Australia Felix.....................................................................................................................................................1

ON the summit of one of the clay heaps, a woman shot into silhouette against the sky. An odd figure, clad in

a skimpy green petticoat, with a scarlet shawl held about her shoulders, wisps of frowsy red hair standing out

round her head, she balanced herself on the slippery earth, spinning her arm like the vane of a windmill, and

It was as if, with these words, she had dropped a live shell in the diggers' midst. A general stampede ensued;

in which the cry was caught up, echoed and reechoed, till the whole Flat rang with the name of "Joe." Tools

were dropped, cradles and tubs abandoned, windlasses left to kick their cranks backwards. Many of the

workers took to their heels; others, in affright, scuttled aimlessly hither and thither, like barnyard fowls in a

panic. Summoned by shouts of: "Up with you, boys! the traps are here!" numbers ascended from below to

see the fun, while as many went hurriedly down to hiding in drive or chamber. Even those diggers who could

pat the pocket in which their licence lay ceased work, and stood about with sullen faces to view the course of

events. Only the group of Chinamen washing tailheaps remained unmoved. One of them, to whom the

warning woman belonged, raised his head and called a Chinese word at her; she obeyed it instantly, vanished

into thin air; the rest went impassively on with their fossicking. They were not such fools as to try to cheat the

Government of its righteous dues. None but had his licence safely folded in his nosecloth, and thrust inside

Through the labyrinth of tents and mounds, a goldlaced cap could be seen approaching; then a goldtressed

jacket came into view, the white star on the forehead of a mare. Behind the Commissioner, who rode down

thus from the Camp, came the members of his staff; these again were followed by a body of mounted

troopers. They drew rein on the slope, and simultaneously a line of foot police, backed by a detachment of

On the appearance of the enemy the babel redoubled. There were groans and catcalls. Along with the

derisive "Joeys!" the rebel diggers hurled any term of abuse that came to their lips.

"The dolly mops! The skunks! The bushrangers! Oh, damn 'em, damn 'em! . . . damn their bloody eyes!"

The Commissioner, a horsefaced, solemn man with brown side whiskers, let the reins droop on his mare's

neck and sat unwinking in the tumult. His mien was copied by his staff. Only one of them, a very young boy

who was new to the colony and his post, changed colour under his gaudy cap, went from white to pink and

from pink to white again; while at each fresh insult he gave a perceptible start, and gazed dumbfounded at his

The "bloodhounds" had begun to track their prey. Rounding up, with a skill born of long practice, they drove

the diggers before them towards the centre of the Flat. Here they passed from group to group and from hole to

hole, calling for the production of licences with an insolence that made its object see red. They were nice of

scent, too, and, nine times in ten, pounced on just those unfortunates who, through carelessness, or lack of

means, or on political grounds, had failed to take out the month's licence to dig for gold. Every few minutes

one or another was marched off between two constables to the Government Camp, for fine or imprisonment.

Now it was that it suddenly entered Long Jim's head to cut and run. Up till now he had stood declaring

himself a freeborn Briton, who might be drawn and quartered if he ever again paid the blasted taX. But, as

the police came closer, a spear of fright pierced his befuddled brain, and inside a breath he was off and away.

Had the abruptness of his start not given him a slight advantage, he would have been caught at once. As it

was, the chase would not be a long one; the clumsy, stiffjointed man slithered here and stuck fast there,

dodging obstacles with an awkwardness that was painful to see. He could be heard sobbing and cursing as he

At this point the Commissioner, half turning, signed to the troopers in his rear. Six or seven of them shook up

their bridles and rode off, their scabbards clinking, to prevent the fugitive's escape.

A howl of contempt went up from the crowd. The pink and white subaltern made what was almost a

It was too much for Long Jim's last mate, the youthful blackbeard who had pluckily descended the shaft after

the accident. He had been standing on a mound with a posse of others, following the manhunt. At his

partner's crackbrained dash for the open, his snorts of indignation found words. "Gawblimy! . . . is the old

fool gone dotty?" Then he drew a whistling breath. "No, it's more than flesh and blood . . . . Stand back,

boys!" And though he was as little burdened with a licence as the man under pursuit, he shouted: "Help, help!

. . . for God's sake, don't let 'em have me!" shot down the slope, and was off like the wind.

His foxly object was attained. The attention of the hunters was diverted. Long Jim, seizing the moment,

The younger man ran with the lightness of a hare. He had also the hare's address in doubling and turning. His

pursuers never knew, did he pass from sight behind a covert of tents and mounds, where he would bob up

next. He avoided shafts and pools as if by a miracle; ran along greasy planks without a slip; and, where these

had been removed to balk the police, he jumped the holes, taking risks that were not for a sane man. Once he

fell, but, enslimed from head to foot, wringing wet and hatless, was up again in a twinkling. His enemies

were less surefooted than he, and times without number measured their length on the oily ground. Still, one

of them was gaining rapidly on him, a giant of a fellow with long thin legs; and soon the constable's foot

filled the prints left by the young man's, while these were still warm. It was a fine run. The diggers trooped

after in a body; the Flat rang with cheers and plaudits. Even the Commissioner and his retinue trotted in the

same direction. Eventually the runaway must land in the arms of the mounted police.

But this was not his plan. Making as though he headed for the open, he suddenly dashed off at right angles,

and, with a final sprint, brought up dead against a logandcanvas store which stood on rising ground. His

adversary was so close behind that a collision resulted; the digger's feet slid from under him, he fell on his

face, the other on top. In their fall they struck a huge pillar of tindishes, ingeniously built up to the height of

the store itself. This toppled over with a crash, and the dishes went rolling down the slope between the legs of

the police. The dog chained to the flagstaff all but strangled himself in his rage and excitement; and the

The digger adroitly rolled his captor over, and there they both sat, side by side on the ground, one gripping

the other's collar, both too blown to speak. A cordon of puffing constables hemmed them in.

He got on his feet as bidden; but awkwardly, for it appeared that in falling he had hurt his ankle. Behind the

police were massed the diggers. These opened a narrow alley for the Camp officials to ride through, but their

attitude was hostile, and there were cries of: "Leave 'im go, yer blackguards! . . . after sich a run! None o yer

bloody quod for 'im!" along with other, more threatening expressions. Sombre and taciturn, the

"Well, so long, Dick!" said the culprit jauntily; and, as he offered his wrists to be handcuffed, he whistled an

Here the storekeeper hurriedly interposed: "No, stop! I'll give bail." And darting into the tent and out again,

he counted five onepound notes into the constable's palm. The lad's collar was released; and a murmur of

At the sound the giver made as if to retire. Then, yielding to a second thought, he stepped forward and saluted

the Commissioner. "A young hothead, sir! He means no harm. I'll send him up in the morning, to

But the Chief refused to be placated. "Good day, doctor," he said shortly, and with his staff at heel trotted

down the slope, followed till out of earshot by a mocking fire of "Joes." Lingering in the rear, the youthful

The raid was over for that day. The crowd dispersed; its members became orderly, hardworking men once

more. The storekeeper hushed his frantic dog, and called his assistant to rebuild the pillar of tins.

The young digger sat down on the log that served for a bench, and examined his foot. He pulled and pulled,

causing himself great pain, but could not get his boot off. At last, looking back over his shoulder he cried

impatiently: "Dick!... I say, Dick Mahony! Give us a drink, old boy! . . . I'm deadbeat."

At this the storekeeper a tall, slenderly built man of some seven or eight and twenty appeared, bearing

"Oh, bah!" said the lad, when he found that the jug held only water. And, on his friend reminding him that he

might by now have been sitting in the lockup, he laughed and winked. "I knew you'd go bail."

"Faith, Dick, and d'ye think I didn't see how your hand itched for your pocket?"

The man he called Mahony flushed above his fair beard. It was true: he had made an involuntary movement

of the hand checked for the rest halfway, by the knowledge that the pocket was empty. He looked

"Don't be afraid, I'll pay you back soon's ever me ship comes home," went on the young scapegrace, who

very well knew how to play his cards. At his companion's heated disclaimer, however, he changed his tone. "I

The elder man bent over the injury. He ceased to show displeasure. "Purdy, you young fool, when will you

"Well, they shouldn't hunt old women, then the swine!" gave back Purdy; and told his tale. "Oh, lor! there

go six canaries." For, at his wincing and shrinking, his friend had taken a penknife and ripped up the

When it had been washed and bandaged, its owner stretched himself on the ground, his head in the shade of a

Some halfahundred customers came and went. The greater number of them were earthstained diggers,

who ran up for, it might be, a missing tool, or a hide bucket, or a coil of rope. They spat jets of tobaccojuice,

were richly profane, paid, where coin was scarce, in golddust from a matchbox, and hurried back to work.

But there also came old harridans as often as not, diggers themselves whose language outdid that of

the males, and dirty Irish mothers; besides a couple of the white women who inhabited the Chinese quarter.

One of these was in liquor, and a great hullabaloo took place before she could be got rid of. Put out, she stood

in front of the tent, her hair hanging down her back, cursing and reviling. Respectable women as well did an

afternoon's shopping there. In no haste to be gone, they sat about on empty boxes or upturned barrels

exchanging confidences, while weary children plucked at their skirts. A party of youngsters entered, the

tallest of whom could just see over the counter, and called for shandygaffs. The assistant was for chasing

them off, with hard words. But the storekeeper put, instead, a stick of barleysugar into each dirty,

outstretched hand, and the imps retired well content. On their heels came a digger and his ladylove to

choose a weddingoutfit; and all the gaudy finery the store held was displayed before them. A red velvet

dress flounced with satin, a pink gauze bonnet, white satin shoes and white silk stockings met their fancy.

The dewylipped, smuttylashed Irish girl blushed and dimpled, in consulting with the shopman upon the

stays in which to lace her ample figure; the digger, whose very pores oozed gold, planked down handfuls of

dust and nuggets, and brushed aside a neat Paisley shawl for one of yellow satin, the fellow to which he

swore to having seen on the back of the Governor's lady herself. He showered brandysnaps on the children,

and bought a polkajacket for a shabby old woman. Then, producing a bottle of champagne from a sack he

bore, he called on those present to give him, after: "'Er most Gracious little Majesty, God bless 'er!" the: "'Oly

estate of materimony!" The empty bottle smashed for luck, the couple departed arminarm, carrying their

purchases in the sack; and the rest of the company trooped to the door with them, to wish them joy.

Within the narrow confines of the tent, where redherrings trailed over moleskinshorts, and East India

pickles and Hessian boots lay on the top of sugar and messpork; where cheeses rubbed shoulders with

tallow candles, blue and red serge shirts, and captain's biscuits; where onions, and guernseys, and sardines,

fine combs, cigars and bear'sgrease, Windsor soap, tinned coffee and hair oil, revolvers, shovels and Oxford

shoes, lay in one grand miscellany: within the crowded store, as the afternoon wore on, the air grew rank and

oppressive. Precisely at six o'clock the bar was let down across the door, and the storekeeper withdrew to his

livingroom at the back of the tent. Here he changed his coat and meticulously washed his hands, to which

clung a subtle blend of all the strongsmelling goods that had passed through them. Then, coming round to

the front, he sat down on the log and took out his pipe. He made a point, no matter how brisk trade was, of

He sat and puffed, tranquilly. It was a fine night. The first showy splendour of sunset had passed; but the

upper sky was still aflush with colour. And in the centre of this frail cloud, which faded as he watched it,

WITH the passing of a cooler air the sleeper wakened and rubbed his eyes. Letting his injured leg lie

undisturbed, he drew up the other knee and buckled his hands round it. In this position he sat and talked.

He was a dark, freshcoloured young man, of middle height, and broadly built. He had large white teeth of a

kind to crack nuts with, and the full, wide, flexible mouth that denotes the generous talker.

"What a windbag it is, to be sure!" thought his companion, as he smoked and listened, in a gently ironic

silence, to abuse of the Government. He knew or thought he knew young Purdy inside out.

But behind all the froth of the boy's talk there lurked, it seemed, a purpose. No sooner was a meal of cold

chop and tea over than Purdy declared his intention of being present at a meeting of malcontent diggers. Nor

His friend reluctantly agreed to lend him an arm. But he could not refrain from taking the lad to task for

getting entangled in the political imbroglio. "When, as you know, it's just a kind of sport to you."

Purdy sulked for a few paces, then burst out: "If only you weren't so damned detached, Dick Mahony!"

The two men picked their steps across the Flat and up the opposite hillside, young Purdy Smith limping and

leaning heavy, his lame foot thrust into an old slipper. He was at all times hailfellowwellmet with the

world. Now, in addition, his plucky exploit of the afternoon blazed its way through the settlement; and

blarney and bravos rained upon him. "Golly for you, Purdy, old 'oss!" "Showed 'em the diggers' flag, 'e did!"

"What'll you take, me buck? Come on in for a drop o' the real stripmedownnaked!" Even a weary old

strumpet, propping herself against the doorway of a dancingsaloon, waved a tipsy hand and cried: "Arrah,

an' is it yerrself, Purrdy, me bhoy? Shure an' it's bussin' ye I'd be afther if me legs would carry me!" And

Purdy laughed, and relished the honey, and had an answer pat for everybody especially the women. His

companion on the other hand was greeted with a glibness that had something perfunctory in it, and no touch

The big canvas tent on Bakery Hill, where the meeting was to be held, was already lighted; and at the tinkle

of a bell the diggers, who till then had stood cracking and hobnobbing outside, began to push for the entrance.

The bulk of them belonged to the race that is quickest to resent injustice were Irish. After them in number

came the Germans, swaggering and voluble; and the inflammable French, English, Scotch and Americans

At the end of the tent a rough platform had been erected, on which stood a row of cane seats. In the body of

the hall, the benches were formed of boards, laid from one upturned keg or tub to another. The chair was

taken by a local auctioneer, a cadaverouslooking man, with never a twinkle in his eye, who, in a lengthy

discourse and with the single monotonous gesture of beating the palm of one hand with the back of the other,

strove to bring home to his audience the degradation of their present political status. The diggers chewed and

spat, and listened to his periods with sangfroid: the shame of their state did not greatly move them. They

followed, too, with composure, the rehearsal of their general grievances. As they were aware, said the

speaker, the Legislative Council of Victoria was made up largely of Crown nominees; in the election of

members the goldseeking population had no voice whatsoever. This was a scandalous thing; for the digging

constituent outnumbered all the rest of the population put together, thus forming what he would call the

backbone and mainstay of the colony. The labour of their hands had raised the colony to its present pitch of

prosperity. And yet these same bold and hardy pioneers were held incapable of deciding jot or tittle in the

public affairs of their adopted home. Still unmoved, the diggers listened to this recital of their virtues. But

when one man, growing weary of the speaker's unctuous wordiness, discharged a fierce: "Why the hell don't

yer git on to the bloody licencetax?" the audience was fire and flame in an instant. A riotous noise ensued;

rough throats rang changes on the question. Order restored, it was evident that the speech was over. Thrown

violently out of his concept, the auctioneer struck and struck at his palm in vain; nothing would come. So,

making the best of a bad job, he irately sat down in favour of his successor on the programme.

This speaker did not fare much better. The assemblage, roused now, jolly and merciless, was not disposed to

give quarter; and his obtuseness in dawdling over such highflown notions as that population, not property,

formed the basis of representative government, reaped him a harvest of boos and groans. This was not what

the diggers had come out to hear. And they were as direct as children in their demand for the gist of the

"A reglar ol' shicer!" was the unanimous opinion, expressed without scruple. While from the back of the

Next on the list was a German, a ruddyfaced man with muttonchop whiskers and prominent, watery eyes.

He could not manage the letter "r." In the body of a word where it was negligible, he rolled it out as though it

stood three deep. Did he tackle it as an initial, on the other hand, his tongue seemed to cleave to his palate,

and to yield only an "l." This quaint defect caused some merriment at the start, but was soon eclipsed by a

more striking oddity. The speaker had the habit of, aS it were, creaking with his nose. After each few

sentences he paused, to give himself time to produce something between a creak and a snore an abortive

But the German was not sensitive to ridicule. He had something to say, and he was there to say it. Fixing his

fishlike eyes on a spot high up the tent wall, he kept them pinned to it, while he mouthed out

bloodandthunder invectives. He was, it seemed, a redhot revolutionist; a fierce denouncer of British rule.

He declared the British monarchy to be an effete institution; the fetish of British freedom to have been

"exbloded" long ago. What they needed, in this grand young country of theirs, was a "republic"; they must rid

themselves of those shackles that had been forged in the days when men were slaves. It was his sound

conviction that before many weeks had passed, the Union Jack would have been hauled down for ever, and

the glorious Southern Cross would wave in its stead, over a free Australia. The day on which this happened

would be a nevertobeforgotten date in the annals of the country. For what, he would like to know, had the

British flag ever done for freedom, at any time in the world's history? They should read in their

schoolbooks, and there they would learn that wherever a people had risen against their tyrants, the Union

Jack had waved, not over them, but over the British troops sent to stamp the rising out.

This was more than Mahony could stomach. Flashing up from his seat, he strove to assert himself above the

hum of agreement that mounted from the foreign contingent, and the doubtful sort of grumble by which the

"Mr. Chairman! Gentlemen!" he cried in a loud voice. "I call upon those loyal subjects of her Majesty who

are present here, to join with me in giving three cheers for the British flag. Hip, hip, hurrah! And, again, hip,

His compatriots followed him, though flabbily; and he continued to make himself heard above the shouts of

"Mr. Chairman! I appeal to you. Are we Britons to sit still and hear our country's flag reviled? that flag

which has ensured us the very liberty we are enjoying this evening. The gentleman who has been pleased to

slander it is not, I believe, a British citizen. Now, I put it to him: is there another country on the face of the

earth, that would allow people of all nations to flock into a goldbearing colony on terms of perfect equality

with its own subjects? to flock in, take all they can get, and then make off with it?" a point of view that

elicited forcible grunts of assent, which held their own against hoots and hisses. Unfortunately the speaker

did not stop here, but went on: "Gentlemen! Do not, I implore you, allow yourselves to be led astray by a

handful of ungrateful foreigners, who have received nothing but benefits from our Crown. What you need,

gentlemen, is not revolution, but reform; not strife and bloodshed, but a liberty consistent with law and order.

"Not so much gentlemening, if you please!" said a sinisterlooking man, who might have been a

"Am I then to believe, sir, what I frequently hear asserted, that there are no gentlemen left on the diggings?"

("Oh lor, Dick!" said Purdy. He was sitting with his elbows on his knees, clutching his cheeks as though he

"Believe what yer bloody well like!" retorted the Vandemonian fiercely. "But don't come 'ere and interrupt

" who call yourselves British subjects, letting yourselves be led by the nose, like the sheep you are, by a

"Here, let me," said Purdy. And pushing his way along the bench he hobbled to the platform, where several

There he stood, fronting the violent commotion that had ensued on his friend's last words; stood bedraggled,

mudstained, bandaged, his cabbagetree hat in his hand. And Mahony, still on his feet, angrily erect,

thought he understood why the boy had refused to wash himself clean, or to change his dress: he had no

Purdy waited for the hubbub to die down. As if by chance he had rested his hand on the bell; its provoking

tinkle ceased. Now he broke into one of the frank and hearty smiles that never fail to conciliate.

The strongly spoken words induced an abrupt lull. The audience turned to him, still thorny and sulky it was

true, but yet they turned; and one among them demanded a hearing for the youngster.

"Brother diggers! We are met here tonight with a single purpose in view. Brother diggers! We are not met

here to throw mud at our dear old country's flag! Nor will we have a word said against her most gracious

Majesty, the Queen. Not us! We're men first, whose business it is to stand up for a gallant little woman, and

diggers with a grievance afterwards. Are you with me, boys? Very well, then. Now we didn't come

here tonight to confab about getting votes, or having a hand in public affairs much as we want 'em both

and mean to have 'em, when the time comes. No, tonight there's only one thing that matters to us, and that's

the repeal of the accursed tax!" Here, such a tempest of applause broke out that he was unable to proceed.

"Yes, I say it again," he went on, when they would let him speak; "the instant repeal! When that's been done,

this curse taken off us, then it'll be time enough to parlezvous about the colour of the flag we mean to have,

and about going shares in the Government. But let me make one thing clear to you. We're neither traitors to

the Crown, nor common rebels. We're trueblue Britons, who have been goaded to rebellion by one of the

vilest pieces of tyranny that ever saw the light. Spies and informers are everywhere about us. Mr.

Commissioner Sleuth and his hounds may cry tallyho every day, if 'tis their pleasure to! To put it shortly,

boys, we're living under semimartial law. To such a state have we freeborn men, men who came out but to

see the elephant, been reduced, by the asinine stupidity of the Government, by the impudence and

knavishness of its officials. Brother diggers! When you leave the hall this evening, look over at the hill on

which the Camp stands! What will you see? You will see a blaze of light, and hear the sounds of revelry by

night. There, boys, hidden from our mortal view, but visible to our mind's eye, sit Charley Joe's minions,

carousing at our expense, washing down each mouthful with good fizz bought with our hardearned gold.

Licencepickings, boys, and tips from new grogshops, and the blasted farce of the Commissariat! We're

But here Mahony gave a loud click of the tongue in the general howl of execration it passed unheard

HE retraced his steps by the safeconduct of a full moon, which showed up the gaping black mouths of

circular shafts and silvered the water that flooded abandoned oblong holes to their brim. Tents and huts stood

white and forsaken in the moonlight: their owners were either gathered on Bakery Hill, or had repaired to one

of the gambling and dancing saloons that lined the main street. Arrived at the store he set his frantic dog free,

He felt annoyed with himself for having helped to swell the crowd of malcontents; and still more for his

foolishness in giving the rein to a momentary irritation. As if it mattered a doit what trash these foreigners

talked! No thinking person took their bombast seriously; the authorities, with great good sense, let it pass for

what it was a noisy blowingoff of steam. At heart, the diggers were as sound as good pippins.

A graver consideration was Purdy's growing fellowship with the rebel faction. The boy was too young and

still too much of a flybynight to have a black mark set against his name. It would be the more absurd,

considering that his sincerity in espousing the diggers' cause was far from proved. He was of a nature to ride

tantivy into anything that promised excitement or adventure. With, it must regretfully be admitted, an

increasing relish for the limelight, for theatrical effect see the cunning with which he had made capital out

of a bandaged ankle and dirty dress! At this rate, and with his engaging ways, he would soon stand for a little

god to the rough, artless crowd. No, he must leave the diggings and Mahony rolled various schemes in his

mind. He had it! In the course of the next week or two business would make a journey to Melbourne

imperative. Well, he would damn the extra expense and take the boy along with him! Purdy was at a loose

end, and would no doubt rise like a fish to a fly at the chance of getting to town free of cost. After all, why be

hard on him? He was not much over twenty, and, at that age, it was natural enough especially in a place

like this for a lad to flit like a butterfly from every cup that took his restless fancy.

Restless? . . . h'm! It was the word Purdy had flung back at him, earlier in the evening. At the time, he had

rebutted the charge, with a glance at fifteen months spent behind the counter of a store. But there was a

modicum of truth in it, none the less. The life one led out here was not calculated to tone down any innate

restlessness of temperament: on the contrary, it directly hindered one from becoming fixed and settled. It was

on a par with the houses you lived in these flimsy tents and draughtriddled cabins you put up with, "for

the time being" was just as much of a makeshift affair as they. Its keynote was change. Fortunes were

made, and lost, and made again, before you could say Jack Robinson; whole townships shot up overnight, to

be deserted the moment the soil ceased to yield; the people you knew were here today, and gone sold up,

burnt out, or dead and buried tomorrow. And so, whether you would or not, your whole outlook became

attuned to the general unrest; you lived in a constant anticipation of what was coming next. Well, he could

own to the weakness with more justification than most. If trade continued to prosper with him as it did at

present, it would be no time before he could sell out and joyfully depart for the old country.

In the meantime, why complain? He had much to be thankful for. To take only a small point: was this not

Saturday night? Tomorrow the store was closed, and a string of congenial occupations offered: from

chopping the week's wood a clean and wholesome task, which he gladly performed through the pages

of an engrossing book to a botanical ramble round old Buninyong. The thought of it cheered him. He stooped

to caress his two cats, which had come out to bear him the mute and pleasant company of their kind.

What a night! The great round silver moon floated serenely through space, dimming the stars as it made

them, and bathing the earth in splendour. It was so light that straight black lines of smoke could be seen

mounting from chimneys and openair fires. The grasstrees which supplied the fuel for these fires spread a

pleasant balsamic odour, and the live red patches contrasted oddly with the pale ardour of the moon. Lights

twinkled over all the township, but were brightest in Main Street, the course of which they followed like a

rope of fireflies, and at the Government Camp on the steep western slope, where no doubt, as young Purdy

had impudently averred, the officials still sat over the dinnertable. It was very quiet no grogshops or

saloonsofentertainment in this neighbourhood, thank goodness! and the hour was still too early for

drunken roisterers to come reeling home. The only sound to be heard was that of a man's voice singing Oft in

the Stilly Night, to the yetching accompaniment of a concertina. Mahony hummed the tune.

But it was growing cold, as the nights were apt to do on this tableland once summer was past. He whistled his

dog, and Pompey hurried out with a guilty air from the back of the house, where the old shaft stood that

served to hold refuse. Mahony put him on the chain, and was just about to turn in when two figures rounded

the corner of a tent and came towards him, pushing their shadows before them on the milkwhite ground.

"'D evenin', doc," said the shorter of the two, a nuggetty little man who carried his arms curved out from his

"Oh, good evening, Mr. Ocock," said Mahony, recognising a neighbour. "Why, Tom, that you? Back

already, my boy?" this to a loutish, looselimbed lad who followed behind. "You don't of course come

"Not me, indeed!" gave back his visitor with gall, and turned his head to spit the juice from a plug. "I've got

suthin' better to do as to listen to a pack o' jabberin' furriners settin' one another by th'ears."

"Nor you, Tom?" Mahony asked the lad, who stood sheepishly shifting his weight from one leg to the other.

