“oh, richard!. . . and my dress is blue,” said mary distractedly, and sitting back on her heels let her arms fall to her sides. she was on her knees, and before her lay a cardboard box from which she had withdrawn a pink fan, pink satin boots with stockings to match, and a pink head-dress.

“well, why the dickens didn’t you say so?” burst out the giver.

“i did, dear. as plainly as i could speak.”

“never heard a word!”

“because you weren’t listening. i told you so at the time. now what am i to do?” and, in her worry over the contretemps, mary quite forgot to thank her husband for the trouble he had been to on her behalf.

“get another gown to go with them.”

“oh, richard. . . how like a man! after all the time and money this one has cost me. no, i couldn’t do that. besides, agnes ocock is wearing pink and wouldn’t like it.” and with a forehead full of wrinkles she slowly began to replace the articles in their sheaths. “of course they’re very nice,” she added, as her fingers touched the delicate textures.

“they would need to be, considering what i paid for them. i wish now i’d kept my money in my pocket.”

“well, your mistake is hardly my fault, is it, dear?” but richard had gone off in a mood midway between self-annoyance and the huff.

mary’s first thought was to send the articles to jinny with a request to exchange them for their counterparts in the proper colour. then she dismissed the idea. blind slave to her nursery that jinny was, she would hardly be likely to give the matter her personal supervision: the box would just be returned to the shop, and the transfer left to the shop-people’s discretion. they might even want to charge more. no, another plan now occurred to mary. agnes ocock might not yet have secured the various small extras to go with her ball-dress; and, if not, how nice it would be to make her a present of these. they were finer, in better taste, than anything to be had on ballarat; and she had long owed agnes some return for her many kindnesses. herself she would just make do with the simpler things she could buy in town. and so, without saying anything to richard, who would probably have objected that henry ocock was well able to afford to pay for his own wife’s finery, mary tied up the box and drove to plevna house, on the outer edge of yuille’s swamp.

“oh, no, i could never have got myself such beautiful things as these, mary,” and mrs. henry let her hands play lovingly with the silk stockings, her pretty face a-glow with pleasure. “henry has no understanding, dear, for the etceteras of a costume. he thinks, if he pays for a dress or a mantle, that that is enough; and when the little bills come in, he grumbles at what he calls my extravagance. i sometimes wish, mary, i had kept back just a teeny-weeny bit of my own money. henry would never have missed it, and i should have been able to settle a small bill for myself now and then. but you know how it is at first, love. our one idea is to hand over all we possess to our lord and master.” she tried on the satin boots; they were a little long, but she would stuff the toes with wadding. “if i am really not robbing you, mary?”

mary reassured her, and thereupon a visit was paid to the nursery, where mr. henry’s son and heir lay sprawling in his cradle. afterwards they sat and chatted on the verandah, while a basket was being filled with peaches for mary to take home.

not even the kindly drapery of a morning-wrapper could conceal the fact that agnes was growing stout — quite losing her fine figure. that came of her having given up riding-exercise. and all to please mr. henry. he did not ride himself, and felt nervous or perhaps a little jealous when his wife was on horseback.

she was still very pretty of course — though by daylight the fine bloom of her cheeks began to break up into a network of tiny veins — and her fair, smooth brow bore no trace of the tragedy she has gone through. the double tragedy; for, soon after the master of dandaloo’s death in a melbourne lunatic asylum, the little son of the house had died, not yet fourteen years of age, in an inebriate’s home. far was it from mary to wish her friend to brood or repine; but to have ceased to remember as utterly as agnes had done had something callous about it; and, in her own heart, mary devoted a fresh regret to the memory of the poor little stepchild of fate.

the ball for which all these silken niceties were destined had been organised to raise funds for a public monument to the two explorers, burke and wills, and was to be one of the grandest ever given in ballarat. his excellency the governor would, it was hoped, be present in person; the ladies had taken extraordinary pains with their toilettes. and there had been the usual grumblings at expense on the part of the husbands — though not a man but wished and privately expected his wife “to take the shine out of all the rest.”

mary had besought richard to keep that evening free — it was her lot always to go out to entertainments under some one else’s wing — and he had promised to do his utmost. but, a burnt child in this respect, mary said she would believe it when she saw it; and the trend of events justified her scepticism. the night arrived; she was on the point of adjusting her wreath of forget-me-nots before her candle-lit mirror, when the dreaded summons came. mahony had to change and hurry off, without a moment’s delay.

