny ocock had detained him in melbourne for over a week. under the guidance of young grindle he had scoured the city, not omitting even the dens of infamy in the chinese quarter; and he did not know which to be more saddened by: the revolting sights he saw, or his guide’s proud familiarity with every shade of vice. but nothing could be heard of the missing lad; and at the suggestion of henry ocock he put an advertisement in the argus, offering a substantial reward for news of johnny alive or dead.
while waiting to see what this would bring forth, he paid a visit to john turnham. it had not been part of his scheme to trouble his new relatives on this occasion; he bore them a grudge for the way they had met polly’s overture. but he was at his wits’ end how to kill time: chafing at the delay was his main employment, if he were not worrying over the thought of having to appear before old ocock without his son. so, one midday he called at turnham’s place of business in flinders lane, and was affably received by john, who carried him off to lunch at the melbourne club. turnham was a warm partisan of the diggers’ cause. he had addressed a mass meeting held in melbourne, soon after the fight on the eureka; and he now roundly condemned the government’s policy of repression.
“i am, as you are aware, my dear mahony, no sentimentalist. but these rioters of yours seem to me the very type of man the country needs. could we have a better bedrock on which to build than these fearless champions of liberty?”
he set an excellent meal before his brother-in-law, and himself ate and drank heartily, unfolding his very table-napkin with a kind of relish. in lunching, he inquired the object of mahony’s journey to town. at the mention of henry ocock’s name he raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips.
“ah, indeed! then it is hardly necessary to ask the upshot.”
he pooh-poohed mahony’s intention of staying till the defaulting witness was found; disapproved, too, the offer of a reward. “to be paid out of your pocket, of course! no, my dear mahony, set your mind at rest and return to your wife. lads of that sort never come to grief — more’s the pity! by the bye, how is polly, and how does she like life on the diggings?”
in this connection, mahony tendered congratulations on the expected addition to turnham’s family. john embarked readily enough on the theme of his beautiful wife; but into his voice, as he talked, came a note of impatience or annoyance, which formed an odd contrast to his wonted self-possession. “yes. . . her third, and for some reason which i cannot fathom, it threatens to prove the most trying of any.” and here he went into medical detail on mrs. emma’s state.
mahony urged compliance with the whims of the mother-to-be, even should they seem extravagant. “believe me, at a time like this such moods and caprices have their use. nature very well knows what she is about.”
“nature? bah! i am no great believer in nature,” gave back john, and emptied his glass of madeira. “nature exists to be coerced and improved.”
they parted; and mahony went back to twirl his thumbs in the hotel coffee-room. he could not persuade himself to take turnham’s advice and leave johnny to his fate. and the delay was nearly over. at dawn next morning johnny was found lying in a pitiable condition at the door of the hotel. it took mahony the best part of the day to rouse him; to make him understand he was not to be horsewhipped; to purchase a fresh suit of clothing for him: to get him, in short, halfway ready to travel the following day — a blear-eyed, weak-witted craven, who fell into a cold sweat at every bump of the coach. not till they reached the end of the awful journey — even a chinaman rose to impudence about johnny’s nerves, his foul breath, his cracked lips — did mahony learn how the wretched boy had come by the money for his debauch. at the public-house where the coach drew up, old ocock stood grimly waiting, with a leather thong at his belt, and the news that his till had been broken open and robbed of its contents. with an involuntary recommendation to mercy, mahony handed over the culprit and turned his steps home.
polly stood on tip-toe to kiss him; pompey barked till the roof rang, making leaps that fell wide of the mark; the cat hoisted its tail, and wound purring in and out between his legs. tea was spread, on a clean cloth, with all sorts of good things to eat; an english mail had brought him a batch of letters and journals. altogether it was a very happy home-coming.
when he had had a sponge-down and finished tea, over which he listened, with a zest that surprised him, to a hundred and one domestic details: afterwards he and polly strolled arm-in-arm to the top of the little hill to which, before marriage, he used to carry her letters. here they sat and talked till night fell; and, for the first time, mahony tasted the dregless pleasure of coming back from the world outside with his toll of adventure, and being met by a woman’s lively and disinterested sympathy. agreeable incidents gained, those that were the reverse of pleasing lost their sting by being shared with polly. not that he told her everything; of the dark side of life he greatly preferred little polly to remain ignorant. still, as far as it went, it was a delightful experience. in return he confessed to her something of the uncertainty that had beset him, on hearing his opponent’s counsel state the case for the other side. it was disquieting to think he might be suspected of advancing a claim that was not strictly just.