"Nay, nor 'im eether," jumped in his father, before he could speak. "I'll 'ave none o' my boys playin' the fool

up there. And that reminds me, doc, young Smith'll git 'imself inter the devil of a mess one o' these days, if

you don't look after 'im a bit better'n you do. I 'eard 'im spoutin' away as I come past usin' language about

Mahony coughed. "He's but young yet," he said drily. "After all, youth's youth, sir, and comes but once in a

"No, by Gawd, you can't!" affirmed his companion. "But I think youth's just a fine name for a sort o' piggish

mess What's the good, one 'ud like to know, of gettin' old, and learnin' wisdom, and knowin' the good from

the bad, when ev'ry lousy young fathead that's born inter the world starts out again to muddle through it for

'imself, in 'is own way. And that things 'as got to go on like this, just the same, for ever and ever why, it

makes me fair tired to think of it. My father didn't 'old with youth: 'e knocked it out of us by thrashin', just

like lyin' and thievin'. And it's the best way, too. Wot's that you say?" he flounced round on the

unoffending Tom. "Nothin'? You was only snifflin', was you? You keep your flytrap shut, my fine fellow,

"Not be 'ard on 'im? When I've got the nasty galoon on me 'ands again like this? Chucks up the good post

I git 'im in Kilmore, without with your leave or by your leave. Too lonely for 'is lordship it was. Missed the

sound o' wimmin's petticoats, 'e did." He turned fiercely on his son. "'Ere, don't you stand starin' there! You

get 'ome, and fix up for the night. Now then, wot are you dawdlin' for, pig'ead?"

The boy slunk away. When he had disappeared, his father again took up the challenge of Mahony's silent

disapproval. "I can't 'ardly bear the sight of 'im, doc. disgracin' me as 'e 'as done. 'Im a father, and not

eighteen till June! A son o' mine, who can't see a wench with 'er bodice open, but wot 'e must be arter 'er....

"Oh! but they're a sore trial to me, these boys, doc. 'Enry's the only one . . . if it weren't for 'Enry Johnny,

'e can't pass the drink, and now 'ere's this young swine started to nose arter the wimmin."

"There's good stuff in the lads, I'm sure of it. They're just sowing their wild oats."

"I tell you what it is, Mr. Ocock, you need a woman about your place, to make it a bit more homelike," said

"Course I do!" agreed Ocock. "And Melia, she'll come out to 'er daddy soon as ever th'ol' woman kicks the

"Well, well!" said Mahony, and rising knocked out his pipe on the log. Did his old neighbour once get

launched on the subject of his wife's failings, there was no stopping him. "We all have our crosses."

"That I 'ave. And I'm keepin' you outer your bed, doc., with me blather. By gum! and that reminds me I

come 'ere special to see you tonight. Bin gettin' a bit moonstruck, I reckon," and he clapped on his hat.

Drawing a sheaf of papers from an inner pocket, he selected one and offered it to Mahony. Mahony led the

For some weeks now he had been awaiting the delivery of a load of goods, the invoice for which had long

since reached him. From this communication, carried by hand, he learnt that the drayman, having got bogged

just beyond Bacchus's marsh, had decamped to the Ovens, taking with him all he could cram into a

springcart, and disposing of the remainder for what he could get. The agent in Melbourne refused to be held

responsible for the loss, and threatened to prosecute, if payment for the goods were not immediately

forthcoming. Mahony, who here heard the first of the affair, was highly indignant at the tone of the letter; and

before he had read to the end resolved to let everything else slide, and to leave for Melbourne early next

Ocock backed him up in this decision, and with the aid of a great quill pen stiffly traced the address of his

Brushing aside his dreams of a peaceful Sabbath Mahony made preparations for his journey. Waking his

assistant, he gave the man a stupid clodhopper, but honest and attached instructions how to manage

during his absence, then sent him to the township to order horses. Himself, he put on his hat and went out to

His search led him through all the drunken revelry of a Saturday night. And it was close on twelve before,

having followed the trace from bowlingalley to Chinese cookshop, from the "Adelphi" to Mother

Flannigan's and haunts still less reputable, he finally succeeded in catching his bird.

THE two young men took to the road betimes: it still wanted some minutes to six on the new clock in the

tower of Bath's Hotel, when they threw their legs over their saddles and rode down the steep slope by the

Camp Reserve. The hoofs of the horses pounded the plank bridge that spanned the Yarrowee, and striking

loose stones, and smacking and sucking in the mud, made a rude clatter in the Sunday quiet.

Having followed for a few hundred yards the wide, rutriddled thoroughfare of Main Street, the riders

branched off to cross rising ground. They proceeded in single file and at a footpace, for the highway had been

honeycombed and rendered unsafe; it also ascended steadily. Just before they entered the bush, which was

alive with the rich, strong whistling of magpies, Purdy halted to look back and wave his hat in farewell.

Mahony also halfturned in the saddle. There it lay the scattered, yet congested, unlovely wood and

canvas settlement that was Ballarat. At this distance, and from this height, it resembled nothing so much as a

collection of child's bricks, tossed out at random over the ground, the low, square huts and cabins that

composed it being all of a shape and size. Some threads of smoke began to mount towards the immense pale

dome of the sky. The sun was catching here the panes of a window, there the tin that encased a primitive

They rode on, leaving the warmth of the early sunrays for the cold blue shadows of the bush. Neither broke

the silence. Mahony's day had not come to an end with the finding of Purdy. Barely stretched on his palliasse

he had been routed out to attend to Long Jim, who had missed his footing and pitched into a shaft. The poor

old tipsy idiot hauled up luckily for him it was a dry, shallow hole there was a broken collarbone to

set. Mahony had installed him in his own bed, and had spent the remainder of the night dozing in a chair.

So now he was heavyeyed, uncommunicative. As they climbed the shoulder and came to the rich, black soil

that surrounded the ancient cone of Warrenheip, he mused on his personal relation to the place he had just

left. And not for the first time he asked himself: what am I doing here? When he was absent from Ballarat,

and could dispassionately consider the life he led there, he was so struck by the incongruity of the thing that,

like the beldame in the nurserytale, he could have pinched himself to see whether he waked or slept. Had

anyone told him, three years previously, that the day was coming when he would weigh out soap and sugar,

and hand them over a counter in exchange for money, he would have held the prophet ripe for Bedlam. Yet

here he was, a fullblown tradesman, and as greedy of gain as any tallowchandler. Extraordinary, aye, and

distressing, too, the ease with which the human organism adapted itself; it was just a case of the green

caterpillar on the green leaf. Well, he could console himself with the knowledge that his apparent submission

was only an affair of the surface. He had struck no roots; and it would mean as little to his halfdozen

acquaintances on Ballarat when he silently vanished from their midst, as it would to him if he never saw one

of them again. Or the country either and he let his eye roam unlovingly over the wild, sadcoloured

Meanwhile they were advancing: their nags' hoofs, beating in unison, devoured mile after mile of the road. It

was a typical colonial road; it went up hill and down dale, turned aside for no obstacles. At one time it ran

down a gully that was almost a ravine, to mount straight up the opposite side among boulders that reached to

the bellybands. At others, it led through a reedy swamp, or a stony watercourse; or it became a bog; or dived

through a creek. Where the ground was flat and treeless, it was a rutty, wellworn track between two seas of

More than once, complaining of a mouth like sawdust, Purdy alighted and limped across the verandah of a

houseofaccommodation; but they did not actually draw rein till, towards midday, they reached a knot of

weatherboard verandahed stores, smithies and publichouses, arranged at the four Corners of two

crossroads. Here they made a substantial luncheon; and the odour of fried onions carried far and wide.

Mahony paid his three shillings for a bottle of ale; but Purdy washed down the steak with cup after cup of

In the early afternoon they set off again, revived and refreshed. Purdy caught at a bunch of aromatic leaves

and burst into a song; and Mahony. . . . Good God! With a cloudless sky overhead, a decent bit of horseflesh

between his knees, and the prospect of a three days' holiday from storekeeping, his name would not have

been what it was if he had for long remained captious, downhearted. Insufficient sleep, and an empty stomach

nothing on earth besides! A fig for his black thoughts! The fact of his being obliged to spend a few years

in the colony would, in the end, profit him, by widening his experience of the world and his fellowmen. It

was possible to lead a sober, Godfearing life, no matter in what rude corner of the globe you were

pitchforked. And in this mood he was even willing to grant the landscape a certain charm. Since leaving

Ballan the road had dipped up and down a succession of swelling rises, grassgrown and untimbered. From

the top of these ridges the view was a far one: you looked straight across undulating waves of country and

intervening forestland, to where, on the horizon, a long, low sprawling range of hills lay blue

cobaltblue, and painted in with a sure brush against the porcelainblue of the sky. What did the

washedout tints of the foliage matter, when, wherever you turned, you could count on getting these

marvellous soft distances, on always finding a range of blueveiled hills, lovely and intangible as a dream?

There was not much traffic to the diggings on a Sunday. And having come to a level bit of ground, the riders

followed a joint impulse and broke into a canter. As they began to climb again they fell naturally into one of

those familiar talks, full of allusion and reminiscence, that are only possible between two of a sex who have

It began by Purdy referring to the satisfactory fashion in which he had disposed of his tools, his

stretcherbed, and other effects: he was not travelling to Melbourne emptyhanded.

Mahony rallied him. "You were always a good one at striking a bargain, my boy! What about: 'Four mivvies

This related to their earliest meeting, and was a standing joke between them. Mahony could recall the

incident as clearly as though it had happened yesterday: how the sturdy little applecheeked English boy,

with the comical English accent, had suddenly bobbed up at his side on the way home from school, and in

that laughable singsong of his, without modulation or emphasis, had offered to "swop" him, as above.

Purdy laughed and paid him back in kind. "Yes, and the funk you were in for fear Spiny Tatlow 'ud see us,

In thought he added: "And what snobs!" For the breach of convention he was an upperform boy at the

time had not been his sole reason for wishing to shake off his junior. Behind him, Mahony, when he

reached home, closed the door of one of the largest houses in the most exclusive square in Dublin. Whereas

Purdy lived in a small, common house in a side street. Visits there had to be paid surreptitiously.

All the same these were frequent and for the best of reasons. Mahony could still see Purdy's plump,

redcheeked English mother, who was as jolly and happy as her boy, hugging the loaf to her bosom while

she cut round after round of bread and butter and jam, for two cormorant throats. And the elder boy,

longlimbed and lank, all wrist and ankle, had invariably been the hungrier of the two; for, on the glossy

damask of the big house, often not enough food was set to satisfy the growing appetites of himself and his

sisters. "Dickybird, can't you see us, with our backs to the wall, in that little yard of yours, trying who

could take the biggest bite? or going round the outside: 'Crust first, and though you burst, By the bones of

Purdy laughed heartily at these and other incidents fished up by his friend from the well of the years; but he

did not take part in the sport himself. He had not Mahony's gift for recalling detail: to him past was past. He

only became alive and eager when the talk turned, as it soon did, on his immediate prospects.

This time, to his astonishment, Mahony had had no trouble in persuading Purdy to quit the diggings. In

addition, here was the boy now declaring openly that what he needed, and must have, was a fixed and

steadily paying job. With this decision Mahony was in warm agreement, and promised all the help that lay in

But Purdy was not done; he hummed and hawed and fidgeted; he took off his hat and looked inside it; he

"Yes . . . er. . . . Well, the fact is, Dick, I begin to think it's time I settled down."

"That's the chat. Just oblige yours truly by takin' a squint at this, will you?"

He handed his friend a squarelyfolded sheet of thinnest blue paper, with a large purple stamp in one corner,

and a red seal on the back. Opening it Mahony discovered three crossed pages, written in a delicately pointed,

He read the letter to the end, deliberately, and with a growing sense of relief: composition, expression and

penmanship, all met with his approval. "This is the writing of a person of some refinement, my son."

"Well, er . . . yes," said Purdy. He seemed about to add a further word, then swallowed it, and went on:

"Though, somehow or other, Till's different to herself, on paper. But she's the best of girls, Dick. Not one o'

your ethereal, dieaway, breadandbutter misses. There's something of Till there is, and she's always on for

a lark. I never met such girls for larks as her and 'er sister. The very last time I was there, they took and hung

up . . . me and some other fellers had been stoppin' up a bit late the night before, and kickin' up a bit of a

shindy, and what did those girls do? They got the barman to come into my room while I was asleep, and hang

a bucket o' water to one of the beams over the bed. Then I'm blamed if they didn't tie a string from it to my

big toe! I gives a kick, down comes the bucket and half drowns me. Gosh, how those girls did laugh!"

"H'm!" said Mahony dubiously; while Purdy in his turn chewed the cud of a pleasant memory. "Well, I for

my part should be glad to see you married and settled, with a good wife always beside you."

"Till's a firstclass girl as a sweetheart and all that; but when I come to think of puttin' my head in the noose,

from now till doomsday why then, somehow, I can't bring myself to pop the question."

"Bosh! But I say, Dick, I wish you'd turn your peepers on 'er and tell me what you make of 'er. She's AI

'erself, but she's got a mother. . . . By Job, Dick, if I thought Tilly 'ud ever get like that . . . and they're exactly

It would certainly be well for him to inspect Purdy's flame, thought Mahony. Especially since the anecdote

told did not bear out the good impression left by the letter went far, indeed, to efface it. Still, he was loath

to extend his absence by spending a night at Geelong, where, a, it came out, the lady lived; and he replied

evasively that it must depend on the speed with which he could put through his business in Melbourne.

Purdy was silent for a time. Then, with a sideglance at his companion, he volunteered: "I say, Dick, I know

"The deuce you do!" said Mahony, and burst out laughing. "Miss Tilly's sister, no doubt?"

"No, no not her. Jinn's all right, but she's not your sort. But they've got a girl living with 'em a sort o'

poor relation, or something and she's a horse of quite another colour. I say, old man, serious now, have

Again Mahony laughed. At his companion's words there descended to him, once more, from some shadowy

distance, some pure height, the rosetinted vision of the wifetobe which haunts every man's youth. And, in

ludicrous juxtaposition, he saw the women, the only women he had encountered since coming to the colony:

the hardworking, careworn wives of diggers; the harridans, sluts and prostitutes who made up the balance.

He declined to be drawn. "Is it old Moll Flannigan or one of her darlints you'd be wishing me luck to, ye

"Man, don't I say I've found the wife for you?" Purdy was not jesting, and did not join in the fresh salvo of

laughter with which Mahony greeted his words. "Oh, blow it, Dick, you're too fastidious too damned

particular! Say what you like, there's good in all of 'em even in old Mother Flannigan 'erself and

'specially when she's got a drop inside 'er. Fuddle old Moll a bit, and she'd give you the very shift off her

back. Don't I thank the Lord, that's all, I'm not built like you! Why, the woman isn't born I can't get on

with. All's fish that comes to my net. Oh, to be young, Dick, and to love the girls! To see their little

waists,and their shoulders, and the dimples in their cheeks! See 'em put up their hands to their bonnets, and

how their little feet peep out when the wind blows their petticoats against their legs!" and Purdy rose in his

"Nothing of the sort! Set me among decent women and there's no company I enjoy more," declared Mahony.

Mahony was still young enough to be nettled by doubts cast on his vitality. Purdy laughed in his sleeve.

Aloud he said: "Well, look here, old man, I'll lay you a wager. I bet you you're not game, when you see that

tulip I've been tellin' you about, to take her in your arms and kiss her. A fiver on it!"

"Bravo!" cried Purdy. "Bravo, Dick!" And having gained his end, and being on a good piece of road between

postandrail fences, he set spurs to his horse and cantered off, singing as he went:

She wheels a wheelbarrow, Through streets wide and narrow, Crying cockles, and mussels, Alive, aliveoh!

But the sun was growing large in the western sky; on the ground to the left, their failing shadows slanted out

lengthwise; those cast by the horses' bodies were mounted on high spindlelegs. The two men ceased their

trifling, and nudged by the fall of day began to ride at a more businesslike pace, pushing forward through

the deep basin of Bacchus's marsh, and on for miles over wide, treeless plains, to where the road was joined

by the main highway from the north, coming down from Mount Alexander and the Bendigo. Another hour,

and from a gentle eminence the buildings of Melbourne were visible, the mastheads of the many vessels

riding at anchor in Hobson's Bay. Here, too, the briny scent of the sea, carrying up over grassy flats, met their

nostrils, and set Mahony hungrily sniffing. The brief twilight came and went, and it was already night when

they urged their weary beasts over the Moonee ponds, a winding chain of brackish waterholes. The horses

shambled along the broad, hilly tracks of North Melbourne; warily picked their steps through the city itself.

Dingy oillamps, set here and there at the corners of roads so broad that you could hardly see across them,

shed but a meagre light, and the further the riders advanced, the more difficult became their passage: the

streets, in process of laying, were heaped with stones and intersected by trenches. Finally, dismounting, they

thrust their arms through their bridles, and laboriously covered the last halfmile of the journey on foot.

Having lodged the horses at a liverystable, they repaired to a hotel in Little Collins Street. Here Purdy knew

the proprietor, and they were fortunate enough to secure a small room for the use of themselves alone.

It was over a year since Mahony or Purdy had been last in the capital, and next morning, on stepping out of

the "Adam and Eve," they walked up the eastern slope to look about them. From the summit of the hill their

view stretched to the waters of the Bay, and its forest of masts. The nearer foreground was made up of mud

flats, through which a sluggish, coffeecoloured river wound its way to the sea. On the horizon to the north,

the Dandenong Ranges rose stormblue and distinct, and seemed momently to be drawing nearer; for a cold

wind was blowing, which promised rain. The friends caught their glimpses of the landscape between dense

clouds of white dust, which blotted everything out for minutes at a time, and filled eyes, nose, ears with a

Tiring of this they turned and descended Great Collins Street a spacious thoroughfare that dipped into the

hollow and rose again, and was so long that on its western height pedestrians looked no bigger than ants. In

the heart of the city men were everywhere at work, laying gas and drainpipes, macadamising, paving,

kerbing: no longer would the old wives' tale be credited of the infant drowned in the deeps of Swanston

Street, or of the bullock which sank, inch by inch, before its owner's eyes in the Elizabeth Street bog. Massive

erections of freestone were going up alongside here a primitive, canvasfronted dwelling, there one formed

wholly of galvanised iron. Fashionable shops, two storeys high, stood next tiny, dilapidated weatherboards.

In the roadway, handsome chaises, landaus, fourinhands made room for bullockteams, eight and ten

strong; for tumbrils carrying water or refuse or worse; for droves of cattle, mobs of wild colts bound for

auction, flocks of sheep on their way to be boiled down for tallow. Stockriders and bullpunchers rubbed

shoulders with elegants in skirted coats and shepherd's plaid trousers, who adroitly skipped heaps of stones

The visitors from upcountry paused to listen to a brass band that played outside a horseauction mart; to

watch the shooting in a riflegallery. The many decently attired females they met also called for notice. Not a

year ago, and no reputable woman walked abroad oftener than she could help: now, even at this hour, the

streets were starred with them. Purdy, openmouthed, his eyes adance, turned his head this way and that,

pointed and exclaimed. But then he had slept like a log, and felt in his own words "as fit as a fiddle." Whereas

Mahony had sat his horse the whole night through, had never ceased to balance himself in an imaginary

saddle. And when at daybreak he had fallen into a deeper sleep, he was either reviewing outrageous females

Hence, diverting as were the sights of the city, he did not come to them with the naive receptivity of Purdy. It

was, besides, hard to detach his thoughts from the disagreeable affair that had brought him to Melbourne.

And as soon as banks and offices began to take down their shutters, he hurried off to his interview with the

The latter's place of business was behind Great Collins Street, in a lane reached by a turnpike. Found with

some trouble, it proved to be a rude shanty wedged in between a Chinese laundry and a Chinese

eatinghouse. The entrance was through a yard in which stood a collection of rabbithutches, while further

back gaped a dirty closet. At the sound of their steps the man they sought emerged, and Mahony could not

repress an exclamation of surprise. When, a little over a twelvemonth ago, he had first had dealings with him,

this Bolliver had been an alert and respectable man of business. Now he was evidently on the downgrade; and

the cause of the deterioration was advertised in his bloodshot eyeballs and veinous cheeks. Early as was the

hour, he had already been indulging: his breath puffed sour. Mahony prepared to state the object of his visit in

no uncertain terms. But his preliminaries were cut short by a volley of abuse. The man accused him

pointblank of having been privy to the rascally drayman's fraud and of having hoped, by lying low, to evade

his liability. Mahony lost his temper, and vowed that he would have Bolliver up for defamation of character.

To which the latter retorted that the first innings in a court of law would be his: he had already put the matter

in the hands of his attorney. This was the last straw. Purdy had to intervene and get Mahony away. They left

the agent shaking his fist after them and cursing the bloody day on which he'd ever been fool enough to do a

At the corner of the street the friends paused for a hasty conference. Mahony was for marching off to take the

best legal advice the city had to offer. But Purdy disapproved. Why put himself to so much trouble, when he

had old Ocock's recommendation to his lawyerson in his coat pocket? What, in the name of

LearycumFitz, was the sense of making an enemy for life of the old man, his nextdoor neighbour, and a

These counsels prevailed, and they turned their steps towards Chancery Lane, where was to be found every

variety of legal practitioner from barrister to scrivener. Having matched the housenumber and descried the

words: "Mr. Henry Ocock, Conveyancer and Attorney, Commissioner of Affidavits," painted black on two

dusty windows, they climbed a wooden stair festooned with cobwebs, to a landing where an injunction to:

Obeying, they passed into a dingy little room, the entire furnishing of which consisted of a couple of deal

tables, with a chair to each. These were occupied by a young man and a boy, neither of whom rose at their

entrance. The lad was cutting notches in a stick and whistling tunefully; the clerk, a young fellow in the early

twenties, who had a mop of flaming red hair and smallslit whitelashed eyes, looked at the strangers, but

Mahony desired to know if he had the pleasure of addressing Mr. Henry Ocock. In reply the redhead gave a

noiseless laugh, which he immediately quenched by clapping his hand over his mouth, and shutting one eye

at his junior said: "No nor yet the Shar o' Persia, nor Alphybetical Foster! What can I do for you,

"You can have the goodness to inform Mr. Ocock that I wish to see him!" flashed back Mahony.

With patent reluctance the boy ceased his whittling, and dawdled across the room to an inner door through

which he vanished, having first let his knuckles bump, as if by chance, against the wood of the panel. A

second later he reappeared. "Boss's engaged." But Mahony surprised a lightning sign between the pair.

"No, sir, I decline to state my business to anyone but Mr. Ocock himself!" he declared hotly, in response to

the redhaired man's invitation to "get it off his chest." "If you choose to find out when he will be at liberty, I

As the officeboy had somehow failed to hit his seat on his passage to the outer door, there was nothing left

for the clerk to do but himself to undertake the errand. He lounged up from his chair, and, in his case without

even the semblance of a knock, squeezed through a foot wide aperture, in such a fashion that the two

strangers should not catch a glimpse of what was going on inside. But his voice came to them through the

thin partition. "Oh, just a couple o' stonybroke Paddylanders." Mahony, who had seized the opportunity to

dart an angry glance at Purdy, which should say: "This is what one gets by coming to your secondrate

pettifoggers!" now let his eyes rest on his friend and critically detailed the latter's appearance. The description

fitted to a nicety. Purdy did in truth look down on his luck. Unkempt, bearded to the eyes, there he stood

clutching his shapeless old cabbagetree, in mudstained jumper and threadbare smalls the very spit of

the unsuccessful digger. Well might they be suspected of not owning the necessary to pay their way!

The sanctum was a trifle larger than the outer room, but almost equally bare; halfadozen deedboxes were

piled up in one corner. Stalking in with his chin in the air, Mahony found himself in the presence of a man of

his own age, who sat absorbed in the study of a document. At their entry two beady grey eyes lifted to take a

brief but thorough survey, and a hand with a pencil in it pointed to the single empty chair. Mahony declined

Under the best of circumstances it irked him to be kept waiting. Here, following on the clerk's saucy

familiarity, the wilful delay made his gorge rise. For a few seconds he fumed in silence; then, his patience

exhausted, he burst out: "My time, sir, is as precious as your own. With your permission, I will take my

At these words, and at the tone in which they were spoken, the lawyer's head shot up as if he had received a

blow under the chin. Again he narrowed his eyes at the couple. And this time he laid the document from him

The change in his manner though slight was unmistakable. Mahony had a nice ear for such refinements, and

responded to the shade of difference with the promptness of one who had been on the watch for it. His

irritation fell; he was ready on the instant to be propitiated. Putting his hat aside he sat down, and having

introduced himself, made reference to Ballarat and his acquaintance with the lawyer's father: "Who directed

me to you, sir, for advice on a vexatious affair, in which I have had the misfortune to become involved."

With a "Pray be seated!" Ocock rose and cleared a chair for Purdy. Resuming his seat he joined his hands,

and wound them in and out. "I think you may take it from me that no case is so unpromising but what we

Mahony thanked him with a touch of reserve. "I trust you will still be of that opinion when you have

heard the facts." And went on: "Myself, I do not doubt it. I am not a rich man, but serious though the

monetary loss would be to me, I should settle the matter out of court, were I not positive that I had right on

Like his old father, he was a short, heavily built man; but there the likeness ended. He had a high, domed

forehead, above a thin, hooked nose. His skin was of an almost Jewish pallor. Fringes of straight, jetblack

hair grew down the walls of his cheeks and round his chin, meeting beneath it. The shaven upper lid was long

and flat, with no central markings, and helped to form a mouth that had not much more shape or expression

than a slit cut by a knife in a sheet of paper. The chin was bare to the size of a crownpiece; and, both while

he spoke and while he listened to others speaking, the lawyer caressed this patch with his fingertips; so that

in the course of time it had arrived at a state of high polish like the shell of an egg.