“send for purdy. he’ll see you across,” he said as he banged the front door.

but mary despatched the gardener at a run with a note to tilly ocock, who, she knew, would make room for her in her double-seated buggy.

grindle got out, and mary, her bunchy skirts held to her, took his place at the back beside mrs. amelia. tilly sat next the driver, and talked to them over her shoulder — a great big jolly rattle of a woman, who ruled her surroundings autocratically.

“lor, no — we left ’im counting eggs,” she answered an inquiry on mary’s part. “pa’s got a brood of cochin chinas that’s the pride and glory of ‘is heart. and ‘e’s built ‘imself the neatest little place for ’em you could meet on a summer’s day: you must come over and admire it, my dear — that’ll please ’im, no end. it was a condition i made for ‘is going on keeping fowls. they were a perfect nuisance, all over the garden and round the kitchen and the back, till it wasn’t safe to put your foot down anywhere — fowls are such messy things! at last i up and said i wouldn’t have it any longer. so then ‘e and tom set to work and built themselves a fowl-house and a run. and there they spend their days thinking out improvements.”

here tilly gave the driver a cautionary dig with her elbow; as she did this, an under-pocket chinked ominously. “look out now, davy, what you’re doing with us!— yes, that’s splosh, mary. i always bring a bag of change with me, my dear, so that those who lose shan’t have an excuse for not paying up.” tilly was going to pass her evening, as usual, at the card-table. “well, i hope you two’ll enjoy yourselves. remember now, mrs. grindle, if you please, that you’re a married woman and must behave yourself, and not go in for any high jinks,” she teased her prim little stepdaughter, as they dismounted from the conveyance and stood straightening their petticoats at the entrance to the hall.

“you know, matilda, i do not intend to dance to-night,” said mrs amelia in her sedate fashion: it was as if she sampled each word before parting with it.

“oh, i know, bless you! and know why, too. if only it’s not another false alarm! poor old pa’ so like to have a grandchild ‘e was allowed to carry round. ‘e mustn’n go near henry’s, of course, for fear the kid ‘ud swallow one of ‘is dropped aitches and choke over it.” and tilly threw back her head and laughed. “but you must hurry up, mely, you know, if you want to oblige ’im.”

“really, tilly!” expostulated mary. (“she sometimes does go too far,” she thought to herself. “the poor little woman!”) “let us two keep together,” she said as she took amelia’s arm. “i don’t intend to dance much either, as my husband isn’t here.”

but once inside the gaily decorated hall, she found it impossible to keep her word. even on her way to a seat beside agnes ocock she was repeatedly stopped, and, when she sat down, up came first one, then another, to “request the pleasure.” she could not go on refusing everybody: if she did, it would look as if she deliberately set out to be peculiar — a horrible thought to mary. besides, many of those who made their bow were important, influential gentlemen; for richard’s sake she must treat them politely.

for his sake, again, she felt pleased; rightly or wrongly she put the many attentions shown her down to the fact of her being his wife. so she turned and offered apologies to agnes and amelia, feeling at the same time thankful that richard had not mr. henry’s jealous disposition. there sat agnes, looking as pretty as a picture, and was afraid to dance with any one but her own husband. and he preferred to play at cards!

“i think, dear, you might have ventured to accept the archdeacon for a quadrille,” she whispered behind her fan, as agnes regretfully declined mr. long.

but agnes shook her head. “it’s better not, mary. it saves trouble afterwards. henry doesn’t care to see it.” perhaps agnes herself, once a passionate dancer, was growing a little too comfortable, thought mary, as her own programme wandered from hand to hand.

among the last to arrive was purdy, red with haste, and making a great thump with his lame leg as he crossed the floor.

“i’m beastly late, polly. what have you got left for me?”

“why, really nothing, purdy. i thought you weren’t coming. but you may put your name down here if you like,” and mary handed him her programme with her thumb on an empty space: she generally made a point of sitting out a dance with purdy that he might not feel neglected; and of late she had been especially careful not to let him notice any difference in her treatment of him. but when he gave back the card she found that he had scribbled his initials in all three blank lines. “oh, you mustn’t do that. i’m saving those for richard.”

