and now for a month or more mahony had been in possession of a room that was all his own. did he retire into it and shut the door, he could make sure of not being disturbed. polly herself tapped before entering; and he let her do so. polly was dear; but dearer still was his long-coveted privacy.
he knew, too, that she was happily employed; the fitting-up and furnishing of the house was a job after her own heart. she had proved both skilful and economical at it: thanks to her, they had used a bare three-quarters of the sum allotted by ocock for the purpose — and this was well; for any number of unforeseen expenses had cropped up at the last moment. polly had a real knack for making things “do”. old empty boxes, for instance, underwent marvellous transformations at her hands — emerged, clad in chintz and muslin, as sofas and toilet-tables. she hung her curtains on strings, and herself sewed the seams of the parlour carpet, squatting turk-fashion on the floor, and working away, with a great needle shaped like a scimitar, till the perspiration ran down her face. it was also she who, standing on the kitchen-table, put up the only two pictures they possessed, ned and jerry giving opinions on the straightness of her eye, from below: a fancy picture of the battle of waterloo in the parlour; a print of “harvey discovering the circulation of the blood” on the surgery wall.
from where he sat mahony could hear the voices of the children — john’s children — at play. they frolicked with pompey in the yard. he could endure them, now that he was not for ever tumbling over them. yes, one and all were comfortably established under the new roof — with the exception of poor palmerston the cat. palmerston had declined to recognise the change, and with the immoderate homing-instinct of his kind had returned night after night to his old haunts. for some time mahony’s regular evening walk was back to the store — a road he would otherwise not have taken; for it was odious to him to see polly’s neat little appointments going to rack and ruin, under the tenancy of a dirty irish family. there he would find the animal sitting, in melancholy retrospect. again and again he picked him up and carried him home; till that night when no puss came to his call, and palmerston, the black and glossy, was seen no more: either he had fallen down a shaft, or been mangled by a dog, or stolen, cats still fetching a high price on ballarat.
the window of mahony’s room faced a wide view: not a fence, hardly a bit of scrub or a tuft of grass-tree marked the bare expanse of uneven ground, now baked brown as a piecrust by the december sun. he looked across it to the cemetery. this was still wild and unfenced — just a patch of rising ground where it was permissible to bury the dead. only the day before — the second anniversary of the eureka stockade — he had watched some two to three hundred men, with crepe on their hats and sleeves, a black-draped pole at their head, march there to do homage to their fallen comrades. the dust raised by the shuffling of these many feet had accompanied the procession like a moving cloud; had lingered in its rear like the smoke from a fire. drays and lorries crawled for ever laboriously along it, seeming glued to the earth by the monstrous sticky heat of the veiled sun. further back rose a number of bald hills — rounded, swelling hills, shaped like a woman’s breasts. and behind all, pale china-blue against the tense white sky, was the embankment of the distant ranges. except for these, an ugly, uninviting outlook, and one to which he seldom lifted his eyes.
his room pleased him better. polly had stretched a bright green drugget on the floor; the table had a green cloth on it; the picture showed up well against the whitewashed wall. behind him was a large deal cupboard, which held instruments and drugs. the bookshelves with their precious burden were within reach of his hand; on the top shelf he had stacked the boxes containing his botanical and other specimens.
the first week or so there was naturally little doing: a sprained wrist to bandage, a tooth to draw, a case of fly-blight. to keep himself from growing fidgety, he overhauled his minerals and butterflies, and renewed faded labels. this done, he went on to jot down some ideas he had, with regard to the presence of auriferous veins in quartz. it was now generally agreed that quartz was the matrix; but on the question of how the gold had found its way into the rock, opinions were sharply divided. the theory of igneous injection was advanced by some; others inclined to that of sublimation. mahony leaned to a combination of the two processes, and spent several days getting his thoughts in order; while polly, bursting with pride, went about on tiptoe audibly hushing the children: their uncle was writing for the newspapers.
still no patients worth the name made their appearance. to fend off the black worry that might get the better of him did he sit idle, he next drew his bible to him, and set about doing methodically what he had so far undertaken merely by fits and starts — deciding for himself to what degree the scriptures were inspired. polly was neither proud nor happy while this went on, and let the children romp unchecked. at present it was not so much the welfare of her husband’s soul she feared for: god must surely know by this time what a good man richard was; he had not his equal, she thought, for honesty and uprightness; he was kind to the poor and the sick, and hadn’t missed a single sunday at church, since their marriage. but all that would not help, if once he got the reputation of being an infidel. then, nobody would want him as a doctor at all.