The air with which he heard his new client out was of a noncommittal kind; and Mahony, having talked his

first heat off, grew chilled by the wet blanket of Ocock's silence. There was nothing in this of the frank

responsiveness with which your ordinary mortal lends his ear. The brain behind the dome was, one might be

sure, adding, combining, comparing, and drawing its own conclusions. Why should lawyers, he wondered,

treat those who came to them like children, advancing only in so far as it suited them out of the darkness

where they housed among strangely worded paragraphs and obscure formulas? But these musings were

cut short. Having fondled his chin for a further moment, Ocock looked up and put a question. And, while he

could not but admire the lawyer's acumen, this did not lessen Mahony's discomfort. All unguided, it went

straight for what he believed to be the one weak spot in his armour. It related to the drayman. Contrary to

custom Mahony had, on this occasion, himself recommended the driver. And, as he admitted it, his ears rang

again with the plaints of his stranded fellowcountryman, a wheedler from the South Country, off whose

tongue the familiar brogue had dripped like honey. His recommendation, he explained, had been made out of

charity; he had not forced the agent to engage the man; and it would surely be a gross injustice if he alone

To his relief Ocock did not seem to attach importance to the fact, but went on to ask whether any written

agreement had existed between the parties. "No writing? H'm! So . . . so!" To read his thoughts was an

impossibility; but as he proceeded with his catechism it was easy to see how his interest in the case grew. He

began to treat it tenderly; warmed to it, as an artist to his work; and Mahony's spirits rose in consequence.

Having selected a number of minor points that would tell in their favour, Ocock dilated upon the libellous

aspersion that had been cast on Mahony's good faith. "My experience has invariably been this, Mr. Mahony:

people who suggest that kind of thing, and accuse others of it, are those who are accustomed to make use of

such means themselves. In this case, there may have been no goods at all the thing may prove to have

But his hearer's start of surprise was too marked to be overlooked. "Well, let us take the existence of the

goods for granted. But might they not, being partly of a perishable nature, have gone bad or otherwise got

spoiled on the road, and not have been in a fit condition for you to receive at your end?"

This was credible; Mahony nodded his assent. He also added, gratuitously, that he had before now been

obliged to reclaim on casks of mouldy messpork. At which Ocock ceased coddling his chin to point a

straight forefinger at him, with a triumphant: "You see!" But Purdy who, sick and tired of the discussion,

had withdrawn to the window to watch the rain zigzag in runlets down the dusty panes, and hiss and spatter

The interview at an end, Ocock mentioned, in his frigidly urbane way, that he had recently been informed

there was an excellent opening for a firm of solicitors in Ballarat: could Mr. Mahony, as a resident, confirm

the report? Mahony regretted his ignorance, but spoke in praise of the Golden City and its assured future.

"This would be most welcome news to your father, sir. I can picture his satisfaction on hearing it."

"Golly, Dick, that's no mopoke!" was Purdy's comment as they emerged into the rainswept street. "A

"Henry Ocock seems to me to be a singularly able man," replied Mahony drily. To his thinking, Purdy had

cut a poor figure during the visit: he had said no intelligent word, but had lounged lumpishly in his chair

the very picture of the country man come up to the metropolis and, growing tired of this, had gone like a

"What? Do you insinuate there's any need for slithering . . as you call it?" cried Mahony.

"Why, Dick, old man. . . . And as long as he gets you through, what does it matter?"

The rain, a tropical deluge, was over by the time they reached the hollow. The sun shone again, hot and

sticky, and people were venturing forth from their shelters to wade through beds of mud, or to cross, on

planks, the deep, swift rivers formed by the open drains. There were several such cloudbursts in the course

of the afternoon; and each time the refuse of the city was whirled past on the flood, to be left as an edging to

Mahony spent the rest of the day in getting together a fresh load of goods. For, whether he lost or won his

That evening towards eight o'clock the two men turned out of the Lowther Arcade. The night was cold, dark

and wet; and they had wound comforters round their bare throats. They were on their way to the Mechanics'

Hall, to hear a lecture on Mesmerism. Mahony had looked forward to this all through the sorry job of

choosing soaps and candles. The subject piqued his curiosity. It was the one drop of mental stimulant he

could hope to extract from his visit. The theatre was out of the question: if none of the actors happened to be

Part of his pleasure this evening was due to Purdy having agreed to accompany him. It was always a matter of

regret to Mahony that, outside the hobnob of daily life, he and his friend had so few interests in common; that

Then, from the black shadows of the Arcade, a woman's form detached itself, and a hand was laid on Purdy's

Mahony made a quick, repellent movement of the shoulder. But Purdy, some vagrom fancy quickened in

him, either by the voice, which was not unrefined, or by the stealthiness of the approach, Purdy turned to

Without raising her pleasant voice, the woman levelled a volley of abuse at Mahony, then muttered a word in

For a quarter of an hour Mahony aired his heels in front of a publichouse. Then he gave it up, and went on

his way. But his pleasure was damped: the inconsiderateness with which Purdy could shake him off, always

had a disconcerting effect on him. To face the matter squarely: the friendship between them did not mean as

much to Purdy as to him; the sudden impulse that had made the boy relinquish a promising clerkship to

emigrate in his wake into this he had read more than it would hold. And, as he picked his muddy steps,

Mahony agreed with himself that the net result, for him, of Purdy's coming to the colony, had been to saddle

him with a new responsibility. It was his lot for ever to be helping the lad out of tight places. Sometimes it

made him feel unnecessarily bearish. For Purdy had the knack, common to sunny, improvident natures, of

taking everything that was done for him for granted. His want of delicacy in this respect was distressing. Yet,

in spite of it all, it was hard to bear him a grudge for long together. A wellmeaning young beggar if ever

there was one! That very day how faithfully he had stuck at his side, assisting at dull discussions and duller

purchasings, without once obtruding his own concerns. And here Mahony remembered their talk on the

ride to town. Purdy had expressed the wish to settle down and take a wife. A poor friend that would be who

As he sidled into one of the front benches of a halfempty hall the mesmerist, a corpselike man in black,

already surveyed its thinness from the platform with an air of pained surprise Mahony decided that Purdy

should have his chance. The heavy rains of the day, and the consequent probable flooding of the Ponds and

the Marsh, would serve as an excuse for a change of route. He would go and have a look at Purdy's

IN a whitewashed parlour of "Beamish's Family Hotel" some few miles north of Geelong, three young

women, in voluminous skirts and with their hair looped low over their ears, sat at work. Books lay open on

the table before two of them; the third was making a bookmark. Two were fair, plump, rosy, and well over

twenty; the third, paleskinned and dark, was still a very young girl. She it was who stitched magenta

"Do lemme see, Poll," said the eldest of the trio, and laid down her pen. "You 'ave bin quick about it, my

Polly, the brunette, freed her needle of silk and twirled the bookmark by its ribbon ends. Spinning, the mystic

Her companions tittered. "If ma didn't know for certain 'twas meant for your brother John, she'd never 'ave let

"Girls, what a lark it 'ud be to send it up to Purdy Smith, by Ned!" said the first speaker.

Jinny giggled, agreeably scandalized: "What things you do say. Till! Don't let ma 'ear you, that's all."

"Ma be blowed! 'Ow does this look now, Polly?" And across the waxcloth Tilly pushed a copybook, in

"Well . . . it's better than the last one, Tilly," she said gently, averse to hurting her pupil's feelings. "But still

not quite good enough. The f's, look, should be more like this." And taking a steel pen she made several

Tilly yielded an ungrudging admiration. "'Ow well you do it, Poll! But I hate writing. If only ma weren't so

"You'll never be able to write yourself to a certain person, 'oos name I won't mention, if you don't 'urry up

"What's the odds! We've always got Poll to write for us," gave back Tilly, and lazily stretched out a large,

plump hand to recover the copybook. "A certain person'll never know or not till it's too late."

"Plough?" echoed Jinny vaguely, and turned a pair of soft, cowlike brown eyes on the blowflies sitting

sticky and sleepy round the walls of the room. "Wait a jiff . . . lemme think! Plough ? Oh, yes, I know. Pl . .

Polly's lips all but formed the "u," to prevent the "f" she felt impending. "I'm afraid you'll have to take it

"Oh, no, Poll. Tro" began Jinny with fresh vigour. But before she could add a fourth to the three letters, a

heavy foot pounded down the passage, and a stout woman, out of breath, her capbands flying, came bustling

"Girls, girls, now whatever d'ye think ? 'Ere's Purdy Smith come ridin' inter the yard, an' another gent with

'im. Scuttle along now, an' put them books away! Tilda, yer net's 'alf 'angin' off you don't want yer

sweet'eart to see you all untidy like that, do you ? 'Elp 'em, Polly my dear, and be quick about it!

Sprung up from their seats the three girls darted to and fro. The telltale spelling and copybooks were flung

into the drawer of the chiffonier, and the key was turned on them. Polly, her immodest sampler safely hidden

at the bottom of her workbox, was the most composed of the three; and while locks were smoothed and

collars adjusted in the adjoining bedroom, she remained behind to look out thimbles, needles and strips of

The blonde sisters reappeared, all aglow with excitement. Tilly, in particular, was in a sad flutter.

"Girls, I simply can't face 'im in 'ere!" she declared. "It was 'ere, in this very room, that 'e first you know

"Feel my 'eart, 'ow it beats," said her sister, pressing her hands, one over the other, to her full left breast.

Suiting the action to the word, and imitated by her sister, she scrambled over the window sill to the verandah.

Polly found herself alone. Her conscientious scrupling: "But mother may be cross!" had passed unheeded.

Now, she, too, fell into a flurry. She could not remain there, by herself, to meet two young men, one of whom

was a stranger: steps and voices were already audible at the end of the passage. And so, since there was

nothing else for it, she clambered after her friends though with difficulty; for she was not very tall.

This was why, when Mrs. Beamish flourished open the door, exclaiming in a hearty tone: "An' 'ere you'll find

'em, gents sittin' at their needles, busy as bees!" the most conspicuous object in the room was a very neat

leg, clad in a white stocking and black prunella boot, which was just being drawn up over the sill. It flashed

" Well, I declare, an' so they 'ave the naughty creatures!"exclaimed Mrs. Beamish in mock dismay. "But

trust you, Mr. Smith, for sayin' the right thing. Jus' exackly like birds they are so shy an' scaredlike. But

I'll give you the 'int, gents. They'll not be far away. Jus' you show 'em two can play at that game. Mr. S.,

"Should say I do! Many's the time I've anchored there," cried Purdy with a guffaw. "Come, Dick!" And

From the verandah they went down into the vegetablegarden, where the drab and tangled growths that had

outlived the summer were beaten flat by the recent rains. At the foot of the garden, behind a clump of

gooseberrybushes, stood an arbour formed of a yellow buddleia. No trace of a petticoat was visible, so thick

At the apparition of the young men, who stooped to the low entrance, there was a cascade of shrieks.

"You wicked fellow! Get away, will you! I 'ate the very sight of you!" this from Tilly, as Purdy, his hands

The other girls feared a like greeting; there were more squeaks and squeals, and some ineffectual dives for the

doorway. Purdy spread out his arms. "Hi, look out, stop 'em, Dick! Now then, man, here's your chance!"

Mahony stood blinking; it was dusk inside, after the dazzle of the sun. At this reminder of the foolish bet he

had taken, he hurriedly seized the young woman who was next him, and embraced her. It chanced to be

Jinny. She screamed, and made a feint of feeling mortally outraged. Mahony had to dodge a box on the ears.

But Purdy burst into a horselaugh, and held his sides. Without knowing why, Tilly joined in, and Jinny, too,

was infected. When Purdy could speak, he blurted out: "Dick, you fathead! you jackass! you've

At this clownish mirth, Mahony felt the blood boil up over ears and temples. For an instant he stood

irresolute. Did he admit the blunder, his victim would be hurt. Did he deny it, he would save his own face at

the expense of the other young woman's feelings. So, though he could have throttled Purdy he put a bold

His words were the signal for a fresh scream and flutter: the third young person had escaped, and was flying

down the path. This called for chase and capture. She was not very agile but she knew the ground, which,

outside the garden, was rocky and uneven. For a time, she had Mahony at vantage; his heart was not in the

game: in cutting undignified capers among the gooseberrybushes he felt as foolish as a performing dog.

Then, however, she caught her toe in her dress and stumbled. He could not disregard the opportunity; he

But two beseeching hands fended him off. "No . . . no. Please . . . oh, please, don't!"

This was no catchpenny coquetry; it was a genuine dread of undue familiarity. A kindred trait in Mahony's

Two of the blackest eyes he had ever seen were raised to his, and a flushed face dimpled. They shook hands,

Halfway to the arbour, they met the others coming to find them. The girls bore diminutive parasols; and

Purdy, in rollicking spirits, Tilly on one arm, Jinny on the other, held Polly's above his head. On the

appearance of the laggards, Jinny, who had put her own interpretation on the misplaced kiss, prepared to free

her arm; but Purdy, winking at his friend, squeezed it to his side and held her prisoner.

"Yes, by thunder!" he ejaculated; and letting go of his companions, he spun round like a balletdancer.

"Ladies! Let me introduce to you my friend, Dr. Richard TownshendMahony, F.R.C.S., M.D., Edinburgh, at

present proprietor of the 'Diggers' Emporium,' Dead Dog Hill, Ballarat. Dick, my hearty, Miss Tilly

Beamish, worldfamed for her sauce; Miss Jinny, renowned for her skill in casting the eyes of sheep; and,

last but not least, pretty little Polly Perkins, alias Miss Polly Turnham, whose good deeds put those of Dorcas

The Misses Beamish went into fits of laughter, and Tilly hit Purdy over the back with her parasol.

" What'n earth do they mean ? Gracious! So clever! It makes me feel quite queer."

However, a walk to a cave was under discussion, and Purdy urged them on. "Phoebus is on the wane, girls.

Once more with the young person called Polly as companion, Mahony followed after. He walked in silence,

listening to the rattle of the three in front. At best he was but a poor hand at the kind of repartee demanded of

their swains by these young women; and today his slender talent failed him altogether, crushed by the

general tone of vulgar levity. Looking over at the horizon, which swam in a kind of golddust haze below the

Reminded he was not alone by feeling the hand on his arm tremble, he glanced down at his companion; and

his eye was arrested by a neatly parted head, of the glossiest black imaginable.

But as if, with this, she had said too much, she grew tonguetied again; and there was nothing more to be

made of her. Taking pity on her timidity, Mahony tried to put her at ease by talking about himself. He

described his life on the diggings and the straits to which he was at times reduced: the buttons affixed to his

clothing by means of gingerbeerbottle wire; his periodic onslaughts on sockdarning; the celebrated

pudding it had taken him over four hours to make. And Polly, listening to him, forgot her desire to run away.

Instead, she could not help laughing at the tales of his masculine shiftlessness. But as soon as they came in

view of the others, Tilly and Purdy sitting under one parasol on a rock by the cave, Jinny standing and

"Moth . . . Mrs. Beamish will need me to help her with tea. And . . . and would you please walk back with

They got home from the cave at sundown, he with the ripe Jinny hanging a dead weight on his arm, to find

tea spread in the private parlour. The table was all but invisible under its load; and their hostess looked as

though she had been parboiled on her own kitchen fire. She sat and fanned herself with a sheet of newspaper

while, time and again, undaunted by refusals, she pressed the good things upon her guests. There were juicy

beefsteaks piled high with rings of onion, and a barracoota, and a cold leg of mutton. There were applepies

and jamtarts, a dish of curdsandwhey and a jug of custard. Butter and bread were fresh and new; scones

and cakes had just left the oven; and the great cups of tea were tempered by pure, thick cream.

To the two men who came from diggers' fare: cold chop for breakfast, cold chop for dinner and cold chop for

tea: the meal was little short of a banquet; and few words were spoken in its course. But the moment arrived

when they could eat no more, and when even Mrs. Beamish ceased to urge them. Pipes and pouches were

produced; Polly and Jinny rose to collect the plates, Tilly and her beau to sit on the edge of the verandah: they

could be seen in silhouette against the rising moon, Tilly's head drooping to Purdy's shoulder.

Mrs. Beamish looked from them to Mahony with a knowing smile, and whispered behind her hand: "I do

wish those two 'ud 'urry up an' make up their minds, that I do! I'd like to see my Tilda settled. No offence

meant to young Smith. 'E's the best o' good company. But sometimes . . . well, I cud jus' knock their 'eads

together when they sit so close, an' say: come, give over yer spoonin' an' get to business! Either you want one

another or you don't. I seen you watchin' our Polly, Mr. Mahony " she made Mahony wince by

stressing the second syllable of his name. "Bless you, no no relation whatsoever. She just 'elps a bit in the

'ouse, an' is company for the girls. We tuck 'er in a year ago 'er own relations 'ad played 'er a dirty trick.

Mustn't let 'er catch me sayin' so, though; she won't 'ear a word against 'em, and that's as it should be."

Looking round, and finding Polly absent from the room, she went on to tell Mahony how Polly's eldest

brother, a ten years' resident in Melbourne, had sent to England for the girl on her leaving school, to come out

and assist in keeping his house. And how an elder sister, who was governessing in Sydney, had chosen just

this moment to throw up her post and return to quarter herself upon the brother.

"An' so when Polly gets 'ere a little bit of a thing in short frocks, in charge of the capt'n there was no

room for 'er, an' she 'ad to look about 'er for somethin' else to do. We tuck 'er in, an', I will say, I've never

regretted it. Indeed I don't know now, 'ow we ever got on without 'er. Yes, it's you I'm talkin' about, miss,

singin' yer praises, an' you needn't get as red as if you'd bin up to mischief! Pa'll say as much for you, too."

"That I will!" said Mr. Beamish, opening his mouth for the first time except to put food in it. "That I will,"

Polly blushed, after the helpless, touching fashion of very young creatures: the blood stained her cheeks,

mounted to her forehead, spread in a warm wave over neck and ears. To spare her, Mahony turned his head

and looked out of the window. He would have liked to say: Run away, child, run away, and don't let them see

your confusion. Polly, however, went conscientiously about her task, and only left the room when she had

picked up her full complement of plates. But she did not appear again that night.

Deserted even by Mrs. Beamish, the two men pushed back their chairs from the table and drew tranquilly at

The innkeeper proved an odd, misty sort of fellow, exceedingly backward at declaring himself; it was as

though each of his heavy words had to be fetched from a distance. "No doubt about it, it's the wife that wears

the breeches," was Mahony's inward comment. And as one after another of his wellmeant remarks fell flat:

But for each mortal there exists at least one theme to fire him. In the case of Beamish this turned out to be the

Land Question. Before the gold discovery he had been a bush shepherd, he told Mahony, and, if he had called

the tune, he would have lived and died one. But the wife had had ambitions, the children were growing up,

and every one knew what it was when women got a maggot in their heads. There had been no peace for him

till he had chucked his twelveyearold job and joined the rush to Mount Alexander. But at heart he had

remained a bushman; and he was now all on the side of the squatters in their tussle with the Crown. He knew

a bit, he'd make bold to say, about the acreage needed in certain districts per head of sheep; he could tell a

tale of the risks and mischances squatting involved: "If t'aint fire it's flood, an' if the water passes you by it's

the scab or the rot." To his thinking, the government's attempt to restrict the areas of sheepruns, and to give

effect to the "fourteenyearclause" which limited the tenure, were acts of folly. The gold supply would give

out as suddenly as it had begun; but sheep would graze there till the crack of doom the land was fit for

Mahony thought this point of view lopsided. No new country could hope to develop and prosper without a

steady influx of the right kind of population and this the colony would never have, so long as the authorities,

by refusing to sell them land, made it impossible for immigrants to settle there. Why, America was but three

thousand miles distant from the old country, compared with Australia's thirteen thousand, and in America

land was to be had in plenty at five shillings per acre. As to Mr. Beamish's idea of the gold giving out, the

geological formation of the goldfields rendered that improbable. He sympathised with the squatters, who

naturally enough believed their rights to the land inalienable; but a government worthy of the name must

Their talk was broken by long gaps. In these, the resonant voice of Mrs. Beamish could be heard rebuking

"Now then, Jinny, look alive, an' don't ack like a dyin' duck in a thunderstorm, or you'll never get back to do

your bit o' spoonin'! Save them bones, Polly. Never waste an atom, my chuck remember that, when

you've got an 'ouse of your own! No, girls, I always says, through their stomachs, that's the shortcut to their

'earts. The rest's on'y faldelaling." On the verandah, in face of the vasty, starspangled night, Tilly's

"I shall make 'im cut off 'is beard first thing," said Jinny that night: she was sitting halfundressed on the side

"Um! just you wait and see if it's as easy as you think," retorted Tilly from her pillow. Again Purdy had let

slip a golden chance to put the decisive question; and Tilly's temper was short in consequence.

"Mrs. Dr. Mahony . . . though I do wonder 'ow 'e ever keeps people from saying Mahony," said Jinny

dreamily. She, too, had spent some time in stargazing, and believed she had ground for hope.

"Just listen to 'er, will you!" said Tilly angrily. " Upon my word, Jinny Beamish, if one didn't know you 'ad

the 'abit of marrying yourself off to every fresh cove you meet, one 'ud say you was downright bold!"

"You needn't talk! Every one can see you're as mad as can be because you can't bring your old

"Well, it's true. Oh, look 'ere now, there's not a drop o' water in this blessed jug again. 'Oo's week is it to

"What a little duck you are, Poll! But you shan't go alone. I'll carry the candle."

Tying on a petticoat over her bedgown, Polly took the ewer, and with Jinny as torchbearer set forth. There

was still some noise in the public part of the house, beside the bar; but the passage was bare and quiet. The

girls crept mousily past the room occupied by the two young men, and after several false alarms and

suppressed chirps reached the back door, and filled the jug at the tap of the galvanisediron tank.

The return journey was not so successful. Just as they got level with the visitors' room, they heard feet

crossing the floor. Polly started; the water splashed over the neck of the jug, and fell with a loud plop. At this

Jinny lost her head and ran off with the candle. Polly, in a panic of fright, dived into the pantry with her

burden, and crouched down behind a tub of fermenting gingerbeer. And sure enough, a minute after, the

door of the room opposite was flung open and a pair of jackboots landed in the passage.

Nor was this the worst: the door was not shut again but remained ajar. Through the chink, Polly, shrunk to

her smallest what if one of them should feel hungry, and come into the pantry and discover her? Polly

heard Purdy say with appalling loudness: "Oh, go on, old mandon't jaw so!" He then seemed to plunge his

head in the basin, for it was with a choke and a splutter that he next inquired: "And what did you think of the

There was the chink of coins handled, and the other voice answered: "Here's what I think. Take your money,

"And understand, sir, in future, that I do not make bets where a lady is concerned."

"Oh, I know only on the TillyJinnysort. And yet good Lord, Dick!" the rest was drowned in a bawl

Under cover of it Polly took to her heels and fled, regardless of the open door, or the padding of her bare feet

Without replying to the astonished Jinny's query in respect of the water, she climbed over Tilly to her place

beside the wall, and shutting her eyes very tight, drew the sheet over her face: it felt as though it would never

be cool again. Hence, Jinny, agreeably wakeful, was forced to keep her thoughts to herself; for if you lie

between two people, one of whom is in a bad temper, and the other fast asleep, you might just as well be

Next morning Polly alleged a headache and did not appear at breakfast. Only Jinny and Tilly stood on the

verandah of romantic memories, and ruefully waved their handkerchiefs, keeping it up till even the forms of

His tenthome had never seemed so comfortless. He ended his solitary ride late at night and wet to the skin;

his horse had cast a shoe far from any smithy. Long Jim alone came to the door to greet him. The shopman,

on whose doltish honesty Mahony would have staked his head, had profited by his absence to empty the

cashbox and go off on the spree. Even one of the cats had met its fate in an old shaft, where its corpse

The following day, as a result of exposure and hard riding, Mahony was attacked by dysentery; and before he

had recovered, the goods arrived from Melbourne. They had to be unloaded, at some distance from the store,

conveyed there, got under cover, checked off and arranged. This was carried out in sheets of cold rain, which

soaked the canvas walls and made it doubly hard to get about the clay tracks that served as streets. As if this

were not enough, the river in front of the house rose rose, and in two twos was over its banks and he

and Long Jim spent a night in their clothes, helping neighbours less fortunately placed to move their

The lion's share of this work fell on him. Long Jim still carried his arm in a sling, and was good for nothing

but to guard the store and summon Mahony on the appearance of customers. Since his accident, too, the

fellow had suffered from frequent fits of colic or cramp, and was for ever slipping off to the township to find

the spirits in which his employer refused to deal. For the unloading and warehousing of the goods, it was true,

old Ocock had loaned his sons; but the strict watch Mahony felt bound to keep over this pretty pair far

Now it was Sunday evening, and for the first time for more than a week he could call his soul his own again.

He stood at the door and watched those of his neighbours who were not Roman Catholics making for church

and chapel, to which half a dozen tinkly bells invited them. The weather had finally cleared up, and a goodly

number of people waded past him through the mire. Among them, in seemly Sabbath dress, went Ocock, with

his two black sheep at heel. The old man was a rigid Methodist, and at a recent prayermeeting had been

moved to bear public witness to his salvation. This was no doubt one reason why the young scapegrace Tom's

almost simultaneous misconduct had been so bitter a pill for him to swallow: while, through God's mercy, he

was become an exemplar to the weaker brethren, a son of his made his name to stink in the nostrils of the

reputable community. Mahony liked to believe that there was good in everybody, and thought the intolerant

harshness which the boy was subjected would defeat its end. Yet it was open to question if clemency would

have answered better. " Bad eggs, the brace of them!" had been his own verdict, after a week's trial of the

lads. One would not, the other apparently could not work. Johnny, the elder, was dull and liverish from

intemperance; and the roundfaced adolescent, the news of whose fatherhood had raced the wind, was so

sheepfaced, so craven, in the presence of his elders, that he could not say bo to a battledore. There was

something unnatural about this fierce timidity and the doctor in Mahony caught a quick glimpse of the

But it was cold, in face of all this rainsoaked clay; cold bluegrey clouds drove across a washedout sky;

and he still felt unwell. Returning to his livingroom where a small American stove was burning, he prepared

for a quiet evening. In a corner by the fire stood an old packingcase. He lifted the lid and thrust his hand in:

it was here he kept his books. He needed no light to see by; he knew each volume by the feel. And after

fumbling for a little among the tumbled contents, he drew forth a work on natural science and sat down to

read. But he did not get far; his brain was tired, intractable. Lighting his pipe, he tilted back his chair, laid the

How differently bashfulness impressed one in the case of the weaker sex! There, it was altogether pleasing.