“our dance, i believe, mrs. mahony?” said a deep voice as the band struck up “the rat quadrilles.” and, swaying this way and that in her flounced blue tarletan, mary rose, put her hand within the proffered crook, and went off with the police magistrate, an elderly greybeard; went to walk or be teetotumed through the figures of the dance, with the supremely sane unconcern that she displayed towards all the arts.

“what odd behaviour!” murmured mrs. henry, following purdy’s retreating form with her eyes. “he took no notice of us whatever. and did you see, amelia, how he stood and stared after mary? quite rudely, i thought.”

here mrs. grindle was forced to express an opinion of her own — always a trial for the nervous little woman. “i think it’s because dear mary looks so charming to-night, agnes,” she ventured in her mouselike way. then moved up to make room for archdeacon long, who laid himself out to entertain the ladies.

* * * * *

it was after midnight when mahony reached home. he would rather have gone to bed, but having promised mary to put in an appearance, he changed and walked down to the town.

the ball was at its height. he skirted the rotating couples, seeking mary. friends hailed him.

“ah, well done, doctor!”

“still in time for a spin, sir.”

“have you seen my wife?”

“indeed and i have. mrs. mahony’s the belle o’ the ball.”

“pleased to hear it. where is she now?”

“look here, mahony, we’ve had a reg’lar dispute,” cried willie urquhart pressing up; he was flushed and decidedly garrulous. “almost came to blows we did, over whose was the finest pair o’ shoulders — your wife’s or henry o.‘s. i plumped for mrs. m., and i b’lieve she topped the poll. by jove! that blue gown makes ’em look just like . . . what shall i say? . . . like marble.”

“does fortune smile?” asked mahony of henry ocock as he passed the card-players: he had cut urquhart short with a nod. “so his excellency didn’t turn up, after all?”

“sent a telegraphic communication at the last moment. no, i haven’t seen her. but stay, there’s matilda wanting to speak to you, i believe.”

tilly was making all manner of signs to attract his attention.

“good evening, doctor. yes, i’ve a message. you’ll find ‘er in the cloakroom. she’s been in there for the last half-‘our or so. i think she’s got the headache or something of that sort, and is waiting for you to take ‘er home.”

“oh, thank goodness, there you are, richard!” cried mary as he opened the door of the cloakroom; and she rose from the bench on which she had been sitting with her shawl wrapped round her. “i thought you’d never come.” she was pale, and looked distressed.

“why, what’s wrong, my dear? . . . feeling faint?” asked mahony incredulously. “if so, you had better wait for the buggy. it won’t be long now; you ordered it for two o’clock.”

“no, no, i’m not ill, i’d rather walk,” said mary breathlessly. “only please let us get away. and without making a fuss.”

“but what’s the matter?”

“i’ll tell you as we go. no, these boots won’t hurt. and i can walk in them quite well. fetch your own things, richard.” her one wish was to get her husband out of the building.

they stepped into the street; it was a hot night and very dark. in her thin satin dancing-boots, mary leaned heavily on richard’s arm, as they turned off the street-pavements into the unpaved roads.

mahony let the lights of the main street go past; then said: “and now, madam wife, you’ll perhaps be good enough to enlighten me as to what all this means?”

“yes, dear, i will,” answered mary obediently. but her voice trembled; and mahony was sharp of hearing.

“why, polly sweetheart . . . surely nothing serious?”

“yes, it is. i’ve had a very unpleasant experience this evening, richard — very unpleasant indeed. i hardly know how to tell you. i feel so upset.”

“come — out with it!”

in a low voice, with downcast eyes, mary told her story. all had gone well till about twelve o’clock: she had danced with this partner and that, and thoroughly enjoyed herself. then came purdy’s turn. she was with mrs. long when he claimed her, and she at once suggested that they should sit out the dance on one of the settees placed round the hall, where they could amuse themselves by watching the dancers. but purdy took no notice —“he was strange in his manner from the very beginning” — and led her into one of the little rooms that opened off the main body of the hall.