“suspected? . . . you? oh, how could anybody be so silly!”
for all the fatigues of his day mahony could not sleep. and after tossing and tumbling for some time, he rose, threw on his clothing and went out to smoke a pipe in front of the store. various worries were pecking at him — the hint he had given polly of their existence seemed to have let them fairly loose upon him. of course he would be — he was — suspected of having connived at the imposture by which his suit was won — why else have put it in the hands of such a one as ocock? john turnham’s soundless whistle of astonishment recurred to him, and flicked him. imagine it! he, richard mahony, giving his sanction to these queasy tricks!
it was bad enough to know that ocock at any rate had believed him not averse from winning by unjust means. yet, on the whole, he thought this mortified him less than to feel that he had been written down a simple simon, whom it was easy to impose on. ah well! at best he had been but a kind of guy, set up for them to let off their verbal fireworks round. faith and that was all these lawyer-fellows wanted — the ghost of an excuse for parading their skill. justice played a negligible role in this battle of wits; else not he but the plaintiff would have come out victorious. that wretched bolliver! . . . the memory of him wincing and flushing in the witness-box would haunt him for the rest of his days. he could see him, too, with equal clearness, broken-heartedly slitting the gizzards of his, pets. a poor old derelict — the amen to a life which, like most lives, had once been flush with promise. and it had been his mahony’s., honourable portion to give the last kick, the ultimate shove into perdition. why, he would rather have lost the money ten times over!
to divert his mind, he began next morning to make an inventory of the goods in the store. it was high time, too: thanks to the recent disturbances he did not know where he stood. and while he was about it, he gave the place a general clean-up. a job of this kind was a powerful ally in keeping edged thoughts at bay. he and his men had their hands full for several days, polly, who was not allowed to set foot in the store, peeping critically in at them to see how they progressed. and, after business hours, there was little polly herself.
he loved to contemplate her.
six months of married life had worked certain changes in his black-eyed slip of a girl; but something of the doe-like shyness that had caught his fancy still clung to her. with strangers she could even yet be touchingly bashful. not long out of short frocks, she found it difficult to stand upon her dignity as mrs. dr. mahony. besides, it was second nature to polly to efface herself, to steal mousily away. unless, of course, some one needed help or was in distress, in which case she forgot to be shy. to her husband’s habits and idiosyncrasies she had adapted herself implicitly — but this came easy; for she was sure everything richard did was right, and that his way of looking at things was the one and only way. so there was no room for discord between them. by this time polly could laugh over the dismay of her first homecoming: the pitch-dark night and unfamiliar road, the racket of the serenade, the apparition of the great spider: now, all this might have happened to somebody else, not polly mahony. her dislike of things that creep and crawl was, it is true, inborn, and persisted; but nowadays if one of the many “triantelopes” that infested the roof showed its hairy legs, she had only to call hempel, and out the latter would pop with a broomstick, to do away with the creature. if a scorpion or a centipede wriggled from under a log, the cry of “tom!” would bring the idle lad next door double-quick over the fence. polly had learnt not to summon her husband on these occasions; for richard held to the maxim: “live and let live.” if at night a tarantula appeared on the bedroom-wall, he caught it in a covered glass and carried it outside: “just to come in again,” was her rueful reflection. but indeed polly was surrounded by willing helpers. and small wonder, thought mahony. her young nerves were so sound that hempel’s dry cough never grated them: she doctored him and fussed over him, and was worried that she could not cure him. she met long jim’s grumbles with a sunny face, and listened patiently to his forebodings that he would never see “home” or his old woman again. she even brought out a clumsy good-will in the young varmint tom; nor did his old father’s want of refinement repel her.