Young Ocock's gaucherie had recalled the little maid Polly's ingenuous confusion, at finding herself the

subject of conversation. He had not once consciously thought of Polly since his return. Now, when he did so,

he found to his surprise that she had made herself quite a warm little nest in his memory. Looked back on, she

stood out in high relief against her somewhat graceless surroundings. Small doubt she was both maidenly and

refined. He also remembered with a sensible pleasure her brisk service, her consideration for others. What a

boon it would have been, during the past week, to have a busy, willing little woman at work, with him and for

him, behind the screen! As it was, for want of a helping hand the place was like a pigsty. He had had neither

time nor energy to clean up. The marks of hobnailed boots patterned the floor; loose mud, and crumbs from

meals, had been swept into corners or under the stretcherbed; while commodities that had overflowed the

He rose and moved restlessly about, turning things over with his foot: these old papers should be burnt, and

that heap of strawpacking; those empty sardine and coffeetins be thrown into the refusepit. Scrubbed and

clean, it was by no means an uncomfortable room; and the stove drew well. He was proud of his stove; many

houses had not even a chimney. He stood and stared at it; but his thoughts were elsewhere: he found himself

trying to call to mind Polly's face. Except for a pair of big black eyes magnificent eyes they seemed to

him in retrospect he had carried away with him nothing of her outward appearance. Yes, stay! her hair:

her hair was so glossy that, when the sun caught it, high lights came out on it so much he remembered.

From this he fell to wondering whether her brain kept pace with her nimble hands and ways. Was she stupid

or clever? He could not tolerate stupidity. And Polly had given him no chance to judge her; had hardly

opened her lips before him. What a timid little thing she was to be sure! He should have made it his business

to draw her out, by being kind and encouraging. Instead of which he had acted towards her, he felt convinced,

He did not know how it was, but he couldn't detach his thoughts from Polly this evening: to their

accompaniment he paced up and down. All of a sudden he stood still, and gave a short, hearty laugh. He had

just seen, in a kind of phantom picture, the feet of the sisters Beamish as they sat on the verandah edge: both

young women wore flat sandalshoes. And so that neatest of neat ankles had been little Polly's property! For

A minute later he sat down at the table again. An idea had occurred to him: he would write Polly a letter a

letter that called for acknowledgment and form an opinion of the girl from her reply. Taking a sheet of

I wonder if I might ask you to do me a favour? On getting back to Ballarat, I find that the rain has spoilt my

store flag. Would you be so kind as to make me a new one? I have no lady friends here to apply to for help,

and I am sure you are clever with your needle. If you consent, I will send you the old flag as a pattern, and

He went out to the post with it himself. In one hand he carried the letter, in the other the candleend stuck in

Trade was slack; in consequence he found the four days that had to pass before he could hope for an answer

exceptionally long. After their lapse, he twice spent an hour at the Post Office, in a fruitless attempt to get

near the little window. On returning from the second of these absences, he found the letter waiting for him; it

I shall be happy to help you with your new flag if I am able. Will you kindly send the old one and the stuff

down by my brother, who is coming to see me on Saturday. He is working at Rotten Gully, and his name is

Mahony read, smiled and laid the letter down only to pick it up again. It pleased him, did this prim little

note: there was just the right shade of formal reserve about it. Then he began to study particulars: grammar

and spelling were correct; the penmanship was in the Italian style, minute, yet flowing, the letters dowered

with generous loops and tails. But surely he had seen this writing before? By Jupiter, yes! This was the hand

of the letter Purdy had shown him on the road to Melbourne. The little puss! So she not only wrote her own

letters, but those of her friends as well. In that case she was certainly not stupid for she was much the

Today was Thursday. Summoning Long Jim from his seat behind the counter, Mahony dispatched him to

Rotten Gully, with an injunction not to show himself till he had found a digger of the name of Turnham. And

having watched Jim set out, at a snail's pace and murmuring to himself, Mahony went into the store, and

measured and cut off material for the new flag, from two different coloured rolls of stuff.

It was ten o'clock that night before Polly's brother presented himself. Mahony met him at the door and drew

him in: the stove crackled, the room was swept and garnished he flattered himself that the report on his

habitat would be a favourable one. Ned's appearance gave him a pleasant shock: it was just as if Polly herself,

translated into male terms, stood before him. No need, now, to cudgel his brains for her image! In looking at

Ned, he looked again at Polly. The wideawake off, the same fine, soft, black hair came to light here,

worn rather long and curly the same glittering black eyes, ivorywhite skin, short, straight nose; and, as

he gazed, an offshoot of Mahony's consciousness wondered from what quarter this middleclass English

In the beginning he exerted himself to set the lad at ease. He soon saw, however, that he might spare his

pains. Though clearly not much more than eighteen years old, Ned Turnharn had the aplomb and assurance of

double that age. Lolling back in the single armchair the room boasted, he more than once stretched out his

hand and helped himself from the sherry bottle Mahony had placed on the table. And the disparity in their

ages notwithstanding, there was no trace of deference in his manner. Or the sole hint of it was: he sometimes

smothered a profane word, or apologised, with a winning smile, for an oath that had slipped out unawares.

Mahony could not accustom him self to the foul language that formed the diggers' idiom. Here, in the case of

Polly's brother, he sought to overlook the offence, or to lay the blame for it on other shoulders: at his age, and

Ned talked mainly of himself and his doings. But other facts also transpired, of greater interest to his hearer.

Thus Mahony learned that, out of a family of nine, four had found their way to the colony, and a fifth was

soon to follow a mere child this, on the under side of fifteen. He gathered, too, that the eldest brother,

John by name, was regarded as a kind of Napoleon by the younger fry. At thirty, this John was a partner in

the largest wholesale drygoods' warehouse in Melbourne. He had also married money, and intended in due

course to stand for the Legislative Council. Behind Ned's windy bragging Mahony thought he discerned

tokens of a fond, brotherly pride. If this were so, the affair had its pathetic side; for, from what the boy said, it

was evident that the successful man of business held his relatives at arm's length. And as Ned talked on,

Mahony conceived John to himself as a kind of electromagnet, which, once it had drawn these lesser

creatures after it, switched off the current and left them to their own devices. Ned, young as he was, had tried

his hand at many trades. At present he was working as a hired digger; but this, only till he could strike a

softer job. Digging was not for him, thank you; what you earned at it hardly repaid you for the sweat you

dripped. His every second word, indeed, was of how he could amass most money with the minimum of

This calculating, unyouthful outlook was repugnant to Mahony, and for all his goodwill, the longer he

listened to Ned, the cooler he felt himself grow. Another disagreeable impression was left by the grudging,

ifnothingbetterturnsup fashion, in which Ned accepted an impulsive offer on his part to take him into

the store. It was made on the spur of the moment, and Mahony had qualms about it while his words were still

warm on the air, realizing that the overture was aimed, not at Ned in person, but at Ned as Polly's brother. But

his intuition did not reconcile him to Ned's lukewarmness; he would have preferred a straight refusal. The

best trait he could discover in the lad was his affection for his sister. This seemed genuine: he was going to

see her again getting a lift halfway, tramping the other twenty odd miles at the end of the week.

Perhaps though, in the case of such a young opportunist, the thought of Mrs. Beamish's lavish board played

no small part; for Ned had a rather lean, underfed look. But this only occurred to Mahony afterwards. Then,

his chief vexation was with himself: it would have been kinder to set a dish of solid food before the boy, in

place of the naked sherrybottle. But as usual, his hospitable leanings came too late.

One thing more. As he lighted Ned and his bundle of stuff through the shop, he was impelled to slip a coin

into the boy's hand, with a murmured apology for the trouble he had put him to. And a something, the merest

nuance in Ned's manner of receiving and pocketing the money, flashed the uncomfortable suspicion through

the giver's mind that it had been looked for, expected. And this was the most unpleasant touch of all.

But, bless his soul! did not most large families include at least one poorish specimen? he had got thus far,

by the time he came to wind up his watch for the night. And next day he felt sure he had judged Ned

overharshly. His first impressions of people he had had occasion to deplore the fact before now were

apt to be either dead white or black as ink; the web of his mind took on no half tints. The boy had not

betrayed any actual vices; and time might be trusted to knock the bluster out of him. With this reflection

Mahony dismissed Ned from his mind. He had more important things to think of, chief among which was his

own state with regard to Ned's sister. And during the fortnight that followed he went about making believe to

weigh this matter, to view it from every coign; for it did not suit him, even in secret, to confess to the

vehemence with which, when he much desired a thing, his temperament knocked flat the hurdles of reason.

The truth was, his mind was made up and had been, all along. At the earliest possible opportunity, he was

Doubts beset him of course. How could he suppose that a girl who knew nothing of him, who had barely seen

him, would either want or consent to marry him ? And even if for "if's" were cheap she did say yes,

would it be fair of him to take her out of a comfortable home, away from friends such as they were! of

her own sex, to land her in these crude surroundings, where he did not know a decent woman to bear her

company ? Yet there was something to be said for him, too. He was very lonely. Now that Purdy had gone he

was reduced, for society, to the Long Jims and Ococks of the place. What would he not give, once more to

have a refined companion at his side ? Certainly marriage might postpone the day on which he hoped to

shake the dust of Australia off his feet. Life a' deux would mean a larger outlay; saving not prove so easy.

Still it could be done; and he would gladly submit to the delay if, by doing so, he could get Polly. Besides, if

this new happiness came to him, it would help him to see the years he had spent in the colony in a truer and

juster light. And then, when the hour of departure did strike, what a joy to have a wife to carry with one a

He had to remind himself more than once, during this fortnight, that she would be able to devote only a

fraction of her day to flagmaking. But he was at the end of his tether by the time a parcel and a letter were left

for him at the store again by hand: little Polly had plainly no sixpences to spare. The needlework as

perfect, of course; he hardly glanced at it, even when he had opened and read the letter. This was of the same

decorous nature as the first. Polly returned a piece of stuff that had remained over. He had really sent material

enough for two flags, she wrote; but she had not wished to keep him waiting so long. And then, in a

Mr. Smith was here last Sunday. I am to say Mrs. Beamish would be very pleased if you also would call

Some days previously Mahony had addressed a question to, Henry Ocock. With this third letter from Polly,

Yourself ats. Bolliver. We think that action will be set down for trial in about six weeks' time. In these

circumstances we do not think any useful purpose will be served by you calling to see us until this is done.

Six weeks' time? The man might as well have said a year. And meanwhile Purdy was stealing a march on

him, was paying clandestine visits to Geelong. Was it conceivable that anyone in his five senses could prefer

Tilly to Polly? It was not. In the clutch of a sudden fear Mahony went to Bath's and ordered a horse for the

This time he left his store in charge of a young consumptive, whose plight had touched his heart: the poor

fellow was stranded on Ballarat without a farthing, having proved, like many another of his physique, quite

unfit for work on the diggings. A strict Baptist this Hempel, and one who believed hellfire would be his

portion if he so much as guessed at the "plant" of his employer's cashbox. He also pledged his word to bear

and forbear with Long Jim. The latter saw himself superseded with an extreme bad grace, and was in no hurry

Mahony's nag was in good condition, and he covered the distance in a trifle over six hours.

He had evidently hit on the family washingday. The big boiler in the yard belched clouds of steam; the

female inmates of the Hotel were gathered in the outhouse: he saw them through the door as he rode in at

the gate. All three girls stood before tubs, their sleeves rolled up, their arms in the lather. At his apparition

there was a characteristic chorus of cheeps and shrills and the door was banged to. Mrs. Beamish alone came

Not in a mood to mince matters, he announced straightway the object of his visit. He was prepared for some

expression of surprise on the part of the good woman; but the blend of sheepfaced amazement and uncivil

incredulity to which she subjected him made him hot and angry; and he vouchsafed no further word of

Mrs. Beamish presently so far recovered as to be able to finish wiping the suds from her fat red arms.

"Well, and now I come to think of it, I'm blessed if I didn't suspeck somethin' of it, right from the first! Why,

didn't I say to Beamish, with me own lips, 'ow you couldn't 'ardly take your eyes off 'er? Well, well, I'm sure I

wish you every 'appiness though 'ow we're h'ever goin' to get on without Polly, I reelly don't know. Don't I

wish it 'ad bin one o' my two as 'ad tuck your fancy that's all! Between you an' me, I don't believe a

blessed thing's goin' to come of all young Smith's danglin' round. An' Polly's still a bit young only just

turned sixteen. Not as she's any the worse o' that though; you'll get 'er h'all the easier into your ways. An' now

In vain did Mahony assure her that he had lunched on the road. He did not know Mrs. Beamish. He was

forced not only to sit down to the meal she spread, but also, under her argus eye, to eat of it.

When after a considerable delay Polly at length appeared, she had removed all traces of the tub. The hand

was cold that he took in his, as he asked her if she would walk with him to the cave.

This time, she trembled openly. Like a lamb led to the slaughter, he thought, looking down at her with tender

eyes. Small doubt that vulgar creature withindoors had betrayed him to Polly, and exaggerated the ordeal

that lay before her. When once she was his wife he would not consent to her remaining intimate with people

of the Beamishes' kidney: what a joy to get her out of their clutches! Nor should she spoil her pretty shape by

In his annoyance he forgot to moderate his pace. Polly had to trip many small steps to keep up with him.

Mahony stood and looked down at her. How young she was . . . how young and innocent! Every feature of

her dear little face still waited, as it were, for the strokes of time's chisel. It should be the care of his life that

"Polly," he said, fresh from his scrutiny. "Polly, I'm not going to beat about the bush with you. I think you

Polly choked a little, in her attempt to answer. She could not tell him that she had carried his letters about

with her by day, and slept with them under her pillow; that she knew every word in them by heart, and had

copied and practised the bold flourish of the Dickenslike signature; that she had never let his name cross her

lips; that she thought him the kindest, handsomest, cleverest man in the world, and would willingly have

humbled herself to the dust before him: all this boiled and bubbled in her, as she brought forth her poor little

"Indeed, I hope not," went on Mahony. "Because, Polly, I've come to ask you if you will be my wife."

Rocks, trees, hills, suddenly grown tipsy, went seesawing round Polly, when she heard these words said.

She shut her eyes, and hid her face in her hands. Such happiness seemed improbable was not to be

"Yes, Polly. Do you think you could learn to care for me a little, my dear? No, don't be in a hurry to answer.

But she needed none. With what she felt to be a most unmaidenly eagerness, yet could not subdue, she

He let his arms fall to his sides; he found he had been holding them stiffly out from him. He sat down. "And

now take away your hands, Polly, and let me see your face. Don't be ashamed of showing me what you feel.

This is a sacred moment for us. We are promising to take each other, you know, for richer for poorer, for

better for worse as the good old words have it. And I must warn you, my dear, you are not marrying a rich

man. I live in a poor, rough place, and have only a poor home to offer you. Oh, I have had many scruples

about asking you to leave your friends to come and share it with me, Polly my love!"

"And I shall take every care of you. Please God, you will never regret your choice."

They were within sight of the house where they sat; and Mahony imagined rude, curious eyes. So he did not

kiss her. Instead, he drew her arm though his, and together they paced up and down the path they had come

by, while he laid his plans before her, and confessed to the dreams he had dreamt of their wedded life. It was

a radiant afternoon in the distance the sea lay deep blue, with turquoise shallows; a great white bird of a ship,

her canvas spread to the breeze, was making for . . . why, today he did not care whether for port or for

"home"; the sun went down in a blaze behind a bank of emerald green. And little Polly agreed with

everything he said was all one lovely glow of acquiescence. He thought no happier mortal than himself

MAHONY remained at the Hotel till the following afternoon, then walked to Geelong and took the

steampacket to Melbourne. The object of his journey was to ask Mr. John Turnham's formal sanction to his

marriage. Polly accompanied him a little way on his walk. And whenever he looked back he saw her standing

He parted from her with a sense of leaving his most precious possession behind, so close had words made the

tie. On the other hand, he was not sorry to be out of range for a while of the Beamish family's banter. This

had set in, the evening before, as soon as he and Polly returned to the house pacing the deck of the little

steamer, he writhed anew at the remembrance. Jokes at their expense had been cracked all through supper: his

want of appetite, for instance, was the subject of a dozen crude insinuations; and this, though everyone

present knew that he had eaten a hearty meal not two hours previously; had been kept up till he grew stony

and savage, and Polly, trying hard not to mind but red to the rims of her ears, slipped out of the room. Supper

over, Mrs. Bearnish announced in a loud voice that the verandah was at the disposal of the "turtledoves."

She no doubt expected them to bill and coo in public, as Purdy and Matilda had done. On edge at the thought,

he drew Polly into the comparative seclusion of the garden. Here they strolled up and down, their promenade

bounded at the lower end by the denseleaved arbour under which they had first met. In its screening shadow

In the distance a clump of hills rose steep and bare from the waste land by the sea's edge he could see

them at this moment as he leant over the taffrail: with the sun going down behind them they were the colour

of smoked glass. Last night they had been white with moonlight, which lay spilled out upon them like milk.

Strange old hills! Standing there unchanged, unshaken, from time immemorial, they made the troth that had

been plighted under their shield seem pitifully frail. And yet. . . . The vows which Polly and he had found so

new, so wonderful; were not these, in truth, as ancient as the hills themselves, and as undying? Countless

generations of human lovers had uttered them. The lovers passed, but the pledges remained: had put on

In the course of their talk it leaked out that Polly would not feel comfortable till her choice was ratified by

As she lost her shyness Mahony made the discovery that she laughed easily, and was fond of a jest. Thus,

when he admitted to her that he found it difficult to distinguish one fair, plump, sister Beamish from the

other; that they seemed to him as much alike as two firm, pinkribbed mushrooms, the little woman was

hugely tickled by his his masculine want of perception. "Why, Jinny has brown eyes and Tilly blue!"

What he did not know, and what Polly did not confess to him, was that much of her merriment arose from

sheer lightness of heart. She, silly goose that she was! who had once believed Jinny to be the picked

But she grew serious again: could he tell her, please, why Mr. Smith wrote so seldom to Tilly? Poor Tilly was

Mahony made excuses for Purdy, urging his unsettled mode of life. But it pleased him to see that Polly took

No, there had not been a single jarring note in all their intercourse; each moment had made the dear girl

It had been agreed that he should call at her brother's private house, towards five o'clock in the afternoon. He

had thus to kill time for the better part of the next day. His first visit was to a jeweller's in Great Collins

Street. Here, he pushed aside a tray of showy diamonds a successful digger was covering the fat, red

hands of his bride with them and chose a slender, discreetly chased setting, containing three small stones.

No matter what household duties fell to Polly's share, this little ring would not be out of place on her finger.

From there he went to the last address Purdy had given him; only to find that the boy had again disappeared.

Before parting from Purdy, the time before, he had lent him half the purchasemoney for a horse and dray,

thus enabling him to carry out an old scheme of plying for hire at the city wharf. According to the landlord of

the "Hotel Vendome," to whom Mahony was referred for fuller information, Purdy had soon tired of this job,

and selling dray and beast for what he could get had gone off on a new rush to "Simson's Diggings" or the

Pricked by the nervous disquietude of those who have to do with the law, Mahony next repaired to his

solicitor's office. But Henry Ocock was closeted with a more important client. This, Grindle the clerk, whom

he met on the stairs, informed him, with an evident relish, and with some hidden, hinted meaning in the

corners of his shifty little eyes. It was lost on Mahony, who was not the man to accept hints from a stranger.

The hour was on lunchtime; Grindle proposed that they should go together to a legal chophouse, which

offered prime value for your money, and where, over the meal, he would give Mahony the latest news of his

suit. At a loss how to get through the day, the latter followed him he was resolved, too, to practise

economy from now on. But when he sat down to a dirty cloth and flyspotted cruet he regretted his

compliance. Besides, the news Grindle was able to give him amounted to nothing; the case had not budged

since last he heard of it. Worse still was the clerk's behaviour. For after lauding the cheapness of the

establishment, Grindle disputed the price of each item on the "meenew," and, when he came to pay his bill,

He was plainly one of those who feel the constant need of an audience. And since there was no officeboy

present, for him to dazzle with his wit, he applied himself to demonstrating to his tablecompanion what a

"Women are the deuce, sir," he asserted, lying back in his chair and sending two trails of smoke from his

nostrils. "The very deuce! You should hear my governor on the subject! He'd tickle your ears for you. Look

here, I'll give you the tip: this move, you know, to Ballarat, that he's drivin' at: what'ull you bet me there isn't

a woman in the case? Fact! 'Pon my word there is. And a devilish fine woman, too!" He shut one eye and laid

a finger along his nose. "You won't blow the gab? that's why you couldn't have your parleyvoo this

morning. When milady comes to town H. O.'s non est as long as she's here. And she with a hubby of her own,

Mahony, who could draw in his feelers no further than he had done, touched the limit of his patience. "My

connexion with Mr. Ocock is a purely business one. I have no intention of trespassing on his private affairs,

Bowing distantly he stalked out of the eatinghouse and back to the "Criterion," where he dined. "So much

Towards five o'clock he took his seat in an omnibus that plied between the city and the seaside suburb of St.

Kilda, three miles off. A cool breeze went; the hoofs of the horses beat a rataplan on the hard surface; the

great road, broad enough to make three of, was alive with smart gigs and trotters.

St. Kilda was a group of white houses facing the Bay. Most were o' weatherboard with brick chimneys; but

there were also a few of a more solid construction. Mahony's goal was one of these: a low, stone villa

surrounded by verandahs, in the midst of tasteful grounds. The drive up to the door led through a shrubbery,

artfully contrived of the native titree; behind the house stretched kitchen and fruitgardens. Many rare

plants grew in the beds. There was a hedge of geraniums close on fifteen feet high.

His knock was answered by a groom, who made a saucy face: Mr. Turnham and his lady were attending the

Governor's ball this evening and did not receive. Mahony insisted on the delivery of his visitingcard. And

since the servant still blocked the entrance he added: "Inform your master, my man, that I am the bearer of a

The man shut him out, left him standing on the verandah. After a lengthy absence, he returned, and with a

"Well, come along in then!" opened the door of a parlour. This was a large room, well furnished in horsehair

and rep. Waxlights stood on the mantelpiece before a giltframed pierglass; coloured prints hung on the

While Mahony was admiring the genteel comfort to which he had long been a stranger, John Turnham

entered the room. He had a quiet tread, but took determined strides at the floor. In his hand he held Mahony's

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr. . . . er . . . Mahony?" he asked, refreshing his memory with a glance at

the pasteboard. He spoke in the brusque tone of one accustomed to run through many applicants in the course

of an hour. "I understand that you make use of my sister Mary's name." And, as Mahony did not instantly

A tinge of colour mounted to Mahony's cheeks. He answered with equal stiffness: "That is so. I come from

Mr. William Beamish's 'Family Hotel,' and am commissioned to bring you your sister's warm love and

"I have also to acquaint you with the fact," continued Mahony, gathering hauteur as he went, "that the day

before yesterday I proposed marriage to your sister, and that she did me the honour of accepting me."

"Ah, indeed!" said John Turnham, with a kind of ironic snort. "And may I ask on what ground you "

"On the ground, sir, that I have a sincere affection for Miss Turnham, and believe it lies in my power to make

"Of that, kindly allow me to judge. My sister is a mere child too young to know her own mind. Be

To a constraining, restraining vision of little Polly, Mahony obeyed, stifling the near retort that she was not

too young to earn her living among strangers. The two men faced each other on opposite sides of the table.

John Turnham had the same dark eyes and hair, the same short, straight nose as his brother and sister, but not

their exotic pallor. His skin was bronzed; and his large, scarlet mouth supplied a vivid dash of colour. He

"And now, Mr. Mahony, I will ask you a blunt question. I receive letters regularly from my sister, but I

"Who am I?" flared up Mahony. "A gentleman like yourself, sir! though a poor one. As for Miss Turnham

not mentioning me in her letters, that is easily explained. I only had the pleasure of making her acquaintance

"You are candid," said Polly's brother, and smiled without unclosing his lips. "But your reply to my question

tells me nothing. May I ask what . . . er . . . under what . . . er . . . circumstances you came out to the colony,

"No, sir, you may not!" cried Mahony, and flung up from his seat; he scented a deadly insult in the question.

"Come, come, Mr. Mahony," said Turnham in a more conciliatory tone. "Nothing is gained by being techy.

And my inquiry is not unreasonable. You are an entire stranger to me; my sister has known you but for a few

weeks, and is a young and inexperienced girl into the bargain. You tell me you are a gentleman. Sir! I had as

lief you said you were a blacksmith. In this grand country of ours, where progress is the watchword, effete

standards and dogging traditions must go by the board. Grit is of more use to us than gentility. Each single

"In that I am absolutely not at one with you, Mr. Turnham," said Mahony coldly. He had sat down again,

feeling rather ashamed of his violence. "Without a leaven of refinement, the very raw material of which the

But Turnham interrupted him. "Give 'em time, sir, give 'em time. God bless my soul! Rome wasn't built in a

day. But to resume. I have repeatedly had occasion to remark in what small stead the training that fits a man

for a career in the old country stands him here. And that is why I am dissatisfied with your reply. Show me

your muscles, sir, give me a clean bill of health, tell me if you have learnt a trade and can pay your way. See,

I will be frank with you. The position I occupy today I owe entirely to my own efforts. I landed in the

colony ten years ago, when this marvellous city of ours was little more than a village settlement. I had but

five pounds in my pocket. Today I am a partner in my firm, and intend, if all goes well, to enter parliament.

Hence I think I may, without presumption, judge what makes for success here, and of the type of man to

attain it. Work, hard work, is the key to all doors. So convinced am I of this, that I have insisted on the

younger members of my family learning betimes to put their shoulders to the wheel. Now, Mr. Mahony, I

Candour invariably disarmed Mahony even lay a little heavy on him, with the weight of an obligation. He

retaliated with a light touch of selfdepreciation. "An Irishman, sir, in a country where the Irish have fallen,

Over a biscuit and a glass of sherry he gave a rough outline of the circumstances that had led to his leaving

England, two years previously, and of his dismayed arrival in what he called "the cesspool of 1852".