“and i didn’t like to object. we were conspicuous enough as it was, his foot made such a bumping noise; it was worse than ever to-night, i thought.”

for the same reason, though she had felt uncomfortable at being hidden away in there, she had not cared to refuse to stay: it seemed to make too much of the thing. besides, she hoped some other couple would join them. but

“but, mary. . .!” broke from mahony; he was blank and bewildered.

purdy, however, had got up after a moment or two and shut the door. and then —“oh, it’s no use, richard, i can’t tell you!” said poor mary. “i don’t know how to get the words over my lips. i think i’ve never felt so ashamed in all my life.” and, worn out by the worry and excitement she had gone through, and afraid, in advance, of what she had still to face, mary began to cry.

mahony stood still; let her arm drop. “do you mean me to understand,” he demanded, as if unable to believe his ears: “to understand that purdy. . . dared to. . . that he dared to behave to you in any but a —” and since mary was using her pocket-handkerchief and could not reply: “good god! has the fellow taken leave of his senses? is he mad? was he drunk? answer me! what does it all mean?” and mary still continuing silent, he threw off the hand she had replaced on his arm. “then you must walk home alone. i’m going back to get at the truth of this.”

but mary clung to him. “no, no, you must hear the whole story first.” anything rather than let him return to the hall. yes, at first she thought he really had gone mad. “i can’t tell you what i felt, richard . . . knowing it was purdy — just purdy. to see him like that — looking so horrible — and to have to listen to the dreadful things he said! yes, i’m sure he had had too too much to drink. his breath smelt so.” she had tried to pull away her hands; but he had held her, had put his arms round her.

at the anger she felt racing through her husband she tightened her grip, stringing meanwhile phrase to phrase with the sole idea of getting him safely indoors. not till they were shut in the bedroom did she give the most humiliating detail of any: how, while she was still struggling to free herself from purdy’s embrace, the door had opened and mr. grindle looked in. “he drew back at once, of course. but it was awful, richard! i turned cold. it seemed to give me more strength, though. i pulled myself away and got out of the room, i don’t know how. my wreath was falling off. my dress was crumpled. nothing would have made me go back to the ballroom. i couldn’t have faced amelia’s husband — i think i shall never be able to face him again,” and mary’s tears flowed anew.

richard was stamping about the room, aimlessly moving things from their places. “god almighty! he shall answer to me for this. i’ll go back and take a horsewhip with me.”

“for my sake, don’t have a scene with him. it would only make matters worse,” she pleaded.

but richard strode up and down, treading heedlessly on the flouncings of her dress. “what?— and let him believe such behaviour can go unpunished? that whenever it pleases him, he can insult my wife — insult my wife? make her the talk of the place? brand her before the whole town as a light woman?”

“oh, not the whole town, richard. i shall have to explain to amelia. . . and tilly . . . and agnes — that’s all,” sobbed mary in parenthesis.

“yes, and i ask if it’s a dignified or decent thing for you to have to do?— to go running round assuring your friends of your virtue!” cried richard furiously. “let me tell you this, my dear: at whatever door you knock, you’ll be met by disbelief. fate played you a shabby trick when it allowed just that low cad to put his head in. what do you think would be left of any woman’s reputation after grindle esquire had pawed it over? no, mary, you’ve been rendered impossible; and you’ll be made to feel it for the rest of your days. people will point to you as the wife who takes advantage of her husband’s absence to throw herself into another man’s arms; and to me as the convenient husband who provides the opportunity”— and mahony groaned. in an impetuous flight of fancy he saw his good name smirched, his practice laid waste.

mary lifted her head at this, and wiped her eyes. “oh, you always paint everything so black. people know me — know i would never, never do such a thing.”

“unfortunately we live among human beings, my dear, not in a community of saints! but what does a good woman know of how a slander of this kind clings?”

“but if i have a perfectly clear conscience?” mary’s tone was incredulous, even a trifle aggrieved.

“it spells ruin all the same in a hole like this, if it once gets about.”

“but it shan’t. i’ll put my pride in my pocket and go to amelia the first thing in the morning. i’ll make it right somehow.— but i must say, richard, in the whole affair i don’t think you feel a bit sorry for me. or at least only for me as your wife. the horridest part of what happened was mine, not yours — and i think you might show a little sympathy.”

“i’m too furious to feel sorry,” replied richard with gaunt truthfulness, still marching up and down.

“well, i do,” said mary with a spice of defiance. “in spite of everything, i feel sorry that any one could so far forget himself as purdy did to-night.”

“you’ll be telling me next you have warmer feelings still for him!” burst out mahony. “sorry for the crazy lunatic who, after all these years, after all i’ve done for him and the trust i’ve put in him, suddenly falls to making love to the woman who bears my name? why, a madhouse is the only place he’s fit for.”