“but, richard, he’s such a kind old man,” she met her husband’s admission of this stumbling-block. “and it isn’t his fault that he wasn’t properly educated. he has had to work for his living ever since he was twelve years old.”
and mr. ocock cried quits by remarking confidentially: “that little lady o’ yours ‘as got ‘er ‘eadpiece screwed on the right way. it beats me, doc., why you don’t take ‘er inter the store and learn ‘er the bizness. no offence, i’m sure,” he made haste to add, disconcerted by mahony’s cold stare.
had anyone at this date tried to tell polly she lived in a mean, rough home, he would have had a poor reception. polly was long since certain that not a house on the diggings could compare with theirs. this was a trait mahony loved in her — her sterling loyalty; a loyalty that embraced not only her dear ones themselves, but every stick and stone belonging to them. his discovery of it helped him to understand her allegiance to her own multicoloured family: in the beginning he had almost doubted its sincerity. now, he knew her better. it was just as though a sixth sense had been implanted in polly, enabling her to pierce straight through john’s self-sufficiency or ned’s vapourings, to the real kernel of goodness that no doubt lay hid below. he himself could not get at it; but then his powers of divination were the exact opposite of polly’s. he was always struck by the weak or ridiculous side of a person, and had to dig laboriously down to the virtues. while his young wife, by a kind of genius, saw the good at a glance — and saw nothing else. and she did not stint with her gift, or hoard it up solely for use on her own kith and kin. her splendid sympathy was the reverse of clannish; it was applied to every mortal who crossed her path.
yes, for all her youth, polly had quite a character of her own; and even thus early her husband sometimes ran up against a certain native sturdiness of opinion. but this did not displease him; on the contrary, he would have thanked you for a wife who was only an echo of himself. to take the case of the animals. he had a profound respect for those creatures to which speech has been denied; and he treated the four-footers that dwelt under his roof as his fellows, humanising them, reading his own thoughts into them, and showing more consideration for their feelings than if they had been able to speak up for themselves. polly saw this in the light of an exquisite joke. she was always kind to pompey and the stately palmerston, and would as soon have forgotten to set richard’s dinner before him as to feed the pair; but they remained “the dog” and “the cat” to her, and, if they had enough to eat, and received neither kicks nor blows, she could not conceive of their souls asking more. it went beyond her to study the cat’s dislike to being turned off its favourite chair, or to believe that the dog did not make dirty prints on her fresh scrubbed floor out of malice prepense; it was also incredible that he should have doggy fits of depression, in which up he must to stick a cold, slobbery snout into a warm human hand. and when richard tried to conciliate palmerston stalking sulky to the door, or to pet away the melancholy in the rejected pompey’s eyes, polly had to lay down her sewing and laugh at her husband, so greatly did his behaviour amuse her.
again, there was the question of literature. books to mahony were almost as necessary as bread; to his girl-wife, on the other hand, they seemed a somewhat needless luxury — less vital by far than the animals that walked the floor. she took great care of the precious volumes richard had had carted up from melbourne; but the cost of the transport was what impressed her most. it was not an overstatement, thought mahony, to say that a stack of well-chopped, neatly piled wood meant more to polly than all the books ever written. not that she did not enjoy a good story: her work done, she liked few things better; and he often smiled at the ease with which she lived herself into the world of make-believe, knowing, of course, that it was make-believe and just a kind of humbug. but poetry, and the higher fiction! little polly’s professed love for poetry had been merely a concession to the conventional idea of girlhood; or, at best, such a burning wish to be all her richard desired, that, at the moment, she was convinced of the truth of what she said. but did he read to her from his favourite authors her attention would wander, in spite of the efforts she made to pin it down.
mahony declaimed:
’tis the sunset of life gives us mystical lore,
and coming events cast their shadows before,
and his pleasure in the swing of the couplet was such that he repeated it.
polly wakened with a start. her thoughts had been miles away — had been back at the “family hotel”. there purdy, after several adventures, his poor leg a mass of supuration, had at length betaken himself, to be looked after by his tilly; and polly’s hopes were all alight again.
she blushed guiltily at the repetition, and asked her husband to say the lines once again. he did so.
“but they don’t really, richard, do they?” she said in an apologetic tone — she referred to the casting of shadows. “it would be so useful if they did —” and she drew a sigh at purdy’s dilatory treatment of the girl who loved him so well.