"Thanks to the rosewater romance of the English press, many a young man of my day was enticed away

from a modest competency, to seek his fortune here, where it was pretended that nuggets could be gathered

like cabbages I myself threw up a tidy little country practice. . . . I might mention that medicine was my

profession. It would have given me intense satisfaction, Mr. Turnham, to see one of those glib journalists in

my shoes, or the shoes of some of my messmates on the Ocean Queen. There were men aboard that ship, sir,

who were reduced to beggary before they could even set foot on the road to the north. Granted it is the duty

"Let the press be, Mahony," said Turnham: he had sat back, crossed his legs, and put his thumbs in his

armholes. "Let it be. What we need here is colonists small matter how we get 'em."

Having had his say, Mahony scamped the recital of his own sufferings: the discomforts of the month he had

been forced to spend in Melbourne getting his slender outfit together; the miseries of the tramp to Ballarat on

delicate unused feet, among the riffraff of nations, under a wan December sky, against which the trunks of

the gumtrees rose whiter still, and out of which blazed a copper sun with a misty rim. He scamped, too, his

sixmonths' attempt at digging he had been no more fit for the work than a child. Worn to skin and bone,

his small remaining strength sucked out by dysentery, he had in the end bartered his last pinch of golddust

for a barrowload of useful odds and ends; and this had formed the nucleus of his store. Here, fortune had

smiled on him; his flag hardly set aflying custom had poured in, business gone up by leaps and bounds

"Although I have never sold so much as a pint of spirits, sir!" His profits for the past six months equalled a

clear three hundred, and he had most of this to the good. With a wife to keep, expenses would naturally be

heavier; but he should continue to lay by every spare penny, with a view to getting back to England.

"H'm," said John: he was standing on the hearthrug now, his legs apart. "That, of course, puts a different

complexion on the matter. Still, I may say I am entirely reassured by what you have told me entirely so.

Indeed, you must allow me to congratulate you on the good sense you displayed in striking while the iron was

hot. Many a one of your medical brethren, sir, would have thought it beneath his dignity to turn shopkeeper.

And now, Mr. Mahony, I will wish you good day; we shall doubtless meet again before very long. Nay, one

moment! There are cases, you will admit, in which a female opinion is not without value. Besides, I should

He crossed the hall, tapped at a door and cried: "Emma, my love, will you give us the pleasure of your

In response to this a lady entered, whom Mahony thought one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen.

She carried a yearling infant in her arms, and with one hand pressed its pale flaxen poll against the rich, ripe

corn of her own hair, as if to dare comparison. Her cheeks were of a delicate rose pink.

"My love," said Turnham and one felt that the word was no mere flower of speech. "My love, here is

"To marry our Polly?" echoed the lady, and smiled a faint, amused smile it was as though she said: to

John hung over his beautiful wife, wheeled up an easy chair, arranged her in it, placed a footstool. "Pray,

pray, do not overfatigue yourself, Emma! That child is too heavy for you," he objected, as the babe made

strenuous efforts to kick itself to its feet. "You know I do not approve of you carrying it yourself."

"But why do I keep a houseful of domestics if one of the others cannot occasionally take her place?"

He made an impetuous step towards the bell. Before he could reach it there came a thumping at the door, and

Turnham threw the door open, and admitted a sturdy twoyearold, whom he led forward by the hand. "My

son," he said, not without pride. Mahony would have coaxed the child to him; but it ran to its mother, hid its

Forgetting the bell John struck an attitude. "What a picture!" he exclaimed. "What a picture! My love, I

positively must carry out my intention of having you painted in oils, with the children round you. Mr.

Though his mental attitude might have been expressed by a note of exclamation, set ironically, Mahony felt

constrained to second Turnham's enthusiasm. And it was indeed a lovely picture: the gracious, goldenhaired

woman, whose figure had the amplitude, her gestures the almost sensual languor of the young nursing

mother; the two children fawning at her knee, both ashblond, with vivid scarlet lips. "It helps one,"

The nursemaid summoned and the children borne off, Mrs. Emma exchanged a few amiable words with the

visitor, then obeyed with an equally good grace her husband's command to rest for an hour, before dressing

Having escorted her to another room, Turnham came back rubbing his hands. "I am pleased to be able to tell

you, Mr. Mahony, that your suit has my wife's approval. You are highly favoured! Emma is not free with her

liking." Then, in a sudden burst of effusion: "I could have wished you the pleasure, sir, of seeing my wife in

evening attire. She will make a furore again; no other woman can hold a candle to her in a ballroom.

Tonight is the first time since the birth of our second child that she will grace a public entertainment with

her presence; and unfortunately her appearance will be a brief one, for the infant is not yet wholly weaned."

He shut the door and lowered his voice. "You have had some experience of doctoring, you say; I should like a

word with you in your medical capacity. The thing is this. My wife has persisted, contrary to my wishes, in

"Quite right, too," said Mahony. "In a climate like this their natural food is invaluable to babes."

"Exactly, quite so," said Turnham, with a hint of impatience. "And in the case of the first child, I made due

allowance: a young mother. . . the novelty of the thing. . . you understand. But with regard to the second, I

must confess I How long, sir, in your opinion, can a mother continue to nurse her babe without injury to

herself? It is surely harmful if unduly protracted? I have observed dark lines about my wife's eyes, and she is

losing her fine complexion. Then you confirm my fears. I shall assert my authority without delay, and

insist on separation from the child. Ah! women are strange beings, Mr. Mahony, strange beings, as you

Mahony returned to town on foot, the omnibus having ceased to run. As he walked at a quick pace, and

keeping a sharp lookout; for the road was notoriously unsafe after dark he revolved his impressions of

the interview. He was glad it was over, and, for Polly's sake, that it had passed off satisfactorily. It had made

a poor enough start: at one moment he had been within an ace of picking up his hat and stalking out. But he

found it difficult at the present happy crisis to bear a grudge even if it had not been a proved idiosyncrasy

of his, always to let a successful finish erase a bad beginning. None the less, he would not have belonged to

the nation he did, had he not indulged in a caustic chuckle and a pair of goodhumoured pishes and pshaws,

Then he thought again of the domestic scene he had been privileged to witness, and grew grave. The beautiful

young woman and her children might have served as model for a Holy Family some old painter's dream of

a sweet benign Madonna; the trampling babe as the infant Christ; the upturned face of the little John adoring.

No place this for the scoffer. Apart from the mere pleasure of the eye, there was ample justification for

Turnham's transports. Were they not in the presence of one of life's sublimest mysteries that of

motherhood? Not alone the lovely Emma: no; every woman who endured the rigours of childbirth, to bring

And now for him, too, as he had been reminded, this wonder was to be worked. Little Polly as the mother of

his children what visions the words conjured up! But he was glad Polly was just Polly, and not the

peerless creature he had seen. John Turnham's fears would never be his this jealous care of a transient

bodily beauty. Polly was neither too rare nor too fair for her woman's lot; and, please God, the day would

come when he would see her with a whole cluster of little ones round her little darkeyed replicas of

herself. She, bless her, should dandle and cosset them to her heart's content. Her joy in them would also be

HE sawed, planed, hammered; curly shavings dropped and there was a pleasant smell of sawdust. Much had

to be done to make the place fit to receive Polly. A second outhouse was necessary, to hold the surplus goods

and do duty as a sleepingroom for Long Jim and Hempel: the leanto the pair had occupied till now was

being converted into a kitchen. At great cost and trouble, Mahony had some trees felled and brought in from

Warrenheip. With them he put up a rude fence round his backyard, interlacing the lopped boughs from post to

post, so that they formed a thick and leafy screen. He also filled in the disused shaft that had served as a

rubbishhole, and chose another, farther off, which would be less malodorous in the summer heat. Finally, a

substantial load of firewood carted in, and two snakes that had made the journey in hollow logs dispatched,

Long Jim was set down to chop and split the wood into a neat pile. Polly would need but to walk to and from

Indoors he made equal revolution. That her ears should not be polluted by the language of the customers, he

ran up a partition between livingroom and store, thus cutting off the slabwalled portion of the house, with

its roof of stringybark, from the logandcanvas front. He also stopped with putty the worst gaps between

the slabs. At Ocock's Auction Rooms he bought a horsehair sofa to match his armchair, a strip of carpet, a

bed, a washhandstand and a lookingglass, and tacked up a calico curtain before the window. His books,

fetched out of the wooden case, were arranged on a brandnew set of shelves; and, when all was done and he

stood back to admire his work, it was borne in on him afresh with how few creaturecomforts he had hitherto

existed. Plain to see now, why he had preferred to sit outofdoors rather than within! Now, no one on the

In his labours he had the help of a friendly digger a carpenter by trade who one evening, pipe in

mouth, had stood to watch his amateurish efforts with the jackplane. Otherwise, the Lord alone knew how

the house would ever have been made shipshape. Long Jim was equal to none but the simplest jobs; and

Hempel, the assistant, had his hands full with the store. Well, it was a blessing at this juncture that business

could be left to him. Hempel was as straight as a die; was a real treasure or would have been, were it not

for his eternal little bark of a cough. This was proof against all remedies, and the heckheck of it at night was

quite enough to spoil a light sleeper's rest. In building the new shed, Mahony had been careful to choose a

Marriages were still uncommon enough on Ballarat to make him an object of considerable curiosity. People

took to dropping in of an evening old Ocock; the postmaster; a fellow storekeeper, exsteward to the

Duke of Newcastle to comment on his alterations and improvements. And over a pipe and a glass of

sherry, he had to put up with a good deal of banter about his approaching "change of state."

Still, it was kindly meant. "We'll 'ave to git up a bit o' company o' nights for yer lady when she comes," said

Hooray, old Dick, golly for you! Old man didn't I kick up a bobbery when I heard the news. Never was so

well pleased in my life. That's all you needed, Dick now you'll turn into a firstrate colonial. How about

that fiver now I'd like to know. You can tell Polly from me I shall pay it back with interest on the fatal day.

Of course I'll come and see you spliced, togs or no togs to tell the truth my kicksies are on their very last

legs and there's nothing doing here all the loose stuff's been turned over. There's oceans of quartz, of

course, and they're trying to pound it up in dollies, but you could put me to bed with a pickaxe and a shovel

before I'd go in for such tomfoolery as that. Damn it all, Dick, to think of you being cotched at last. I can't

get over it, and it's a bit of a risk, too, by dad it is, for a girl of that age is a dark horse if ever there was one.

Mahony's answer to this was a couple of poundnotes: So that my best man shall not disgrace me! His heart

went out to the writer. Dear old Dickybird! pleased as Punch at the turn of events, yet quaking for fear of

imaginary risks. With all Purdy's respect for his friend's opinions, he had yet an odd distrust of that friend's

ability to look after himself. And now he was presuming to doubt Polly, too. Like his imperence! What the

dickens did he know of Polly? Keenly relishing the sense of his own intimate knowledge, Mahony touched

the breastpocket in which Polly's letters lay he often carried them out with him to a little hill, on which a

single old bluegum had been left standing; its scraggy topknot of leaves drooped and swayed in the wind,

The letters formed a goodly bundle; for Polly and he wrote regularly to each other, she once a week, he twice.

His bore the Queen's head; hers, as befitted a needy little governess, were oftenest delivered by hand.

Mahony untied the packet, drew a chance letter from it and mused as he read. Polly had still not ceded much

of her early reserve and it had taken him weeks to persuade her even to call him by his first name. She

was, he thanked goodness, not of the kind who throw maidenly modesty to the winds, directly the binding

word is spoken. He loved her all the better for her wariness of emotion; it tallied with a like streak in his own

nature. And this, though at the moment he was going through a very debauch of frankness. To the little

blackeyed girl who pored over his letters at "Beamish's Family Hotel," he unbosomed himself as never in

his life before. He enlarged on his tastes and preferences, his likes and dislikes; he gave vent to his real

feelings for the country of his exile, and his longings for "home"; told how he had come to the colony, in the

first instance, with the fantastic notion of redeeming the fortunes of his family; described his collections of

butterflies and plants to her, using their Latin names. And Polly drank in his words, and humbly agreed with

all he wrote, or at least did not disagree; and, from this, as have done lovers from the beginning of time, he

inferred a perfect harmony of mind. On one point only did he press her for a reply. Was she fond of books? If

so, what evenings they would spend together, he reading aloud from some entertaining volume, she at her

fancy work. And poetry? For himself he could truly say he did not care for poetry . . . except on a Saturday

night or a quiet Sunday morning; and that was, because he liked it too well to approach it with any but a

I think if I know you aright, as I believe I do, my Polly, you too have poetry in your soul.

I cannot write poetry myself, said Polly, but I am very fond of it and shall indeed like very much dear Richard

But the winter ran away, one cold, wet week succeeding another, and still they were apart. Mahony urged and

pleaded, but could not get Polly to name the weddingday. He began to think pressure was being brought to

bear on the girl from another side. Naturally the Beamishes were reluctant to let her go: who would be so

useful to them as Polly? who undertake, without scorn, the education of the whilom shepherd's daughters?

Still, they knew they had to lose her, and he could not see that it made things any easier for them to put off

the evil day. No, there was something else at the bottom of it; though he did not know what. Then one

evening, pondering a letter of Polly's, he slapped his forehead and exclaimed aloud at his own stupidity. That

night, into his reply he slipped four fivepound notes. Just to buy yourself any little thing you fancy, dearest.

If I chose a gift, I might send what would not be acceptable to you. Yes, sure enough, that was it little

Polly had been in straits for money: the next news he heard was that she had bought and was stitching her

weddinggown. Taxed with her need, Polly guiltily admitted that her salary for the past three months was

owing to her. But there had been great expenses in connection with the hotel; and Mr. B. had had an accident

to his leg. From what she wrote, though, Mahony saw that it was not the first time such remissness had

occurred; and he felt grimly indignant with her employers. Keeping open house, and hospitable to the point of

vulgarity, they were, it was evident, pinchfists when it came to parting with their money. Still, in the case of a

little woman who had served them so faithfully! In thought he set a thick black mark against their name, for

their cavalier treatment of his Polly. And extended it to John Turnham as well. John had made no move to put

hand to pocket; and Polly's niceness of feeling had stood in the way of her applying to him for aid. It made

Mahony yearn to snatch the girl to him, then and there; to set her free of all contact with such coarsegrained,

Old Ocock negotiated the hire of a neat spring cart for him, and a stout little cob; and at last the day had

actually come, when he could set out to bring Polly home. By his side was Ned Turnham. Ned, still a

leanjowled wagesman at Rotten Gully, made no secret of his glee at getting carried down thus comfortably

to Polly's nuptials. They drove the eternal forty odd miles to Geelong, each stick and stone of which was fast

becoming known to Mahony; a journey that remained equally tiresome whether the red earth rose as a thick

red dust, or whether as now it had turned to a mud like birdlime in which the wheels sank almost to the axles.

Arrived at Geelong they put up at an hotel, where Purdy awaited them. Purdy had tramped down from

Tarrangower, blanket on back, and stood in need of a new rigout from head to foot. Otherwise his persistent

The ceremony took place early the following morning, at the house of the Wesleyan minister, the Anglican

parson having been called away. The Beamishes and Polly drove to town, a tight fit in a double buggy. On

the back seat, Jinny clung to and half supported a huge clothesbasket, which contained the

weddingbreakfast. Polly sat on her trunk by the splashboard; and Tilly, crowded out, rode in on one of the

To Polly's disappointment neither her brother John nor his wife was present; a letter came at the eleventh

hour to say that Mrs. Emma was unwell, and her husband did not care to leave her. Enclosed, however, were

ten pounds for the purchase of a weddinggift; and the pleasure Polly felt at being able to announce John's

generosity helped to make up to her for his absence. The only other guest present was an elder sister, Miss

Sarah Turnham, who, being out of a situation at the moment, had sailed down from Melbourne. This young

lady, a sprightly brunette of some three or four and twenty, without the fine, regular features of Ned and

Polly, but with tenfold their vivacity and experience, caused quite a sensation; and Tilly's audible raptures at

beholding her Purdy again were of short duration; for Purdy had never met the equal of Miss Sarah, and

could not take his eyes off her. He and she were the life of the party. The Beamishes were overawed by the

visitor's townbred airs and the genteel elegance of her dress; Polly was a mere crumpled roseleaf of pink

confusion; Mahony too preoccupied with ring and licence to take any but his formal share in the proceedings.

"Come and see you?" echoed Miss Sarah playfully: the knot was tied; the company had demolished the good

things laid out by Mrs. Beamish in the private parlour of an hotel, and emptied a couple of bottles of

champagne; and Polly had changed her muslin frock for a black silk travellinggown. "Come and see you?

Why, of course I will, little silly!" and, with her pretty white hands, she patted the already perfect bow of

Polly's bonnetstrings. Miss Sarah had no great opinion of the match her sister was making; but she had been

agreeably surprised by Mahony's person and manners, and had said so, thus filling Polly's soul with bliss.

"Provided, of course, little goosey, you have a spare room to offer me. For, I confess," she went on,

turning to the rest of the party, "I confess I feel inordinately curious to see, with my own eyes, what these

famous diggings are like. From all one hears, they must be marvellously entertaining. Now, I presume that

you, Mr. Smith, never touch at such rude, outoftheworld places in the course of your travels?"

Purdy, who had discreetly concealed the fact that he was but a povertystricken digger himself, quibbled a

light evasion, then changed the subject,and offered his escort to the steampacket by which Miss Sarah was

"And you, too, dear Tilly," urged little Polly, proceeding with her farewells. "For, mind, you promised. And I

Tilly, sobbing noisily, wept on Polly's neck that she wished she was dead or at the bottom of the sea; and

Polly, torn between pride and pain at Purdy's delinquency, could only kiss her several times without

"Goodbye to you, little lass . . . beg pardon, Mrs. Dr. Mahony!" "Mind you write, Poll! I shall die to

"Tata, little silly goosey, and au revoir!" "Mind he don't pitch you out of the cart, Polly!" "Goodbye,

Polly, my duck, and remember I'll come to you in a winkin', h'if and when . . ." which speech on the part of

But finally she was torn from their arms and hoisted into the cart; and Mahony, the reins in his hand, began to

unstiffen from the wooden figurehead he had felt himself during the ceremony, and under the whirring

"And now, Polly, for home!" he said exultantly, when the largest pockethandkerchief had shrunk to the size

of a nit, and Polly had ceased to twist her neck for one last, last glimpse of her friends.

It was the time of flowers of fierce young growth after the fruitful winter rains. The shortlived grass,

green now as that of an English meadow, was picked out into patterns by the scarlet of the Running Postman;

purple sarsaparilla festooned the stems of the scrub; there were vast natural paddocks, here of yellow

everlastings, there of heaths in full bloom. Compared with the dark, spindly foliage of the sheoaks, the

titrees' waxy flowers stood out like orangeblossoms against firs. On damp or marshy ground wattles were

aflame: great quivering masses of softest gold. Wherever these trees stood, the fragrance of their yellow

puffball blossoms saturated the air; one knew, before one saw them, that they were coming, and long after

they had been left behind one carried their honeyed sweetness with one; against them, no other scent could

have made itself felt. And to Mahony these waves of perfume, into which they were continually running,

came, in the course of the hours, to stand for a symbol of the golden future for which he and Polly were

making; and whenever in after years he met with wattles in full bloom, he was carried back to the blue spring

day of this weddingjourney, and jogged on once more, in the light cart, with his girlwife at his side.

It was necessarily a silent drive. More rain had fallen during the night; even the best bits of the road were

worked into deep, glutinous ruts, and the lowlying parts were under water. Mahony, but a fairish hand with

the reins, was repeatedly obliged to leave the track and take to the bush, where he steered a way as best he

could through trees, stumps, boulders and crabholes. Sometimes he rose to his feet to encourage the horse;

or he alighted and pulled it by the bridle; or put a shoulder to the wheel. But today no difficulties had power

to daunt him; and the farther he advanced the lighterhearted he grew: he went back to Ballarat feeling, for

And Polly? Sitting motionless at her husband's side, her hands folded on her black silk lap, Polly obediently

turned her head this way and that, when Richard pointed out a landmark to her, or called her attention to the

flowers. At first, things were new and arresting, but the novelty soon wore off; and as they went on and on,

and still on, it began to seem to Polly, who had never been farther afield than a couple of miles north of the

"Pivot City," as if they were driving away from all the rest of mankind, right into the very heart of nowhere.

The road grew rougher, too became scored with ridges and furrows which threw them violently from side

to side. Unused to bush driving, Polly was sure at each fresh jolt that this time the cart must tip over; and yet

she preferred the track and its dangers to Richard's adventurous attempts to carve a passage through the scrub.

A little later a cold south wind sprang up, which struck through her thin silk mantle; she was very tired,

having been on her feet since five o'clock that morning; and all the happy fuss and excitement of the wedding

was behind her. Her heart sank. She loved Richard dearly; if he had asked her, she would have gone to the

ends of the earth with him; but at this moment she felt both small and lonely, and she would have liked

nothing better than Mrs. Beamish's big motherly bosom, on which to lay her head. And when, in passing a

swamp, a wellknown noise broke on her ear that of hundreds of bellfrogs, which were like hundreds of

hissing teakettles just about to boil then such a rush of homesickness took her that she would have given

all she had, to know she was going back, once more, to the familiar little whitewashed room she had shared

The seat of the cart was slanting and slippery. Polly was continually sliding forward, now by inches, now

with a great jerk. At last Mahony noticed it. "You are not sitting very comfortably, Polly, I fear?" he said.

Polly righted herself yet again, and reddened. "It's my . . . my feet aren't long enough," she replied.

"Why, my poor little love!" cried Mahony, full of quick compunction. "Why didn't you say so?" And drawing

rein and getting down, he stuffed some of Mrs. Beamish's bundles fragments of the feast, which the good

woman had sent with them under his wife's feet; stuffed too many, so that Polly drove the rest of the way

with her knees raised to a hump in front of her. All the afternoon they had been making for dim blue ranges.

After leaving the flats near Geelong, the track went up and down. Greygreen forest surrounded them, out of

which nobbly hills rose like islands from a sea of trees. As they approached the end of their journey, they

overtook a large number of heavy vehicles labouring along through the mire. A coach with six horses dashed

past them at full gallop, and left them rapidly behind. Did they have to skirt bullpunchers who were lashing

or otherwise illtreating their teams, Mahony urged on the horse and bade Polly shut her eyes.

Night had fallen and a drizzling rain get in, by the time they travelled the last couple of miles to Ballarat. This

was the worst of all; and Polly held her breath while the horse picked its way among yawning pits, into which

one false step would have plunged them. Her fears were not lessened by hearing that in several places the

very road was undermined; and she was thankful when Richard himself rendered uneasy by the precious

cargo he bore got out and walked at the horse's head. They drew up before a publichouse. Cramped from

sitting and numb with cold, Polly climbed stiffly down as bidden; and Mahony having unloaded the baggage,

mounted to his seat again to drive the cart into the yard. This was a false move, as he was quick to see: he

should not have left Polly standing alone. For the news of the arrival of "Doc." Mahony and his bride flew

from mouth to mouth, and all the loafers who were in the bar turned out to stare and to quiz. Beside her

tumulus of trunk, bag, bundle little Polly stood desolate, with drooping shoulders; and cursing his want of

foresight, Mahony all but drove into the gatepost, which occasioned a loud guffaw. Nor had Long Jim turned

up as ordered, to shoulder the heavy luggage. These blunders made Mahony very hot and curt. Having

himself stowed the things inside the bar and borrowed a lantern, he drew his wife's arm through his, and

It was pitchdark, and the ground was wet and squelchy. Their feet sank in the mud. Polly clung to Richard's

arm, trembling at the rude voices, the laughter, the brawling, that issued from the grogshops; at the

continual apparition of rough, bearded men. One of these, who held a candle stuck in a bottle, was accosted

by Richard and soundly rated. When they turned out of the street with its few dismal oillamps, their way led

them among dirty tents and black pits, and they had to depend for light on the lantern they carried. They

crossed a rickety little bridge over a flooded river; then climbed a slope, on which in her bunchy silk skirts

Polly slipped and floundered, to stop before something that was half a tent and half a loghut. What! this

Yes, Richard was speaking. "Welcome home, little wife! Not much of a place, you see, but the best I can give

"It's . . . it's very nice, Richard," said Polly staunchly; but her lips trembled.

Warding off the attack of a big, fierce, dirty dog, which sprang at her, dragging its paws down her dress,

Polly waited while her husband undid the door, then followed him through a chaos, which smelt as she had

Mahony lighted the lamp that stood ready on the table, and threw a satisfied glance round. His menfolk had

done well: things were in applepie order. The fire crackled, the kettle was on the boil, the cloth spread. He

turned to Polly to kiss her welcome, to relieve her of bonnet and mantle. But before he could do this there

came a noise of rowdy voices, of shouting and parleying. Picking up the lantern, he ran out to see what the

Left alone Polly remained standing by the table, on which an array of tins was set preserved salmon,

sardines, condensed milk their tops forced back to show their contents. Her heart was heavy as lead, and

she felt a dull sense of injury as well. This hut her home! to which she had so freely invited sister and

friend! She would be ashamed for them ever to set eyes on it. Not in her worst dreams had she imagined it as

mean and poor as this. But perhaps . . . . With the lamp in her hand, she tiptoed guiltily to a door in the wall:

it opened into a tiny bedroom with a sloping roof. No, this was all, all there was of it: just these two miserable

little poky rooms! She raised her head and looked round, and the tears welled up in spite of herself. The roof

was so low that you could almost touch it; the window was no larger than a pockethandkerchief; there were

chinks between the slabs of the walls. And from one of these she now saw a spider crawl out, a huge black

tarantula, with horrible hairy legs. Polly was afraid of spiders; and at this the tears began to overflow and to

trickle down her cheeks. Holding her skirts to her the new dress she had made with such pride, now damp,

and crushed, and soiled she sat down and put her feet, in their soaked, mudcaked, little prunella boots, on

the rung of her chair, for fear of other monsters that might be crawling the floor.