“there you’re unjust. and wrong, too. it . . . it wasn’t as sudden as you think. purdy has been queer in his behaviour for quite a long time now.”

“what in heaven’s name do you mean by that?”

“i mean what i say,” said mary staunchly, though she turned a still deeper red. “oh, you might just as well be angry with yourself for being so blind and stupid.”

“do you mean to tell me you were aware of something?” mahony stopped short in his perambulations and fixed her, open-mouthed.

“i couldn’t help it.— not that there was much to know, richard. and i thought of coming to you about it — indeed i did. i tried to, more than once. but you were always so busy; i hadn’t the heart to worry you. for i knew very well how upset you would be.”

“so it comes to this, does it?” said mahony with biting emphasis. “my wife consents to another man paying her illicit attentions behind her husband’s back!”

“oh, no, no, no! but i knew how fond you were of purdy. and i always hoped it would blow over without . . . without coming to anything.”

“god forgive me!” cried mahony passionately. “it takes a woman’s brain to house such a preposterous idea.”

“oh, i’m not quite the fool you make me out to be, richard. i’ve got some sense in me. but it’s always the same. i think of you, and you think of no one but yourself. i only wanted to spare you. and this is the thanks i get for it.” and sitting down on the side of the bed she wept bitterly.

“will you assure me, madam, that till to-night nothing i could have objected to has ever passed between you?”

“no, richard, i won’t! i won’t tell you anything else. you get so angry you don’t know what you’re saying. and if you can’t trust me better than that — purdy said to-night you didn’t understand me. . . and never had.”

“oh, he did, did he? there we have it! now i’ll know every word the scoundrel has ever said to you — and if i have to drag it from you by force.”

but mary set her lips, with an obstinacy that was something quite new in her. it first amazed mahony, then made him doubly angry. one word gave another; for the first time in their married lives they quarrelled — quarrelled hotly. and, as always at such times, many a covert criticism a secret disapproval which neither had ever meant to breathe to the other, slipped out and added fuel to the fire. it was appalling to both to find on how many points they stood at variance.

some half hour later, leaving mary still on the edge of the bed, still crying, mahony stalked grimly into the surgery and taking pen and paper scrawled, without even sitting down to do it:

you damned scoundrel! if ever you show your face here again, i’ll thrash you to within an inch of your life.

then he stepped on to the verandah and crossed the lawn, carrying the letter in his hand.

but already his mood was on the turn: it seemed as if, in the physical effort of putting the words to paper, his rage had spent itself. he was conscious now of a certain limpness, both of mind and body; his fit of passion over, he felt dulled, almost indifferent to what had happened. now, too, another feeling was taking possession of him, opening up vistas of a desert emptiness that he hardly dared to face.

but stay! . . . was that not a movement in the patch of blackness under the fig-tree? had not something stirred there? he stopped, and strained his eyes. no, it was only a bough that swayed in the night air. he went out of the garden to the corner of the road and came back empty handed. but at the same spot he hesitated, and peered. “who’s there?” he asked sharply. and again: “is there any one there?” but the silence remained unbroken; and once more he saw that the shifting of a branch had misled him.

mary was moving about the bedroom. he ought to go to her and ask pardon for his violence. but he was not yet come to a stage when he felt equal to a reconciliation; he would rest for a while, let his troubled balance right itself. and so he lay down on the surgery sofa, and drew a rug over him.

he closed his eyes, but could not sleep. his thoughts raced and flew; his brain hunted clues and connections. he found himself trying to piece things together; to fit them in, to recollect. and every now and then some sound outside would make him start up and listen . . . and listen. was that not a footstep? . . . the step of one who might come feeling his way. . . dim-eyed with regret? there were such things in life as momentary lapses, as ungovernable impulses — as fiery contrition . . . the anguish of remorse. and yet, once more, he sat up and listened till his ears rang.

then, not the ghostly footsteps of a delusive hope, but a hard, human crunching that made the boards of the verandah shake. tossing off the opossum-rug, which had grown unbearably heavy, he sprang to his feet; was wide awake and at the window, staring sleep-charged into the dawn, before a human hand had found the night-bell and a distracted voice cried:

“does a doctor live here? a doctor, i say . . .?”