casually begun, mahony’s studies soon absorbed him to the exclusion of everything else.
brought up in the cast-iron mould of irish protestantism, to which, being of a sober and devout turn of mind, he had readily submitted, he had been tossed, as a youthful student, into the freebooting edinburgh of the forties. edinburgh was alive in those days to her very paving-stones; town and university combined to form a hotbed of intellectual unrest, a breeding-ground for disturbing possibilities. the “development theory” was in the air; and a book that appeared anonymously had boldly voiced, in popular fashion, maillet’s dream and the lamarckian hypothesis of a creation undertaken once and for all, in place of a continuous creative intenention. this book, opposing natural law to miracle, carried complete conviction to the young and eager. audacious spirits even hazarded the conjecture that primitive life itself might have originated in a natural way: had not, but recently, an investigator who brought a powerful voltaic battery to bear on a saturated solution of silicate of potash, been startled to find, as the result of his experiment, numberless small mites of the species acarus horridus? might not the marvel electricity or galvanism, in action on albumen, turn out to be the vitalising force? to the orthodox zoologist, phytologist and geologist, such a suggestion savoured of madness; they either took refuge in a contemptuous silence, or condescended only to reply: had one visited the garden of eden during creation, one would have found that, in the morning, man was not, while in the evening he was!— morning and evening bearing their newly established significance of geological epochs. the famous tracing of the creator’s footsteps, undertaken by a gifted compromiser, was felt by even the most bigoted to be a lame rejoinder. his asterolepsis, the giant fossil-fish from the old red sandstone, the antiquity of which should show that the origin of life was not to be found solely in “infusorial points,” but that highly developed forms were among the earliest created — this single prop was admittedly not strong enough to carry the whole burden of proof. no, the immutability of species had been seriously impugned, and bold minds asked themselves why a single act of creation, at the outset, should not constitute as divine an origin of life as a continued series of “creative fiats.”
mahony was one of them. the “development theory” did not repel him. he could see no impiety in believing that life, once established on the earth, had been left to perfect itself. or hold that this would represent the divine author of all things as, after one master-stroke, dreaming away eternal ages in apathy and indifference. why should the perfect functioning of natural law not be as convincing an expression of god’s presence as a series of cataclysmic acts of creation?
none the less it was a time of crisis, for him, as for so many. for, if this were so, if science spoke true that, the miracle of life set a-going, there had been no further intervention on the part of the creator, then the very head-and-corner stone of the christian faith, the bible itself, was shaken. more, much more would have to go than the mosaic cosmogony of the first chapter of genesis. just as the elohistic account of creation had been stretched to fit the changed views of geologists, so the greater part of the scriptural narratives stood in need of a wider interpretation. the fable of the eternal’s personal mediation in the affairs of man must be accepted for what it was — a beautiful allegory, the fondly dreamed fulfilment of a world-old desire. and bringing thus a sharpened critical sense to bear on the scriptures, mahony embarked on his voyage of discovery. before him, but more as a warning than a beacon, shone the example of a famous german savant, who, taking our saviour’s life as his theme, demolished the sacred idea of a divine miracle, and retold the gospel story from a rationalistic standpoint. a savagely unimaginative piece of work this, thought mahony, and one that laid all too little weight on the deeps of poetry, the mysteries of symbols, and the power the human mind drew from these, to pierce to an ideal truth. his own modest efforts would be of quite another kind.
for he sought, not to deny god, but to discover him anew, by freeing him from the drift of error, superstition and dead-letterism which the centuries had accumulated about him. far was it from his servant’s mind to wish to decry the authority of the book of books. this he believed to consist, in great part, of inspired utterances, and, for the rest, to be the wisest and ripest collection of moral precept and example that had come down to us from the ages. without it, one would be rudderless indeed — a castaway in a cockleshell boat on a furious sea — and from one’s lips would go up a cry like to that wrung from a famous infidel: “i am affrighted and confounded with the forlorn solitude in which i am placed by my philosophy . . .begin to fancy myself in the most deplorable condition imaginable, environed by the deepest darkness.”