And then, while she sat thus hunched together, the voices outside were suddenly drowned in a deafening

noise in a hideous, stupefying din, that nearly split one's eardrums: it sounded as though all the tins and

cans in the town were being beaten and banged before the door. Polly forgot the tarantula, forgot her bitter

disappointment with her new home. Her black eyes wide with fear, her heart thudding in her chest, she sprang

to her feet and stood ready, if need be, to defend herself. Where, oh where was Richard?

It was the last straw. When, some five minutes later, Mahony came bustling in: he had soothed the

"kettledrummers" and sent them off with a handsome gratuity, and he carried the trunk on his own shoulder,

Long Jim following behind with bags and bundles: when he entered, he found little Polly sitting with her

OVER the fathomless grey seas that tossed between, dissevering the ancient and gigantic continent from the

tiny motherland, unsettling rumours ran. After close on forty years' fat peace, England had armed for

hostilities again, her fleet set sail for a foreign sea. Such was the news the sturdy clipperships brought out, in

tantalising fragments; and those who, like Richard Mahony, were mere birdsofpassage in the colony, and

had friends and relatives going to the front, caught hungrily at every detail. But to the majority of the

colonists what England had done, or left undone, in preparation for war, was of small account. To them the

vital question was: will the wily Russian Bear take its revenge by sending menofwar to annihilate us and

plunder the gold in our banks us, months removed from English aid? And the opinion was openly

expressed that in casting off her allegiance to Great Britain, and becoming a neutral state, lay young

But, even while they made it, the proposers of this scheme were kneedeep in petty, local affairs again. All

Europe was depressed under the cloud of war; but they went on belabouring hackneyed themes the

unlocking of the lands, iniquitous licencefees, official corruption. Mahony could not stand it. His heart was

in England, went up and down with England's hopes and fears. He smarted under the tales told of the

inefficiency of the British troops and the paucity of their numbers; under the painful disclosures made by

journalists, injudiciously allowed to travel to the seat of war; he questioned, like many another of his class in

the old country, the wisdom of the Duke of Newcastle's orders to lay siege to the port of Sebastopol. And of

an evening, when the store was closed, he sat over stale English newspapers and a map of the Crimea, and

But in this retirement he was rudely disturbed, by feeling himself touched on a vulnerable spot that of his

pocket. Before the end of the year trade had come to a standstill, and the very town he lived in was under

On both Ballarat and the Bendigo the agitation for the repeal of the licencetax had grown more and more

vehement; and spring's arrival found the diggingcommunity worked up to a white heat. The new Governor's

tour of inspection, on which great hopes had been built, served only to aggravate the trouble. Misled by the

golden treasures with which the diggers, anxious as children to please, dazzled his eyes, the Governor

decided that the tax was not an outrageous one; and ordered licenceraids to be undertaken twice as often as

before. This defeat of the diggers' hopes, together with the murder of a comrade and the acquittal of the

murderer by a corrupt magistrate, goaded even the least sensitive spirits to rebellion: the guilty man's house

was fired, the police were stoned, and then, for a month or more, deputations and petitions ran to and fro

between Ballarat and Melbourne. In vain: the demands of the voteless diggers went unheard. The

consequence was that one day at the beginning of summer all the troops that could be spared from the capital,

along with several pieces of artillery, were raising the dust on the road to Ballarat.

On the last afternoon in November work was suspended throughout the diggings, and the more cautious

among the shopkeepers began to think of closing their doors. In front of the "Diggers' Emporium," where the

earth was baked as hard as a burnt crust, a little knot of people stood shading their eyes from the sun.

Opposite, on Bakery Hill, a monster meeting had been held and the "Southern Cross" hoisted a blue

bunting that bore the silver stars of the constellation after which it was named. Having sworn allegiance to it

Mahony watched the thin procession through narrowed lids. In theory he condemned equally the blind

obstinacy of the authorities, who went on tightening the screw, and the foolhardiness of the men. But well,

he could not get his eye to shirk one of the screaming banners and placards: "Down with Despotism!" "Who

so base as be a Slave!" by means of which the diggers sought to inflame popular indignation. "If only honest

rebels could get on without melodramatic exaggeration! As it is, those good fellows yonder are rendering a

Polly tightened her clasp of his arm. She had known no peace since the evening before, when a

roughlooking man had come into the store and, with revolver at full cock, had commanded Hempel to hand

over all the arms and ammunition it contained. Hempel, much to Richard's wrath, had meekly complied; but

it might have been Richard himself; he would for certain have refused; and then. . . . Polly had hardly slept

for thinking of it. She now listened in deferential silence to the men's talk; but when old Ocock he never

had a good word to say for the riotous diggers took his pipe out of his mouth to remark: "A pack o'

Tipperary boys spoilin' for a fight that's what I say. An' yet, blow me if I wouldn't 'a bin glad if one o' my

two 'ad 'ad spunk enough to join 'em," at this Polly could not refrain from saying pitifully: "Oh, Mr.

Ocock, do you really mean that?" For both Purdy and brother Ned were in the rebel band, and Polly's heart

"Can't you see my brother anywhere?" she asked Hempel, who held an old spyglass to his eyes.

"No, ma'am, sorry to say I can't," replied Hempel. He would willingly have conjured up a dozen brothers to

"Give me the glass," said Mahony, and swept the line. "No, no sign of either of them. Perhaps they

thought better of it after all. Listen! now they're singing can you hear them? The Marseillaise as I'm

alive. Poor fools! Many of them are armed with nothing more deadly than picks and shovels."

"Ay, that's so, they've bin 'ammerin' out bits of old iron all the mornin'," agreed Ocock. "It's said they 'aven't a

quarter of a firearm apiece. And the drillin'! Lord love yer! 'Alf of 'em don't know their right 'and from their

Patting her hand, Mahony advised his wife to go indoors and resume her household tasks. And since his

lightest wish was a command, little Polly docilely withdrew her arm and returned to her dishwashing. But

though she rubbed and scoured with her usual precision, her heart was not in her work. Both on this day and

the next she seemed to exist solely in her two ears. The one strained to catch any scrap of news about "poor

Ned"; the other listened, with an even sharper anxiety, to what went on in the store. Several further attempts

were made to get arms and provisions from Richard; and each time an angry scene ensued. Close up beside

the thin partition, her hands locked under her cookingapron, Polly sat and trembled for her husband. He had

already got himself talked about by refusing to back a Reform League; and now she heard him openly declare

to some one that he disapproved of the terms of this League, from A to Z. Oh dear! If only he wouldn't. But

she was careful not to add to his worries by speaking of her fears. As it was, he came to tea with a moody

The behaviour of the foraging parties growing more and more threatening, Mahony thought it prudent to

follow the general example and put up his shutters. Wildly conflicting rumours were in the air. One report

said a contingent of Creswick daredevils had arrived to join forces with the insurgents; another that the

Creswickers, disgusted at finding neither firearms nor quarters provided for them, had straightway turned and

marched the twelve miles home again. For a time it was asserted that Lalor, the Irish leader, had been bought

over by the government; then, just as definitely, that his influence alone held the rebel faction together.

Towards evening Long Jim was dispatched to find out how matters really stood. He brought back word that

the diggers had entrenched themselves on a piece of rising ground near the Eureka lead, behind a flimsy

barricade of logs, slabs, ropes and overturned carts. The Camp, for its part, was screened by a breastwork of

firewood, trusses of hay and bags of corn; while the mounted police stood or lay fully armed by their horses,

Neither Ned nor Purdy put in an appearance, and the night passed without news of them. Just before dawn,

however, Mahony was wakened by a tapping at the window. Thrusting out his head he recognised young

Tommy Ocock, who had been sent by his father to tell "doctor" that the soldiers were astir. Lights could be

seen moving about the Camp, a horse had neighed father thought spies might have given them the hint

that at least half the diggers from the Stockade had come down to Main Street last night, and got drunk, and

never gone back. With a concerned glance at Polly Mahony struggled into his clothes. He must make another

effort to reach the boys especially Ned, for Polly's sake. When Ned had first announced his intention of

siding with the insurgents, he had merely shrugged his shoulders, believing that the young vapourer would

soon have had enough of it. Now he felt responsible to his wife for Ned's safety: Ned, whose chief reason for

turning rebel, he suspected, was that a facetious trooper had once dubbed him "Eytalian organgrinder," and

But Mahony's designs of a friendly interference came too late. The troops had got away, creeping stealthily

through the morning dusk; and he was still panting up Specimen Hill when he heard the crack of a rifle.

Confused shouts and cries followed. Then a bugle blared, and the next instant the rattle and bang of musketry

Together with a knot of others, who like himself had run forth half dressed, Mahony stopped and waited, in

extreme anxiety; and, while he stood, the stars went out, one by one, as though a fingertip touched them.

The diggers' response to the volley of the attacking party was easily distinguished: it was a dropping fire, and

sounded like a thin hailshower after a peal of thunder. Within half an hour all was over: the barricade had

fallen, to cheers and laughter from the military; the rebel flag was torn down; huts and tents inside the

Towards six o'clock, just as the December sun, huge and fiery, thrust the edge of its globe above the horizon,

a number of onlookers ran up the slope to all that was left of the illfated stockade. On the dust, bloodstains,

now set hard as scabs, traced the route by which a wretched procession of prisoners had been marched to the

Camp gaol. Behind the demolished barrier huts smouldered as heaps of blackened embers; and the ground

was strewn with stark forms, which lay about some twenty or thirty of them in grotesque attitudes.

Some sprawled with outstretched arms, their sightless eyes seeming to fix the pale azure of the sky; others

were hunched and huddled in a last convulsion. And in the course of his fruitless search for friend and

brother, an old instinct reasserted itself in Mahony: kneeling down he began swiftly and dexterously to

examine the prostrate bodies. Two or three still heaved, the blood gurgling from throat and breast like water

from the neck of a bottle. Here, one had a mouth plugged with shot, and a beard as stiff as though it were

made of rope. Another that he turned over was a German he had once heard speak at a diggers' meeting a

windy braggart of a man, with a quaint impediment in his speech. Well, poor soul! he would never mouth

invectives or tickle the ribs of an audience again. His body was a very colander of wounds. Some had not

bled either. It looked as though the soldiers had viciously gone on prodding and stabbing the fallen.

Stripping a corpse of its shirt, he tore off a piece of stuff to make a bandage for a shattered leg. While he was

binding the limb to a board, young Tom ran up to say that the military, returning with carts, were arresting

every one they met in the vicinity. With others who had been covering up and carrying away their friends,

Mahony hastened down the back of the hill towards the bush. Here was plain evidence of a stampede. More

bloodstains pointed the track, and a number of odd and clumsy weapons had been dropped or thrown away by

He went home with the relatively good tidings that neither Ned nor Purdy was to be found. Polly was up and

dressed. She had also lighted the fire and set water on to boil, "just in case." "Was there ever such a sensible

The day dragged by, flat and stale after the excitement of the morning. No one ventured far from cover; for

the military remained under arms, and detachments of mounted troopers patrolled the streets. At the Camp

the hundred odd prisoners were being sorted out, and the maimed and wounded doctored in the rude little

temporary hospital. Down in Main Street the noise of hammering went on hour after hour. The dead could

Mahony had just secured his premises for the night, when there came a rapping at the back door. In the yard

stood a stranger who, when the dog Pompey had been chidden and soothed, made mysterious signs to

Mahony and murmured a wellknown name. Admitted to the sittingroom he fished a scrap of dirty paper

from his boot. Mahony put the candle on the table and straightened out the missive. Sure enough, it was in

Have been hit in the pin. Come if possible and bring your tools. The bearer is square.

Polly could hear the two of them talking in low, urgent tones. But her relief that the visitor brought no bad

news of her brother was dashed when she learned that Richard had to ride out into the bush, to visit a sick

man. However she buttoned her bodice, and with her hair hanging down her back went into the sittingroom

to help her husband; for he was turning the place upside down. He had a pair of probescissors somewhere,

he felt sure, if he could only lay hands on them. And while he ransacked drawers and cupboards for one or

other of the few poor instruments left him, his thoughts went back, inopportunely enough, to the time when

he had been surgeon's dresser in the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary. O tempora, O mores! He wondered what old

Syme, that prince of surgeons, would say, could he see his whilom student raking out a probe from among the

Bag in hand, he followed his guide to where the latter had left a horse in safekeeping; and having

lengthened the stirrups and received instructions about the road, he set off for the hut in the ranges which

Purdy had contrived to reach. He had an awkward crosscountry ride of some four miles before him; but this

did not trouble him. The chancetouched spring had opened the gates to a flood of memories; and, as he

jogged along, he relived in thought the happy days spent as a student under the shadow of Arthur's Seat,

round the College, the Infirmary and old Surgeons' Square. Once more he sat in the theatre, the breathless

spectator of famous surgical operations; or as housesurgeon to the Lyingin Hospital himself assisted in

daring attempts to lessen suffering and save life. It was, of course, too late now to bemoan the fact that he had

broken with his profession. Yet only that very day envy had beset him. The rest of the fraternity had run to

and from the tents where the wounded were housed, while he, behung with his shopman's apron, pottered

about among barrels and crates. No one thought of enlisting his services; another, not he, would set (or

The hut it had four slab walls and an earthen floor was in darkness on his arrival, for Purdy had not

dared to make a light. He lay tossing restlessly on a dirty old straw palliasse, and was in great pain; but

Hanging his coat over the chinks in the door, and turning back his sleeves, Mahony took up the lantern and

stooped to examine the injured leg. A bullet had struck the right ankle, causing an ugly wound. He washed it

out, dressed and bandaged it. He also bathed the patient's sweatsoaked head and shoulders; then sat down to

As soon as the latter appeared he took his leave, promising to ride out again the night after next. In spite of

the circumstances under which they met, he and Purdy parted with a slight coolness. Mahony had loudly

voiced his surprise at the nature of the wound caused by the bullet: it was incredible that any of the military

could have borne a weapon of this calibre. Pressed, Purdy admitted that his hurt was a piece of gross illluck:

he had been accidentally shot by a clumsy fool of a digger, from an ancient holsterpistol.

To Mahony this seemed to cap the climax; and he did not mask his sentiments. The pitiful little

forciblefeeble rebellion, all along but a futile attempt to cast straws against the wind, was now completely

over and done with, and would never be heard of again. Or such at least, he added, was the earnest hope of

the lawabiding community. This irritated Purdy, who was spumy with the selfimportance of one who has

stood in the thick of the fray. He answered hotly, and ended by rapping out with a contemptuous click of the

tongue: "Upon my word, Dick, you look at the whole thing like the tradesman you are!"

These words rankled in Mahony all the way home. Trust Purdy for not, in anger, being able to resist

giving him a flick on the raw. It made him feel thankful he was no longer so dependent on this friendship as

of old. Since then he had tasted better things. Now, a woman's heart beat in sympathetic understanding; there

met his, two lips which had never said an unkind word. He pushed on with a new zest, reaching home about

dawn. And over his young wife's joy at his safe return, he forgot the shifting moods of his nightjourney.

It had, however, this result. Next day Polly found him with his head in one of the great old shabby black

books which, to her mind, spoilt the neat appearance of the bookshelves. He stood to read, the volume lying

open before him on the top of the cold stove, and was so deeply engrossed that the storebell rang twice

without his hearing it. When, reminded that Hempel was absent, he whipped out to answer it, he carried the

BUT his first treatment of Purdy's wound was also his last. Two nights later he found the hut deserted; and

diligently as he prowled round it in the moonlight, he could discover no clue to the fate of its occupants.

There was nothing to be done but to head his horse for home again. Polly was more fortunate. Within three

days of the fight Ned turned up, sound as a bell. He was sporting a new hat, a flashy silk neckerchief and a

silver watch and chain. At sight of these kickshaws a dismal suspicion entered Mahony's mind, and refused to

be dislodged. But he did not breathe his doubts for Polly's sake. Polly was rapturously content to see her

brother again. She threw her arms round his neck, and listened, with her big, black, innocent eyes except

for their fleckless candour, the counterpart of Ned's own to the tale of his miraculous escape, and of the

Meanwhile public feeling, exasperated beyond measure by the tragedy of that summer dawn, slowly

subsided. Hesitation, timidity, and a very human waiting on success had held many diggers back from joining

in the final coup; but the sympathy of the community was with the rebels, and at the funerals of the fallen,

hundreds of mourners, in such black coats as they could muster, marched side by side to the wild little

unfenced bush cemetery. When, too, the reliefparty arrived from Melbourne and martial law was

proclaimed, the residents handed over their firearms as ordered; but an attempt to swear in special constables

There was literally nothing doing during the month the military occupied Ballarat. Mahony seized the

opportunity to give his back premises a coat of paint; he also began to catalogue his collection of

Lepidoptera. Hence, as far as business was concerned, it was a timely moment for the arrival of a letter from

Henry Ocock, to the effect that, "subject of course to any partheard case," "our case" was first on the list for

None the less, the announcement threw Mahony into the fidgets. He had almost clean forgotten the plaguey

affair: it had its roots in the dark days before his marriage. He wished now he had thought twice before letting

himself be entangled in a lawsuit. Now, he had a wife dependent on him, and to lose the case, and be held

responsible for costs, would cripple him. And such a verdict was not at all unlikely; for Purdy, his chief

witness, could not be got at: the Lord alone knew where Purdy lay hid. He at once sat down and wrote the

At six o'clock in the morning some few days later, he took his seat in the coach for Melbourne. By his side sat

Johnny Ocock, the elder of the two brothers. Johnny had by chance been within earshot during the

negotiations with the rascally carrier, and on learning this, Henry had straightway subpoenaed him. Mahony

was none too well pleased: the boy threatened to be a handful. His old father, on delivering him up at the

coachoffice, had drawn Mahony aside to whisper: "Don't let the young limb out o' yer sight, doc., or get nip

or sip o' liquor. If 'e so much as wets 'is tongue, there's no 'olding 'im." Johnny was a lean, pimplyfaced

Little Polly had to stay behind. Mahony would have liked to give her the trip and show her the sights of the

capital; but the lawcourts were no place for a woman; neither could he leave her sitting alone in a hotel. And

a tentative letter to her brother John had not called forth an invitation: Mrs. Emma was in delicate health at

present, and had no mind for visitors. So he committed Polly to the care of Hempel and Long Jim, both of

whom were her faithful henchmen. She herself, in proper wifely fashion, proposed to give her little house a

Mahony and Johnny dismounted from the coach in the early afternoon, sore, stiff and hungry: they had

broken their fast merely on halfadozen sandwiches, keeping their seats the while that the young toper

might be spared the sight of intoxicating liquors. Now, stopping only to brush off the top layer of dust and

snatch a bite of solid food, Mahony hastened away, his witness at heel, to Chancery Lane.

It was a relief to find that Ocock was not greatly put out at Purdy having failed them. "Leave it to us, sir.

We'll make that all right." As on the previous visit he drywashed his hands while he spoke, and his little

eyes shot flashes from one to the other, like electric sparks. He proposed just to run through the morrow's

evidence with "our young friend there"; and in the course of this rehearsal said more than once: "Good . . .

good! Why, sonny, you're quite smart." This when Johnny succeeded in grasping his drift. But at the least

hint of unreadiness or hesitation, he tuttutted and drew his brows together. And as it went on, it seemed to

Mahony that Ocock was putting words into the boy's mouth; while Johnny, intimidated, said yes and amen to

things he could not possibly know. Presently he interfered to this effect. Ocock brushed his remark aside. But

after a second interruption from Mahony: "I think, sir, with your permission we will ask John not to depart

from what he actually heard," the lawyer shuffled his papers into a heap and said that would do for today:

they would meet at the court in the morning. Prior to shaking hands, however, he threw out a hint that he

would like a word with his brother on family matters. And for half an hour Mahony paced the street below.

The remainder of the day was spent in keeping Johnny out of temptation's way, in trying to interest him in the

life of the city, its monuments and curiosities. But the lad was too apathetic to look about him, and never

opened his mouth. Once only in the course of the afternoon did he offer a kind of handle. In their

peregrinations they passed a Book Arcade, where Mahony stopped to turn the leaves of a volume. Johnny

Johnny stonily accepted the gift it was a tale of Red Indians, the pages smudged with gaudy illustrations

At the good supper that was set before him he picked with a meagre zest; then fell asleep. Mahony took the

opportunity to write a line to Polly to tell of their safe arrival; and having sealed the letter, ran out to post it.

He was not away for more than three minutes, but when he came back Johnny was gone. He hunted high and

low for him, ransacked the place without success: the boy had spoken to no one, nor had he been seen to

leave the coffeeroom; and as the clockhands were nearing twelve, Mahony was obliged to give up the

search and go back to the hotel. It was impossible at that hour to let Ocock know of this fresh piece of

illluck. Besides, there was just a chance the young scamp would turn up in the morning. Morning came,

however, and no Johnny with it. Outwitted and chagrined, Mahony set off for the court alone.

Day had broken dim and misty, and by the time breakfast was over a north wind was raging a

furnacelike blast that bore off the sandy deserts of the interior. The sun was a yellow blotch in a copper sky;

the thermometer had leapt to a hundred and ten in the shade. Blinding clouds of coarse, gritty dust swept

househigh through the streets: halfsuffocated, Mahony fought his way along, his veil lowered, his

handkerchief at his mouth. Outside those publichouses that advertised ice, crowds stood waiting their turn

of entry; while halfnaked barmen, their linen trousers drenched with sweat, worked like niggers to mix

drinks which should quench these bottomless thirsts. Mahony believed he was the only perfectly sober person

in the lobby of the court. Even Ocock himself would seem to have been indulging.

This suspicion was confirmed by the lawyer's behaviour. No sooner did Ocock espy him than up he rushed,

brandishing the note that had been got to him early that morning and now his eyes looked like little dabs

of pitch in his chalkwhite face, and his manner, stripped of its veneer, let the real man show through.

"Curse it, sir, and what's the meaning of this, I'd like to know?" he cried, and struck at the sheet of notepaper

with his free hand. "A pretty fix to put us in at the last minute, upon my word! It was your business, sir, to

nurse your witness . . . after all the trouble I'd been to with him! What the devil do you expect us to do now?"

Mahony's face paled under its topdressing of dust and moisture. To Ocock's gross: "Well, it's your own

lookout, confound you! entirely your own lookout," he returned a cool: "Certainly," then moved to one

side and took up his stand in a corner of the hall, out of the way of the jostle and bustle, the constant going

When after a weary wait the time came to enter court, he continued to give Ocock, who had been deep in

consultation with his clerk, a wide berth, and moved forward among a number of other people. A dark,

ladderlike stair led to the upper storey. While he was mounting this, some words exchanged in a low tone

"We are, if our client doesn't give us away. But he has to be handled like a hot " Here the sentence

snapped, for Mahony, bitten by a sudden doubt, faced sharply round. But it was a stranger who uncivilly

The court it was not much more than twenty feet square was like an illsmelling oven. Every chink

and crack had been stopped against the searing wind; and the atmosphere was a brew of all the sour odours,

the offensive breaths, given off by the twoscore odd people crushed within its walls. In spite of precautions

the dust had got in: it lay thick on sills, desks and papers, gritted between the teeth, made the throat raspy as a

Mahony had given up all hope of winning his case, and looked forward to the sorry pleasure of assisting at a

miscarriage of justice. During the speech for the plaintiff, however, he began to see the matter in another

light. Not so much thanks to the speaker, as in spite of him. Plaintiff's counsel was a common little fellow of

ungainly appearance: a double toll of fat bulged over the neck of his gown, and his wig, hastily redonned

after a breathingspace, sat askew. Nor was he anything of an orator: he stumbled over his sentences, and

once or twice lost his place altogether. To his dry presentment of the case nobody seemed to pay heed. The

judge, tired of wiping his spectacles dry, leant back and closed his eyes. Mahony believed he slept, as did also

some of the jurors, deaf to the Citation of Dawes v. Peck and Dunlop v. Lambert; to the assertion that the

carrier was the agent, the goods were accepted, the property had "passed." This "passing" of the property was

evidently a strong point; the plaintiff's name itself was not much oftener on the speaker's lips. "The

absconding driver, me Lud, was a personal friend of the defendant's. Mr. Bolliver never knew him; hence

could not engage him. Had this person not been thrust upon him, Mr. Bolliver would have employed the

Mahony listened hand at ear, that organ not being keyed up to the mutterings and mumblings of justice. And

for all the dullness of the subjectmatter and counsel's lack of eloquence his interest did not flag. It was the

first time he heard the case for the other side stated plainly; and he was dismayed to find how convincing it

was. Put thus, it must surely gain over every honest, straightthinking man. In comparison, the points Ocock

Then the plaintiff himself went into the witnessbox and Mahony's feelings became involved as well.

This his adversary! this poor old mangy greybeard, who stood blinking a pair of rheumy eyes and weakly

smiling. One did not pit oneself against such human flotsam. Drunkard was stamped on every inch of the

man, but this morning, in odd exception to the wellprimed crew around him, he was sober bewilderedly

sober and his shabby clothing was brushed, his frayed collar clean. Recognising the pitiful bid for

sympathy, Mahony caught himself thinking: "Good Lord! I could have supplied him with a coat he'd have cut

Bolliver clutched the edge of the box with his two hands. His unusual condition was a hindrance rather than a

help to him; without a peg or two his woolly thoughts were not to be disentangled. He stammered forth his

evidence, halting either to piece together what he was going to say, or to recollect what he had just said it

was clear he went in mortal fear of contradicting himself. The scene was painful enough while he faced his

own counsel, but, when counsel for the defence rose, a halfhour followed in which Mahony wished himself

Bolliver could not come to the point. Counsel was merciless and coarsely jocose, and brought off several

laughs. His victim wound his knotty hands in and out, and swallowed oftener than he had saliva for, in a

forlorn endeavour to evade the pitfalls artfully dug for him. More than once he threw a covert glance, that

was like an appeal for help, at all the indifferent faces. Mahony drooped his head, that their eyes should not

In high feather at the effect he was producing, counsel inserted his left arm under his gown, and held the stuff

"And now you'll p'raps have the goodness to tell us whether you've ever had occasion to send goods by a

"N . . . no, I haven't," answered Bolliver, and let his vacillating eyes wander to the judge and back.