“oh, you prosaic little woman!” cried mahony, and laid down his book to kiss her. it was impossible to be vexed with polly: she was so honest, so transparent. “did you never hear of a certain something called poetic licence?”
no: polly was more or less familiar with various other forms of licence, from the gold-diggers’ that had caused all the fuss, down to the special licence by which she had been married; but this particular one had not come her way. and on richard explaining to her the liberty poets allowed themselves, she shifted uncomfortably in her chair, and was sorry to think he approved. it seemed to her just a fine name for wanton exaggeration — if not something worse.
there were also those long evenings they spent over the first hundred pages of waverley. mahony, eager for her to share his enthusiasm, comforted her each night anew that they would soon reach the story proper, and then, how interested she would be! but the opening chapters were a sandy desert of words, all about people duller than any polly had known alive; and sometimes, before the book was brought out, she would heave a secret sigh — although, of course, she enjoyed sitting cosily together with richard, watching him and listening to his voice. but they might have put their time to a pleasanter use: by talking of themselves, or their friends, or how further to improve their home, or what the store was doing.
mahony saw her smiling to herself one evening; and after assuring himself that there was nothing on the page before him to call that pleased look to her young face, he laid the book down and offered her a penny for her thoughts. but polly was loath to confess to wool-gathering.
“i haven’t succeeded in interesting you, have i, pollikins?”
she made haste to contradict him. oh, it was very nice, and she loved to hear him read.
“come, honestly now, little woman!”
she faced him squarely at that, though with pink cheeks. “well, not much, richard.”
he took her on his knee. “and what were you smiling at?”
“me? oh, i was just thinking of something that happened yesterday”— and polly sat up, agog to tell.
it appeared that the day before, while he was out, the digger’s wife who did polly’s rough work for her had rushed in, crying that her youngest was choking. bonnetless, polly had flown across to the woman’s hut. there she discovered the child, a fat youngster of a year or so, purple in the face, with a button wedged in its throat. taking it by the heels she shook the child vigorously, upside-down; and, lo and behold! this had the opposite effect to what she intended. when they straightened the child out again the button was found to have passed the danger-point and gone down. quickly resolved, polly cut slice on slice of thin bread-and-butter, and with this she and mrs. hemmerde stuffed the willing babe till, full to bursting, it warded them off with its tiny hands.
mahony laughed heartily at the tale, and applauded his wife’s prompt measures. “short of the forceps nothing could have been better!”
yes, polly had a dash of native shrewdness, which he prized. and a pair of clever hands that were never idle. he had given her leave to make any changes she chose in the house, and she was for ever stitching away at white muslin, or tacking it over pink calico. these affairs made their little home very spick and span, and kept polly from feeling dull — if one could imagine polly dull! with the cooking alone had there been a hitch in the beginning. like a true expert mrs. beamish had not tolerated understudies: none but the lowliest jobs, such as raisin-stoning or potato-peeling, had fallen to the three girls’ share: and in face of her first fowl polly stood helpless and dismayed. but not for long. sarah was applied to for the best cookery-book on sale in melbourne, and when this arrived, polly gave herself up to the study of it. she had many failures, both private and avowed. with the worst, she either retired behind the woodstack, or tom disposed of them for her, or the dog ate them up. but she persevered: and soon mahony could with truth declare that no one raised a better loaf or had a lighter hand at pastry than his wife.
three knocks on the wooden partition was the signal which, if he were not serving a customer, summoned him to the kitchen.
“oh, richard, it’s ripen beautifully!” and, red with heat and pride, polly drew a great golden-crusted, blown-up sponge-cake along the oven shelf. richard, who had a sweet tooth, pretended to be unable to curb his impatience.
“wait! first i must see . . .” and she plunged a knife into the cake’s heart: it came out untarnished. “yes, it’s done to a turn.”
there and then it was cut; for, said mahony, that was the only way in which he could make sure of a piece. afterwards chunks were dealt out to every one polly knew — to long jim, hempel, tommy ocock, the little hemmerdes. side by side on the kitchen-table, their feet dangling in the air, husband and wife sat boy-and-girl fashion and munched hot cake, till their appetites for dinner were wrecked.
but the rains that heralded winter — and they set in early that year — had not begun to fall when more serious matters claimed mahony’s attention.