no, mahony was not one of those who held that the christian faith, that fine flower of man’s spiritual need, would suffer detriment by the discarding of a few fabulous tales; nor did he fear lest his own faith should become undermined by his studies. for he had that in him which told him that god was; and this instinctive certainty would persist, he believed, though he had ultimately to admit the whole fabric of christianity to be based on the arimathean’s dream. it had already survived the rejection of externals: the surrender of forms, the assurance that ceremonials were not essential to salvation belonged to his early student-days. now, he determined to send by the board the last hampering relics of bigotry and ritual. he could no longer concede the tenets of election and damnation. god was a god of mercy, not the blind, jealous jahveh of the jews, or the inhuman sabbatarian of a narrow protestantism. and he might be worshipped anywhere or anyhow: in any temple built to his name — in the wilderness under the open sky — in silent prayer, or according to any creed.
in all this critical readjustment, the thought he had to spare for his fellow-men was of small account: his fate was not bound to theirs by the altruism of a later generation. it was a time of intense individualism; and his efforts towards spiritual emancipation were made on his own behalf alone. the one link he had with his fellows — if link it could be termed — was his earnest wish to avoid giving offence: never would it have occurred to him to noise his heterodoxy abroad. nor did he want to disturb other people’s convictions. he respected those who could still draw support from the old faith, and, moreover, had not a particle of the proselytiser in him. he held that religion was either a matter of temperament, or of geographical distribution; felt tolerantly inclined towards the jews, and the chinese; and did not even smile at processions to the joss-house, and the provisioning of those silent ones who needed food no more.
but just as little as he intermeddled with the convictions of others would he brook interference with his own. it was the concern of no third person what paths he followed in his journeyings after the truth — in his quest for a panacea for the ills and delusions of life. for, call it what he would — biblical criticism, scientific inquiry — this was his aim first and last. he was trying to pierce the secret of existence — to rede the riddle that has never been solved.— what am i? whence have i come? whither am i going? what meaning has the pain i suffer, the evil that men do? can evil be included in god’s scheme?— and it was well, he told himself, as he pressed forward, that the flame in him burnt unwaveringly, which assured him of his kinship with the eternal, of the kinship of all created things; so unsettling and perplexing were the conclusions at which he arrived.
summoned to dinner, he sat at table with stupid hands and evasive eyes. little johnny, who was, as polly put it, “as sharp as mustard,” was prompt to note his uncle’s vacancy.
“what you staring at, nunkey?” he demanded, his mouth full of roly-pudding, which he was stuffing down with all possible dispatch.
“hush, johnny. don’t tease your uncle.”
“what do you mean, my boy?”
“i mean . . .” young john squeezed his last mouthful over his windpipe and raised his plate. “i mean, you look just like you was seein’ a emeny.— more puddin’, aunt polly!”
“what does the child mean? an anemone?”
“no!” said john with the immense contempt of five years. “i didn’t say anner emeny.” here, he began to tuck in anew, aiding the slow work of his spoon with his more habile fingers. “a emeny’s d emeny. like on de pickshur in aunt polly’s room. one . . . one’s de english, an’ one’s de emeny.”
“it’s the battle of waterloo,” explained polly. “he stands in front of it every day.”
“yes. an’ when i’m a big man, i’m goin’ to be a sojer, an’ wear a red coat, an’ make ‘bung’!” and he shot an imaginary gun at his sister, who squealed and ducked her head.
“an ancient wish, my son,” said mahony, when johnny had been reproved and trotty comforted. “tom-thumbs like you have voiced it since the world — or rather since war first began.”
“don’t care. nunkey, why is de english and why is de emeny?”
but mahony shrank from the gush of whats and whys he would let loose on himself, did he attempt to answer this question. “come, shall uncle make you some boats to sail in the wash-tub?”
“wiv a mast an’ sails an’ everyfing?” cried john wildly; and throwing his spoon to the floor, he scrambled from his chair. “oh yes, nunkey — dear nunkey!”
“dea unkey!” echoed the shadow.
“oh, you cupboard lovers, you!” said mahony as, order restored and sticky mouths wiped, two pudgy hands were thrust with a new kindness into his.
he led the way to the yard; and having whittled out for the children some chips left by the builders, he lighted his pipe and sat down in the shade of the house. here, through a veiling of smoke, which hung motionless in the hot, still air, he watched the two eager little mortals before him add their quota to the miracle of life.