"You tell that to the marines!" And after half a dozen other tricky questions: "I put it to you, it's a

wellknown fact that he's been a carrier hereabouts for the last couple o' years or more?"

"I don't know I sup . . . suppose so." Bolliver's tongue grew heavy and tripped up his words.

"And yet you've the cheek, you old rogue you, to insinuate that this was a putup job?"

"I don't care a button what you heard or didn't hear. What I ask, my pretty, is do you yourself say so?"

"I put it to you, this man Murphy was one of the best known carriers in Melbourne, and that was why the

"Then you can stand down!" and leaning over to Grindle, who was below him, counsel whispered with a

There was a painful moment just before Bolliver left the witnessbox. As if become suddenly alive to the

sorry figure he had cut, he turned to the judge with hands clasped, exclaimed: "My Lord, if the case goes

against me, I'm done . . . stonybroke! And the defendant's got a down on me, my Lord 'e's made up his

mind to ruin me. Look at him asetting there a hard man, a mean man, if ever you saw one! What would

He was rudely silenced and hustled away, to a sharp rebuke from the judge, who woke up to give it. All eyes

were turned on Mahony. Under the fire of observation they were comparing him, he knew, with the poor

old Jeremy Diddler yonder, to the latter's disadvantage his spine stiffened and he held himself nervously

erect. But, the quizzing at an end, he fumbled with his finger at his neck his collar seemed to have grown

too tight. While, without, the hot blast, dark with dust, flung itself against the corners of the house, and

Counsel for the defence made an excellent impression. "Naturally! I can afford to pay a betterclass man,"

was Mahony's caustic note. He had fallen to scribbling on a sheet of paper, and was resigned to sitting

through an adept presentment of Ocock's shifts and dodges. But the opening words made him prick up his

"My Lord," said counsel, "I submit there is here no case to go to the jury. No written contract existed between

the parties, to bring it within the Statute of Frauds. Therefore, the plaintiff must prove that the defendant

accepted these goods. Now I submit to you, on the plaintiff's own admission, that the man Murphy was a

common carrier. Your Lordship will know the cases of Hanson v. Armitage and various others, in which it

has been established beyond doubt that a carrier is not an agent to accept goods."

The judge had revived, and while counsel called the quality of the undelivered goods in question, and laid

stress on the fact of no money having passed, he turned the pages of a thick red book with a moistened

thumb. Having found what he sought, he pushed up his spectacles, opened his mouth, and, his eyes bent

meditatively on the speaker, picked a back tooth with the nail of his first finger.

"Therefore," concluded counsel, "I hold that there is no question of fact to go to the jury. I do not wish to

occupy your Lordship's time any further upon this submission. I have my client here, and all his witnesses are

in court whom I am prepared to call, should your Lordship decide against me on the present point. But I do

submit that the plaintiff, on his own showing, has made out no case; and that under the circumstances, upon

At the reference to witnesses, Mahony dug his pencil into the paper till the point snapped. So this was their

little game! And should the bluff not work . . .? He sat rigid, staring at the chipped fragment of lead, and did

It was over; the judge had decided in his favour. He jumped to his feet, and his coatsleeve swept the dust off

the entire length of the ledge in front of him. But before he reached the foot of the stairs Grindle came flying

down, to say that Ocock wished to speak to him. Very good, replied Mahony, he would call at the office in

the course of the afternoon. But the clerk left the courthouse at his side. And suddenly the thought flashed

through Mahony's mind: "The fellow suspects me of trying to do a bolt of wanting to make off without

The leechlike fashion in which Grindle stuck to his heels was not to be misread. "This is what they call

nursing, I suppose he's nursing me now!" said Mahony to himself. At the same time he reckoned up, with

some anxiety, the money he had in his pocket. Should it prove insufficient, who knew what further affronts

"A close shave that, sir, a very close shave! With Warnock on the bench I thought we could manage to pull

it off. Had it been Guppy now . . . Still, all's well that ends well, as the poet says. And now for a trifling

The bill it was already drawn up for "solicitor's and client's costs" came to twenty odd pounds.

But this was still not all. Once again Grindle ran after him, and pinned him to the floor.

"I say, Mr. Mahony, a rare joke gad, it's enough to make you burst your sides! That old thingumbob, the

plaintiff, ye know, now what'n earth d'you think 'e's been an' done? Gets outer court like one o'clock 'e'd a

sorter rabbitfancyin' business in 'is backyard. Well, 'ome 'e trots an' slits the guts of every blamed bunny, an'

chucks the bloody corpses inter the street. Oh lor! What do you say to that, eh? Unfurnished in the upper

HOW truly "home" the poor little gimcrack shanty had become to him, Mahony grasped only when he once

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

"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

He set an excellent meal before his brotherinlaw, and himself ate and drank heartily, unfolding his very

tablenapkin with a kind of relish. In lunching, he inquired the object of Mahony's journey to town. At the

He poohpoohed 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

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 selfpossession. "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

Mahony urged compliance with the whims of the mothertobe, 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

"Nature? Bah! I am no great believer in nature," gave back John, and emptied his glass of madeira. "Nature

They parted; and Mahony went back to twirl his thumbs in the hotel coffeeroom. 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 bleareyed,

weakwitted 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

publichouse 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

Polly stood on tiptoe 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

When he had had a spongedown 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 arminarm 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

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 lawyerfellows 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 witnessbox would haunt him for the rest of his days. He could see him, too, with equal

clearness, brokenheartedly 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 cleanup. 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.

Six months of married life had worked certain changes in his blackeyed slip of a girl; but something of the

doelike 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 pitchdark 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 doublequick 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 bedroomwall, 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

goodwill 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 stumblingblock. "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

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,

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

selfsufficiency 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;

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 fourfooters 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

Again, there was the question of literature. Books to Mahony were almost as necessary as bread; to his

girlwife, 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 wellchopped, 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 makebelieve, knowing, of course, that it

was makebelieve 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

'Tis the sunset of life gives us mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before,

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

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

"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

No: Polly was more or less familiar with various other forms of licence, from the golddiggers' 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

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

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

She made haste to contradict him. Oh, it was very nice, and she loved to hear him read.

She faced him squarely at that, though with pink cheeks. "Well, not much, Richard."

"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, upsidedown; 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 dangerpoint and gone down. Quickly resolved, Polly cut slice on slice of thin breadandbutter,

and with this she and Mrs. Hemmerde stuffed the willing babe till, full to bursting, it warded them off with its

Mahony laughed heartily at the tale, and applauded his wife's prompt measures. "Short of the forceps nothing

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 raisinstoning or potatopeeling, 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 cookerybook 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

Three knocks on the wooden partition was the signal which, if he were not serving a customer, summoned

"Oh, Richard, it's ripen beautifully!" And, red with heat and pride, Polly drew a great goldencrusted,

blownup spongecake along the oven shelf. Richard, who had a sweet tooth, pretended to be unable to curb

"Wait! First I must see . . ." and she plunged a knife into the cake's heart: it came out untarnished. "Yes, it's

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 kitchentable, their feet dangling in the air, husband and wife sat

boyandgirl 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

IT was an odd and inexplicable thing that business showed no sign of improving. Affairs on Ballarat had, for

months past, run their usual prosperous course. The western township grew from day to day, and was

straggling right out to the banks of the great swamp. On the Flat, the deep sinking that was at present the rule

some parties actually touched a depth of three hundred feet before bottoming had brought a fresh host

of fortunehunters to the spot, and the results obtained bid fair to rival those of the first golden year. The

diggers' grievances and their conflict with the government were now a turned page. At a state trial all

prisoners had been acquitted, and a general amnesty declared for those rebels who were still at large.

Unpopular ministers had resigned or died; a new constitution for the colony awaited the Royal assent; and

pending this, two of the rebelleaders, now prominent townsmen, were chosen to sit in the Legislative

Council. The future could not have looked rosier. For others, that was. For him, Mahony, it held more than

At no time had he come near making a fortune out of storekeeping. For one thing, he had been too squeamish.

From the outset he had declined to soil his hands with surreptitious grogselling; nor would he be a party to

that evasion of the law which consisted in overcharging on other goods, and throwing in drinks free. Again,

he would rather have been hamstrung than stoop to the tricks in vogue with regard to the weighing of

golddust: the greased scales, the wet sponge, false beams, and so on. Accordingly, he had a clearer

conscience than the majority and a lighter till. But even at the legitimate ABC of business he had proved a

duffer. He had never, for instance, learned to be a really skilled hand at stocking a shop. Was an

outoftheway article called for, ten to one he had run short of it; and the born shopman's knack of palming

off or persuading to a makeshift was not his. Such goods as he had, he did not press on people; his attitude

was always that of "take it or leave it"; and he sometimes surprised a ridiculous feeling of satisfaction when

he chased a drunken and insolent customer off the premises, or secured an hour's leisure unbroken by the

Still, in spite of everything he had, till recently, done well enough. Money was loose, and the diggers, if given

long credit when down on their luck, were in the main to be relied on to pay up when they struck the lead or

tapped a pocket. He had had slack seasons before now, and things had always come right again. This made it

That there was something more than ordinarily wrong first dawned on him during the stocktaking in

summer. Hempel and he were constantly coming upon goods that had been too long on hand, and were now

fit only to be thrown away. Halfadozen boxes of currants showed a respectable growth of mould; a like

fate had come upon some flitches of bacon; and not a bag of flour but had developed a species of minute

maggot. Rats had got at his coils of rope, one of which, sold in all good faith, had gone near causing the death

of the digger who used it. The remains of some smoked fish were brought back and flung at his head with a

shower of curses, by a woman who had fallen ill through eating of it. And yet, in spite of the replenishing this

involved, the order he sent to town that season was the smallest he had ever given. For the first time he could

not fill a dray, but had to share one with a greenhorn, who, if you please, was setting up at his very door.

He and Hempel cracked their brains to account for the fallingoff or at least he did: afterwards he

believed Hempel had suspected the truth and been too mealymouthed to speak out. It was Polly who

innocently for of course he did not draw her into confidence Polly supplied the clue from a piece of

gossip brought to the house by the woman Hemmerde. It appeared that, at the time of the rebellion, Mahony's

open antagonism to the Reform League had given offence all round to the extremists as well as to the

more wary on whose behalf the League was drafted. They now got even with him by taking their custom

elsewhere. He snorted with indignation on hearing of it; then laughed ironically. He was expected, was he,

not only to bring his personal tastes and habits into line with those of the majority, but to deny his politics as

well? And if he refused, they would make it hard for him to earn a decent living in their midst. Nothing

seemed easier to these unprincipled democrats than for a man to cut his coat to suit his job. Why, he might

He sat over his accountbooks. The pages were black with bad debts for "tucker." Here however was no

mystery. The owners of these names Purdy was among them had without doubt been implicated in the

Eureka riot, and had made off and never returned. He struck a balance, and found to his consternation that,

unless business took a turn for the better, he would not be able to hold out beyond the end of the year.

Afterwards, he was blessed if he knew what was going to happen. The ingenious Hempel was full of ideas for

tempting back fortune opening a branch store on a new lead was one of them, or removing bodily to Main

Street but ready money was the sine qua non of such schemes, and ready money he had not got. Since his

marriage he had put by as good as nothing; and the enlarging and improving of his house, at that time, had

made a big hole in his bachelor savings. He did not feel justified at the present pass in drawing on them anew.

For one thing, before summer was out there would be, if all went well, another mouth to feed. And that meant

Such were the material anxieties he had to encounter in the course of that winter. Below the surface a subtler

embarrassment worked to destroy his peace. In face of the shortage of money, he was obliged to thank his

stars that he had not lost the miserable lawsuit of a few months back. Had that happened, he wouldn't at

present have known where to turn. But this amounted to confessing his satisfaction at having pulled off his

case, pulled it off anyhow, by no matter what crooked means. And as if this were not enough, the last words

he had heard Purdy say came back to sting him anew. The boy had accused him of judging a fight for

freedom from a tradesman's standpoint. Now it might be said of him that he was viewing justice from the

same angle. He had scorned the idea of distorting his political opinions to fit the trade by which he gained his

bread. But it was a far more serious thing if his principles, his character, his sense of equity were all to be

undermined as well. If he stayed here, he would end by becoming as blunt to what was right and fair as the

rest of them. As it was, he was no longer able to regard the two great landmarks of man's moral development

His selfannoyance was so great that it galvanised him to action. There and then he made up his mind: as

soon as the child that was coming to them was old enough to travel, he would sell out for what he could get,

and go back to the old country. Once upon a time he had hoped, when he went, to take a good round sum

with him towards a firstrate English practice. Now he saw that this scheme had been a kind of

Jacko'lantern a marshlight after which he might have danced for years to come. As matters stood, he

must needs be content if, the passagemoneys paid, he could scrape together enough to keep him afloat till he

His first impulse was to say nothing of this to his wife in the meantime. Why unsettle her? But he had

reckoned without the sudden upward leap his spirits made, once his decision was taken: the winter sky was

blue as violets again above him; he turned out lightheartedly of a morning. It was impossible to hide the

change in his mood from Polly even if he had felt it fair to do so. Another thing: when he came to study

Polly by the light of his new plan, he saw that his scruples about unsettling her were fanciful wraiths of

his own imagining. As a matter of fact, the sooner he broke the news to her the better. Little Polly was so

thoroughly happy here that she would need time to accustom herself to the prospect of life elsewhere.

He went about it very cautiously though; and with no hint of the sour and sorry incidents that had driven him

to the step. As was only natural, Polly was rather easily upset at present: the very evening before, he had had

In her first sick young fear Polly had impulsively written off to Mother Beamish, to claim the fulfilment of

that good woman's promise to stand by her when her time came. One letter gave another; Mrs. Beamish not

only announced that she would hold herself ready to support her "little duck" at a moment's notice, but filled

sheets with sage advice and old wives' maxims; and the correspondence, which had languished, flared up

anew. Now came an illscrawled, misspelt epistle from Tilly doleful, too, for Purdy had once more

quitted her without speaking the binding word in which she told that Purdy's leg, though healed, was

permanently shortened; the doctor in Geelong said he would never walk straight again.

Husband and wife sat and discussed the news, wondered how lameness would affect Purdy's future and what

he was doing now, Tilly not having mentioned his whereabouts. "She has probably no more idea than we

"I'm afraid not," said Polly with a sigh. "Well, I hope he won't come back here, that's all"; and she considered

"Out with it, madam! Or I shall suspect the young dog of having made advances to my wife."

"Richard, dear!" Little Polly thought he was in earnest, and grew exceedingly confused. "Oh no, nothing like

that," she assured him, and with red cheeks rushed into an explanation. "He only said, in spite of you being

such old friends he felt you didn't really care to have him here on Ballarat. After a time you always invented

some excuse to get him away." But now that it was out, Polly felt the need of toning down the statement, and

added: "I shouldn't wonder if he was silly enough to think you were envious of him, for having so many

"Envious of him? I? Who on earth has been putting such ideas into your head?" cried Mahony.

"It was 'mother' thought so it was while I was still there," stammered Polly, still more fluttered by the fact

Mahony tried to quell his irritation by fidgeting round the room. "Surely, Polly, you might give up calling

that woman 'mother,' now you belong to me I thank you for the relationship!" he said testily. And having

with much unnecessary ado knocked the ashes out of his pipe, he went on: "It's bad enough to say things of

She hung her head, till the white thread of parting between the dark loops of her hair was almost

perpendicular. She had spoken without thinking in the first place had just blurted out a passing thought.

But even when forced to explain, she had never dreamt of Richard taking offence. Rather she had imagined

the two of them two banded lovingly against one making merry together over Purdy's nonsense. She

had heard her husband laugh away much unkinder remarks than this. And perhaps if she had stopped there,

and said no more, it might have been all right. By her stupid attempt to gloss things over, she had really

She went on with her sewing. But when Mahony came back from the brisk walk by means of which he got

rid of his annoyance, he fancied, though Polly was as cheery as ever and had supper laid for him, that her

Winter had come in earnest; the night was wild and cold. Before the crackling stove the cat lay stretched at

full length, while Pompey dozed fitfully, his nose between his paws. The redcotton curtains that hung at the

little window gave back the lamplight in a ruddy glow; the clock beat off the seconds evenly, except when

drowned by the wind, which came in bouts, hurling itself against the corners of the house. And presently,

laying down his book Polly was too busy now to be read to Mahony looked across at his wife. She was

wrinkling her pretty brows over the manufacture of tiny clothes, a rather pale little woman still, none of the

initial discomforts of her condition having been spared her. Feeling his eyes on her, she looked up and

smiled: did ever anyone see such a ridiculous armhole? Three of one's fingers were enough to fill it and

she held the little shirt aloft for his inspection. Here was his chance: the child's coming offered the best of

pretexts. Taking not only the midget garment but also the hand that held it, he told her of his resolve to go

"You know, love, I've always wished to get home again. And now there's an additional reason. I don't want

my . . . our children to grow up in a place like this. Without companions or refining influences. Who

He said it, but in his heart he knew that his children would be safe enough. And Polly, listening to him, made

"And so I propose, as soon as the youngster's old enough to travel, to haul down the flag for good and all, and

book passages for the three of us in some smart clipper. We'll live in the country, love. Think of it, Polly! A

little gabled, redroofed house at the foot of some Sussex down, with fruit trees and a high hedge round it,

and only the oasthouses peeping over. Doesn't it make your mouth water, my dear?"

He had risen in his eagerness, and stood with his back to the stove, his legs apart. And Polly nodded and

smiled up at him though, truth to tell, the picture he drew did not mean much to her: she had never been in

Sussex, nor did she know what an oasthouse was. A night such as this, with flying clouds and a shrill,

piping wind, made her think of angry seas and a dark ship's cabin, in which she lay deathly sick. But it was

not Polly's way to dwell on disagreeables: her mind glanced off to a pleasanter theme.

"Have you ever thought, Richard, how strange it will seem when there are three of us? You and I will never

be quite alone together again. Oh, I do hope he will be a good baby and not cry much. It will worry you if he

"I shall love it because it is yours, my darling. And the baby of such a dear little mother is sure to be good."

"Oh, babies will be babies, you know!" said Polly, with a new air of wisdom which sat delightfully on her.

Mahony pinched her cheek. "Mrs. Mahony, you're shirking my question. Tell me now, should you not be

"I'll go wherever you go, Richard," said Polly staunchly. "Always. And of course I should like to see mother

I mean my real mother again. But then Ned's here . . . and John, and Sarah. I should be very sorry to

"They may be here, but they don't trouble you often, my dear," said Mahony, with more than a hint of

impatience. "Especially Ned the wellbeloved, who lives not a mile from your door."

"I know he doesn't often come to see us, Richard. But he's only a boy; and has to work so hard. You see it's

like this. If Ned should get into any trouble, I'm here to look after him; and I know that makes mother's mind

"And an extraordinary thing, too! I believe it's the boy's good looks that blind you women to his faults."

"Oh no, indeed it isn't!" declared Polly warmly. "It's just because Ned's Ned. The dearest fellow, if you really

"And so your heart's anchored here, little wife, and would remain here even if I carried your body off to

"Oh no, Richard," said Polly again. "My heart would always be where you are. But I can't help wondering

how Ned would get on alone. And Jerry will soon be here too, now, and he's younger still. And how I should

Judging that enough had been said for the time being, Mahony reopened his book, leaving his wife to chew

Her husband's abrupt resolve to leave the colony, disturbing though it was, did not take her altogether by

surprise. She would have needed to be both deaf and blind not to notice that the storebell rang much

seldomer than it used to, and that Richard had more spare time on his hands. Yes, trade was dull, and that

made him fidgety. Now she had always known that someday it would be her duty to follow Richard to

England. But she had imagined that day to be very far off when they were elderly people, and had saved

up a good deal of money. To hear the date fixed for six months hence was something of a shock to her. And it

was at this point that Polly had a sudden inspiration. As she listened to Richard talking of resuming his

profession, the thought flashed through her mind: why not here? Why should he not start practice in Ballarat,

This was what she ruminated while she tucked and hemmed. She could imagine, of course, what his answer

would be. He would say there were too many doctors on Ballarat already; not more than a dozen of them

made satisfactory incomes. But this argument did not convince Polly. Richard wasn't, perhaps, a great

success at storekeeping; but that was only because he was too good for it. As a doctor, he with his cleverness

and gentlemanly manners would soon, she was certain, stand head and shoulders above the rest. And then

there would be money galore. It was true he did not care for Ballarat was down on both place and people.

But this objection, too, Polly waived. It passed belief that anybody could really dislike this big, rich, bustling,

goahead township, where such handsome buildings were springing up and every one was so friendly. In her

heart she ascribed her husband's want of love for it to the "infra dig" position he occupied. If he mixed with

his equals again and got rid of the feeling that he was looked down on, it would make all the difference in the

world to him. He would then be out of reach of snubs and slights, and people would understand him better

not the residents on Ballarat alone, but also John, and Sarah, and the Beamishes, none of whom really

appreciated Richard. In her mind's eye Polly had a vision of him going his rounds mounted on a chestnut

horse, dressed in surtout and choker, and hand and glove with the bigwigs of society the gentlemen at the

Camp, the Police Magistrate and Archdeacon Long, the rich squatters who lived at the foot of Mount

She did not, however, breathe a word of this to Richard. She was a shade wiser than the night before, when

she had vexed him by blurting out her thoughts. And the present was not the right time to speak. In these days

Richard was under the impression that she needed to be humoured. He might agree with her against his better

judgment, or, worse still, pretend to agree. And Polly didn't want that. She wished fairly to persuade him that,

by setting up here on the diggings where he was known and respected, he would get on quicker, and make

more money, than if he buried himself in some poky English village where no one had ever heard of him.

Meanwhile the unconscious centre of her ambitions wore a perplexed frown. Mahony was much exercised

just now over the question of medical attendance for Polly. The thought of coming into personal contact with

a member of the fraternity was distasteful to him; none of them had an inkling who or what he was. And,

though piqued by their unsuspectingness, he at the same time feared lest it should not be absolute, and he

have the illluck to hit on a practitioner who had heard of his stray spurts of doctoring and written him down

a charlatan and a quack. For this reason he would call in no one in the immediate neighbourhood even the

western township seemed too near. Ultimately, his choice fell on a man named Rogers who hailed from

Mount Pleasant, the rise on the opposite side of the valley and some two miles off. It was true since he did

not intend to disclose his own standing, the distance would make the fellow's fees mount up. But Rogers was

at least properly qualified (half those claiming the title of physician were impudent impostors, who didn't

know a diploma from the Ten Commandments), of the same alma mater as himself not a contemporary,

though, he took good care of that! and, if report spoke true, a skilful and careful obstetrician.

When, however, in response to a note carried by Long Jim Rogers drew rein in front of the store, Mahony

was not greatly impressed by him. He proved to be a stout, reddish man, some ten years Mahony's senior,

with a hastypudding face and an undecided manner. There be sat, his ten spread fingertips meeting and

gently tapping one another across his paunch, and nodding: "Just so, just so!" to all he heard. He had the trick

of saying everything twice over. "Needs to clinch his own opinion!" was Mahony's swift diagnosis. Himself,

he kept in the background. And was he forced to come forward his manner was both stiff and forbidding, so

on tenterhooks was he lest the other should presume to treat him as anything but the storekeeper he gave

A day or so later who but the wife must arrive to visit Polly! a piece of gratuitous friendliness that could

well have been dispensed with; even though Mahony felt it keenly that, at this juncture, Polly should lack

companions of her own sex. But Rogers had married beneath him, and the sight of the pursy upstart there

were people on the Flat who remembered her running barefoot and slatternly sitting there, in satin and

feathers, lording it over his own little Jenny Wren, was more than Mahony could tolerate. The distance was

put forward as an excuse for Polly not returning the call, and Polly was docile as usual; though for her part

she had thought her visitor quite a pleasant, kindly woman. But then Polly never knew when she was being

To wipe out any little trace of disappointment, her husband suggested that she should write and ask one of the

No, she did not want company. By now, indeed, she regretted having sent off that impulsive invitation to

Mrs. Beamish for the end of the year. Puzzle as she would, she could not see how she was going to put

Meanwhile the rains were changing the familiar aspect of the place. Creeks in summer dry gutters of

baked clay were now rich red rivers; and the yellow Yarrowee ran full to the brim, keeping those who

lived hard by it in a twitter of anxiety. The steep slopes of Black Hill showed thinly green; the roads were

ploughed troughs of sticky mire. Occasional night frosts whitened the ground, bringing cloudless days in

their wake. Then down came the rain once more, and fell for a week on end. The diggers were washed out of

their holes, the Flat became an untraversable bog. And now there were floods in earnest: the creeks turned to

foaming torrents that swept away trees and the old roots of trees; and the dwellers on the river banks had to

Over the top of book or newspaper Mahony watched his wife stitch, stitch, stitch, with a zeal that never

flagged, at the dolly garments. Just as he could read his way, so Polly sewed hers, through the time of

waiting. But whereas she, like a sensible little woman, pinned her thoughts fast to the matter in hand, he let

his range freely over the future. Of the many good things this had in store for him, one in particular whetted

his impatience. It took close on a twelvemonth out here to get hold of a new book. On Ballarat not even a

stationer's existed; nor were there more than a couple of shops in Melbourne itself that could be relied on to

carry out your order. You perforce fell behind in the race, remained ignorant of what was being said and done

in science, letters, religious controversy in the great world overseas. To this day he didn't know

whether Agassiz had or had not been appointed to the chair of Natural History in Edinburgh; or whether fresh

heresies with regard to the creation of species had spoiled his chances; did not know whether Hugh Miller

had actually gone crazy over the Vestiges; or even if those archcombatants, Syme and Simpson, had at

length sheathed their swords. Now, however, God willing, he would before very long be back in the thick of

it all, in intimate touch with the doings of the most wideawake city in Europe; and new books and

AND then one morning it was spring now, and piping hot at noon Long Jim brought home from the

postoffice a letter for Polly, addressed in her sister Sarah's sloping hand. Knowing the pleasure it would give

her, Mahony carried it at once to his wife; and Polly laid aside broom and duster and sat down to read.

But he was hardly out of the room when a startled cry drew him back to her side. Polly had hidden her face,

and was shaken by sobs As he could not get her to speak, Mahony picked up the letter from the floor and read

Oh, my dear sister, how can I find words to tell you of the truly "awful" calamity that has befallen our

unhappy brother. Mahony skipped the phrases, and learnt that owing to a carriage accident Emma Turnham

had been prematurely confined, and, the best medical aid notwithstanding John spared absolutely "no"

expense had died two days later. John is like a madman. Directly I heard the "shocking" news, I at once

threw up my engagement at "serious" loss to myself, but that is a matter of small consequence and

came to take my place beside our poor dear brother in his great trial. But all my efforts to bring him to a

proper and "Christian" frame of mind have been fruitless. I am indeed alarmed to be alone with him, and I

tremble for the children, for he is possessed of an "insane" hatred for the sweet little loves. He has locked

himself in his room, will see "no one" nor touch a "particle" of nourishment. Do, my dearest Polly, come at

once on receipt of this, and help me in the "truly awful" task that has been laid upon me. And pray forgive me

for using this plain paper. I have had literally no time to order mourning "of any kind."

So that was Sarah! With a click of the tongue Mahony tossed the letter on the table, and made it clear to Polly

that under no consideration would he allow her to attempt the journey to town. Her relatives seemed utterly to

have forgotten her condition; if, indeed., they had ever grasped the fact that she was expecting a child.

But Polly did not heed him. "Oh, poor, poor Emma! Oh, poor dear John!" Her husband could only soothe her

They had been entirely in the dark about things. For John Turnham thought proper to erect a jealous wall

about his family life. What went on behind it was nobody's business but his own. You felt yourself were

meant to feel yourself the alien, the outsider. And Mahony marvelled once more at the wealth of love and

sympathy his little Polly had kept fresh for these two, who had wasted so few of their thoughts on her.

Polly dried her eyes; he packed his carpetbag. He did this with a good deal of pother, pulling open the

wrong drawers, tumbling up their contents and generally making havoc of his wife's arrangements. But the

sight of his clumsiness acted as a kind of tonic on Polly: she liked to feel that he was dependent on her for his

"He loved her like a pagan, my dear," said Mahony. "And if what your sister Sarah writes is not exaggerated,

"But you won't say that to him, dear Richard . . . will you? You'll be very gentle with him?" pleaded Polly

"Indeed I shall, little woman. But one can't help thinking these things, all the same. You know it is written:

"Yes, I know. But then this was just Emma . . . and she was so pretty and so good" and Polly cried anew.

Mahony rose before dawn to catch the coach. Together with a packet of sandwiches, Polly brought him a

"For Sarah, with my dear love. You see, Richard, I know she always wears coloured dresses. And she will

feel so much happier if she has something black to put on." Little Polly's voice was deep with persuasion.

Richard was none too well pleased, she could see, at having to unlock his bag again; she feared too, that, after

Mahony secured a corner seat; and so, though his knees interlocked with those of his visa'vis, only one of

the eight inside passengers was jammed against him. The coach started; and the long, dull hours of the

journey began to wear away. Nothing broke the monotony but speculations whether the driver a noted

tippler would be drunk before Melbourne was reached and capsize them; and the drawling voice of a

Yankee prospector, who told lying tales about his exploits in California in '48 until, having talked his hearers

to sleep, he dropped off himself. Then, Mahony fell to reflecting on what lay before him. He didn't like the

job. He was not one of your born good Samaritans: he relished intruding as little as being intruded on.

Besides, morally to sustain, to forbear with, a fellowcreature in misfortune, seemed to him as difficult and

thankless a task as any required of one. Infinite tact was essential, and a skin thick enough to stand snubs and

House and garden had lost their air of wellgroomed smartness: the gate stood ajar, the gravel was unraked,

the verandahflooring black with footmarks. With all the blinds still down, the windows looked like so many

dead eyes. Mahony's first knock brought no response; at his second, the door was opened by Sarah Turnham

herself. But a very different Sarah this, from the elegant and sprightly young person who had graced his

wedding. Her chignon was loose, her dress dishevelled. On recognising Mahony, she uttered a cry and fell on

his neck he had to disengage her arms by force and speak severely to her, declaring that he would go away

At last he got her round so far that she could tell her tale, which she did with a hysterical overstatement. She

had, it seemed, arrived there just before her sisterinlaw died. John was quarrelling furiously with all three

doctors, and, before the end, insulted the only one who was left in such a fashion that he, too, marched out of

the house. They had to get the dead woman measured, coffined and taken away by stealth. Whereupon John

had locked himself up in his room, and had not been seen since. He had a loaded revolver with him; through

the closed door he had threatened to shoot both her and the children. The servants had deserted,

panicstricken at their master's behaviour, at the sudden collapse of the wellregulated household: the last, a

nursegirl sent out on an errand some hours previously, had not returned. Sarah was at her wits' end to know

Mahony, in no hesitancy now how to deal with the situation, laid his hat aside and drew off his gloves.

"Prepare some food," he said briefly. "A glass of port and a sandwich or two, if you can manage nothing else

Sarah gasped, and bridled. She had never in her life been inside a butcher's shop!

"Good God, woman, then the sooner you make the beginning the better!" cried Mahony. And as he strode

down the passage to the door she indicated, he added: "Now control yourself, madam! And if you have not

got what I want in a quarter of an hour's time, I'll walk out of the house and leave you to your own devices!"

Mahony knocked three times at the door of John Turnham's room, each time more loudly. Then he took to

battering with his fist on the panels, and cried: "It is I, John, your brotherinlaw! Have the goodness to

There was still an instant of suspense; then heavy footsteps crossed the floor and the door swung back.

"You!" said John in a slow, dazed way, and blinked at the light. But in the next breath he burst out: "Where's

that damned fool of a woman? Is she skulking behind you? I won't see her won't have her near me!"

"If you mean your sister Sarah, she is not in the house at present," said Mahony; and stepping over the

"What do you want?" demanded John in a hoarse voice. "Have you, too, come to preach and sermonise? If so,

"No, no, I leave that to those whose business it is. I'm here as your doctor"; and Mahony drew up a blind and

opened a window. Instantly the level sunrays flooded the room; and the air that came in with them smacked

of the sea. Just outside the window a quincetree in full blossom reared extravagant masses of pink snow

against the blue overhead; beyond it a covered walk of vines shone goldengreen. There was not a cloud in

the sky. To turn back to the musty room from all this lush and lovely life was like stepping down into a vault.

John had sunk into a seat before a secretaire, and shielded his eyes from the sun. A burntout candle stood at

his elbow; and in a line before him were ranged such images as remained to him of his dead a dozen or

more daguerrotypes, of various sizes: Emma and he before marriage and after marriage; Emma with her first

babe, at different stages of its growth; Emma with the two children; Emma in ballattire; with a hat on;

The sight gave the quietus to Mahony's scruples. Stooping, he laid his hand on John's shoulder. "My poor

fellow," he said gently. "Your sister was not in a fit state to travel, so I have come in her place to tell you how

deeply, how truly, we feel for you in your loss. I want to try, too, to help you to bear it. For it has to be borne,

At this the torrent burst. Leaping to his feet John began to fling wildly to and fro; and then, for a time, the

noise of his lamentations filled the room. Mahony had assisted at scenes of this kind before, but never had he

heard the like of the blasphemies that poured over John's lips. (Afterwards, when he had recovered his

distance, he would refer to it as the occasion on which John took the Almighty to task, for having dared to

At the moment he sat silent. "Better for him to get it out," he thought to himself, even while he winced at

When, through sheer exhaustion, John came to a stop, Mahony cast about for words of consolation. All

reference to the mystery of God's way was precluded; and he shrank from entering that sound plea for the

working of Time, which drives a spike into the heart of the newmade mourner. He bethought himself of the

children. "Remember, she did not leave you comfortless. You have your little ones. Think of them."

But this was a false move. Like a belated thunderclap after the storm is over, John broke out again, his

haggard eyes aflame. "Curse the children!" he cried thickly. "Curse them, I say! If I had once caught sight of

them since she . . . she went, I should have wrung their necks. I never wanted children. They came between

us. They took her from me. It was a child that killed her. Now, she is gone and they are left. Keep them out of

my way, Mahony! Don't let them near me. Oh, Emma. . . wife!" and here his shoulders heaved, under dry,

Mahony felt his own eyes grow moist. "Listen to me, John. I promise you, you shall not see your children

again until you wish to till you're glad to recall them, as a living gift from her you have lost. I'll look after

Judging the moment ripe, Mahony rose and went out to fetch the tray on which Sarah had set the eatables.

The meat was but a chop, charred on one side, raw on the other; but John did not notice its shortcomings. He

fell on it like the starving man he was, and gulped down two or three glasses of port. The colour returned to

his face, he was able to give an account of his wife's last hours. "And to talk is what he needs, even if he goes

on till morning." Mahony was quick to see that there were things that rankled in John's memory, like festers

in flesh. One was that, knowing the greys were tricky, he had not forbidden them to Emma long ago. But he

had felt proud of her skill in handling the reins, of the attention she attracted. Far from thwarting her, he had

actually urged her on. Her fall had been a light one, and at the outset no bad results were anticipated: a slight

haemorrhage was soon got under control. A week later, however, it began anew, more violently, and then all

remedies were in vain. As it became clear that the child was dead, the doctors had recourse to serious

measures. But the bleeding went on. She complained of a roaring in her ears, her extremities grew cold, her

pulse fluttered to nothing. She passed from syncope to coma, and from coma to death. John swore that two of

the doctors had been the worse for drink; the third was one of those ignorant impostors with whom the place

"I ought to have gone to look for someone else. But she was dying . . . I could not tear myself away.

Mahony, I can still see her. They had stretched her across the bed, so that her head hung over the side. Her

hair swept the floor one scoundrel trod on it . . . trod on her hair! And I had to stand by and watch, while

they butchered her butchered my girl. Oh, there are things, Mahony, one cannot dwell on and live!"

"You must not look at it like that. Yet, when I recall some of the cases I've seen contraction induced in . . ."

But Mahony did not encourage this idea; it was his duty to unhitch John's thoughts from the past. He now

suggested that, the children and Sarah safe in his keeping, John should shut up the house and go away. To his

surprise John jumped at the proposal, was ready there and then to put it into effect. Yes, said he, he would

start the very next morning, and with no more than a blanket on his back, would wander a hundred odd miles

into the bush, sleeping out under the stars at night, and day by day increasing the distance between himself

and the scene of his loss. And now up he sprang, in a sudden fury to be gone. Warning Sarah into the

background, Mahony helped him get together a few necessaries, and then walked him to a hotel. Here he left

him sleeping under the influence of a drug, and next day saw him off on his tramp northwards, over the Great

John's farewell words were: "Take the keys of the house with you, and don't give them up to me under a

That day's coach was full; they had to wait for seats till the following afternoon. The delay was not

unwelcome to Mahony; it gave Polly time to get the letter he had written her the night before. After leaving

John, he set about raising money for the extra fares and other unforeseen expenses: at the eleventh hour,

Sarah informed him that their young brother Jerry had landed in Melbourne during Emma's illness, and had

been hastily boarded out. Knowing no one else in the city, Mahony was forced, much as it went against the

grain, to turn to Henry Ocock for assistance. And he was effusively received Ocock tried to press double

the sum needed on him. Fortune was no doubt smiling on the lawyer. His offices had swelled to four rooms,

with appropriate clerks in each. He still, however, nursed the scheme of transferring his business to Ballarat.

"As soon, that is, as I can hear of suitable premises. I understand there's only one locality to be considered,

and that's the western township." On which Mahony, whose address was in the outer darkness, repeated his

He found Jerry's lodging, paid the bill, and took the boy back to St. Kilda a shy slip of a lad in his early

teens, with the colouring and complexion that ran in the family. John's coachman, who had shown himself not

indisposed for a substantial sum, paid in advance to keep watch over house and grounds, was installed

in an outbuilding, and next day at noon, after personally aiding Sarah, who was all atremble at the prospect

of the bush journey, to pack her own and the children's clothes, Mahony turned the key in the door of the

darkened house. But a couple of weeks ago it had been a proud and happy home. Now it had no more virtue

He had fumed on first learning of Jerry's superfluous presence; but before they had gone far he saw that he

would have fared ill indeed, had Jerry not been there. Sarah, too agitated that morning to touch a bite of food,

was seized, not an hour out, with sickness and fainting. There she sat, her eyes closed, her salts to her nose or

feebly sipping brandy, unable to lift a finger to help with the children. The younger of the two slept most of

the way hotly and heavily on Mahony's knee; but the boy, a regular pest, was never for a moment still. In vain

did his youthful uncle pinch his leg each time he wriggled to the floor. It was not till a fiercelooking digger

opposite took out a jackknife and threatened to saw off both his feet if he stirred again, to cut out his tongue

if he put another question that, scarlet with fear, little Johnny was tamed. Altogether it was a nightmare of a

journey, and Mahony groaned with relief when, lamps having for some time twinkled past, the coach drew

up, and Hempel and Long Jim stepped forward with their lanterns. Sarah could hardly stand. The children,

FOR the first time in her young married life, Polly felt vexed with her husband.

"Oh, he shouldn't have done that. . . no. really he shouldn't!" she murmured; and the hand with the letter in it

She had been doing a little surreptitious baking in Richard's absence, and without a doubt was hot and tired.

The tears rose to her eyes. Deserting her pastryboard she retreated behind the woodstack and sat down on

the choppingblock; and then, for some minutes, the sky was blotted out. She felt quite unequal, in her

present condition, to facing Sarah, who was so sensitive, so easily shocked; and she was deeply averse from

"An' so this is w'ere you're 'idin', is it?" said Long Jim snappishly he had been opening a keg of treacle

and held a sticky plug in his hand. "An' me runnin' my pore ol' legs off arter you!" And Hempel met her on

her entry with: "No further bad news, I 'ope and trust, ma'am?" Hempel always retained his smooth

servility of manner. "The shopman par excellence, my dear!" Richard was used to say of him.

Polly reassured her attendants, blew her nose, reread her letter; and other feelings came uppermost. She

noticed how scribbly the writing was Richard had evidently been hard pushed for time. There was an

apologetic tone about it, too, which was unlike him. He was probably wondering what she would say; he

might even be making himself reproaches. It was unkind of her to add to them. Let her think rather of the sad

state poor John had been found in, and of his two motherless babes. As for Sarah, it would never have done to

Wiping her eyes Polly untied her cookingapron and set to reviewing her resources. Sarah would have to

share her bed, Richard to sleep on the sofa. The children . . . and here she knitted her brows. Then going into

the yard, she called to Tom Ocock, who sat whittling a stick in front of his father's house; and Tom went

down to Main Street for her, and bought a mattress which he carried home on his shoulder. This she spread

on the bedroom floor, Mrs. Hemmerde having already given both rooms a sound scouring, just in case a flea

or a spider should be lying perdu. After which Polly fell to baking again in good earnest; for the travellers

Towards ten o'clock Tom, who was on the lookout, shouted that the coach was in, and Polly, her table

spread, a good fire going, stepped to the door, outwardly very brave, inwardly all aflutter. Directly,

however, she got sight of the forlorn party that toiled up the slope: Sarah clinging to Hempel's arm, Mahony

bearing one heavy child, and could she believe her eyes? Jerry staggering under the other: her

bashfulness was gone. She ran forward to prop poor Sarah on her free side, to guide her feet to the door; and

it is doubtful whether little Polly had ever spent a more satisfying hour than that which followed.

Her husband, watching her in silent amaze, believed she thoroughly enjoyed the fuss and commotion.

There was Sarah, too sick to see anything but the bed, to undress, to make fomentations for, to coax to

mouthfuls of tea and toast. There was Jerry to feed and send off, with the warmest of hugs, to share Tom

Ocock's palliasse. There were the children . . . well, Polly's first plan had been to put them straight to bed. But

"I think, Mrs. Hemmerde, if you'll get me a tub of hot water, we'll just pop them into it; they'll sleep so much

better," she said . . . not quite truthfully. Her private reflection was: "I don't think Sarah can once have

The little girl let herself be bathed in her sleep; but young John stood and bawled, digging fat fists into slits of

eyes, while Polly scrubbed at his massy knees, the dimpled ups and downs of which looked as if they had

been worked in by hand. She had never seen her brother's children before and was as heartily lost in

admiration of their plump, wellformed bodies, as her helper of the costliness of their outfit.

"Real Injun muslin, as I'm alive!" ejaculated the woman, on fishing out their nightclothes. "An' wid the

sassiest lace for trimmin'! Och, the poor little motherless angels! Stan' quiet, you young divil you, an'

"At least they can't fall out," said Polly, surveying her work with a sigh of content.

Every one else having retired, she sat with Richard before the fire, waiting for his bathwater to reach the

boil. He was anxious to know just how she had fared in his absence, she to hear the full story of his mission.

He confessed to her that his offer to load himself up with the whole party had been made in a momentary

"On your account, love. Though when I see how well you've managed you dear, clever little woman!"

And Polly consoled him, being now come honestly to the stage of: "But, Richard, what else could you do?"

"What, indeed! I knew Emma had no relatives in Melbourne, and who John's intimates might be I had no

"As for leaving the children in Sarah's charge, if you'll allow me to say so, my dear, I consider your sister

"Ah, but you don't really know Sarah yet," said Polly, and smiled a little, through the tears that had ripen to

What Mahony did not mention to her was the necessity he had been under of borrowing money; though Polly

was aware he had left home with but a modest sum in his purse. He wished to spare her feelings. Polly had a

curious delicacy he might almost call it a manly delicacy with regard to money; and the fact that John

had not offered to put hand to pocket; let alone liberally flung a blank cheque at his head, would, Mahony

knew, touch his wife on a tender spot. Nor did Polly herself ask questions. Richard made no allusion to John

having volunteered to bear expenses, so the latter had evidently not done so. What a pity! Richard was so

particular himself, in matters of this kind, that he might write her brother down close and stingy. Of course

John's distressed state of mind partly served to excuse him. But she could not imagine the calamity that

She slid her hand into her husband's and they sat for a while in silence. Then, half to herself, and out of a very

different train of thought she said: "Just fancy them never crying once for their mother."

"Talking of friends," said Sarah, and fastidiously cleared her throat. "Talking of friends, I wonder now what

has become of one of those young gentlemen I met at your wedding. He was . . . let me see . . . why, I declare

"Oh, I know who you mean besides there was only one, Sarah," Mahony heard his wife reply, and

therewith fall into her sister's trap. "You mean Purdy Purdy Smith who was Richard's best man."

It was a warm evening some three weeks later. The store was closed to customers; but Mahony had

ensconced himself in a corner of it with a book: since the invasion, this was the one place in which he could

make sure of finding quiet. The sisters sat on the logbench before the house; and, without seeing them,

Mahony knew to a nicety how they were employed. Polly darned stockings, for John's children; Sarah was

tatting, with her little finger stuck out at right angles to the rest. Mahony could hardly think of this finger

Meanwhile Polly's fresh voice went on, relating Purdy's fortunes. "He took part, you know, in the dreadful

affair on the Eureka last Christmas, when so many poor men were killed. We can speak of it, now they've all

been pardoned; but then we had to be very careful. Well, he was shot in the ankle, and will always be lame

"What! go hobbling on one leg for the remainder of his days? Oh, my dear!" said Sarah, and laughed.

"Yes, because the wound wasn't properly attended to he had to hide about in the bush, for ever so long.

Later on he went to the Beamishes, to be nursed. But by that time his poor leg was in a very bad state. You

"What?" said Sarah once more. "That handsome young fellow engaged to one of those vulgar creatures?"

"Oh, Sarah . . . not really vulgar. It isn't their fault they didn't have a better education. They lived right

upcountry, where there were no schools. Tilly never saw a town till she was sixteen; but she can sit any

horse. Yes, we hope very much Purdy will soon settle down and marry her though he left the Hotel

"Oh, I'm sure he's fond of Tilly. It's only that his life is so unsettled. He's been a barman at Euroa since then;

and the last we heard of him, he was shearing somewhere on the Goulburn. He doesn't seem able to stick to

"And a rolling stone gathers no moss!" gave back Sarah sententiously and in fancy Mahony saw the

Here Hempel passed through the store, clad in his Sunday best, his hair plastered flat with bear'sgrease.

"That was my h'intention, sir. I don't think you'll find I've left any of my dooties undone."

"Oh, go, by all means!" said Mahony curtly, nettled at having his harmless query misconstrued. It pointed a

suspicion he had had, of late, that a change was coming over Hempel. The model employee was a shade less

prompt than heretofore to fly at his word, and once or twice seemed actually to be studying his own

convenience. Without knowing what the matter was, Mahony felt it politic not to be overexacting even

mildly to conciliate his assistant. It would put him in an awkward fix, now that he was on the verge of

winding up affairs, should Hempel take it in his head to leave him in the lurch.

The lean figure moved on and blocked the doorway. Now there was a sudden babble of cheepy voices, and

simultaneously Sarah cried: "Where have you been, my little cherubs? Come to your aunt, and let her kiss

But the children, who had frankly no great liking for Aunt Sarah, would, Mahony knew, turn a deaf ear to this

display of opportunism and make a rush for his wife. Laying down his book he ran out. "Polly . . . cautious!"

"It's all right, Richard, I'm being careful." Polly had let her mending fall, and with each hand held a

flaxenhaired child at arm's length. "Johnny, dirty boy! what have you been up to?"

"He played he was a digger and sat down in a pool I couldn't get him to budge," answered Jerry, and drew

"Don'tcare was made to care, don'tcare was hung!" quoted Aunt Sarah in her severest copybook tones.

Turning his head in his aunt's direction young John thrust forth a bright pink tongue. Little Emma was not

Polly jumped up, dropping her work to the ground. "Johnny, I shall punish you if ever I see you do that again.

Now, Ellen shall put you to bed instead of Auntie." Ellen was Mrs. Hemmerde's eldest, and Polly's first

Seizing two hot, pudgy hands Polly dragged the pair indoors though they held back mainly on principle.

They were not affectionate children; they were too strong of will and set of purpose for that; but if they had a

fondness for anyone it was for their Aunt Polly: she was ruler over a drawerful of sugarsticks, and though

While this was going on Hempel stood, the picture of indecision, and eased now one foot, now the other, as if

At length he blurted out: "I was wondering, ma'am ahem! Miss Turnham if, since it is an agreeable

"Me take a walk? La, no! Whatever put such an idea as that into your head?" cried Sarah; and tatted and

"I didn't make your thoughts, Mr. Hempel," retorted Sarah, laying stress on the aspirate.

"Oh no, ma'am. I 'ope I didn't presume to suggest such a thing"; and with a hangdog air Hempel prepared to

"Well, well!" said Sarah double quick; and ceasing to jerk her crochetneedle in and out, she nimbly rolled

up her ball of thread. "Since you're so insistent . . . and since, mind you, there's no society worth calling such,

on these diggings. . . ." The truth was, Sarah saw that she was about to be left alone with Mahony Jerry

had sauntered off to meet Ned and this t tea't te was by no means to her mind. She still bore her

brotherinlaw a grudge for his highhanded treatment of her at the time of John's bereavement. "As if I had

been one of the domestics, my dear a paid domestic! Ordered me off to the butcher's in language that

Mahony turned his back and strolled down to the river. He did not know which was more painful to witness:

Hempel's unmanly cringing, or the air of fatuous satisfaction that succeeded it. When he returned, the pair

was just setting out; he watched Sarah, on Hempel's arm, picking short steps in dainty latchetshoes.

Polly emerged, tying her bonnetstrings. "Why, where's Sarah? Oh . . . I see. Oh, Richard, I hope she didn't

"She did, my dear!" said Mahony grimly, and tucked his wife's hand under his arm.

"Oh, how I wish she wouldn't!" said Polly in a tone of concern. "She does get so stared at especially of an

evening, when there are so many rude men about. But I really don't think she minds. For she has a bonnet in

her box all the time." Miss Sarah was giving Ballarat food for talk, by appearing on her promenades in a hat:

"No, never . . . at least, not unless they become quite the fashion," answered Polly. "And I don't think they

"Another thing, love," continued Mahony, on whom a sudden light had dawned as he stood listening to

Sarah's trumpery. "I fear your sister is trifling with the feelings of our worthy Hempel."

Polly, who had kept her own counsel on this matter, went crimson. "Oh, do you really think so, Richard?" she

asked evasively. "I hope not. For of course nothing could come of it. Sarah has refused the most eligible

"Ah, but there are none here to refuse. And if you don't mind my saying so, Poll, anything in trousers seems

On one of their pacings they found Mr. Ocock come out to smoke an evening pipe. The old man had just

returned from a flying visit to Melbourne. He looked glum and careworn, but livened up at the sight of Polly,

and cracked one of the mouldy jokes he believed beneficial to a young woman in her condition. Still, the

leadingnote in his mood was melancholy; and this, although his dearest wish was on the point of being

"Yes, I've got the very crib for 'Enry at last, doc., Billy de la Poer's liv'rystable, top o' Lydiard Street. We

sol' poor Billy up yesterday. The third smash in two days that makes. Lord! I dunno where it'll end."

"They're at me to build, too 'Enry is. But I says no. This place is good enough for me. If 'e's goin' to be

ashamed of 'ow 'is father lives, 'e'd better stop away. I'm an ol' man now, an' a poor one. What should I want

with a fine noo 'ouse? An' 'oo should I build it for, even if I 'ad the tin? For them two goodfornothin's in

"Mr. Ocock, you wouldn't believe how kind and clever Tom's been at helping with the children," said Polly

"Yes, an' at bottlewashin' and sweepin' and cookin' a pasty. But a female 'ud do it just as well," returned

"Poor old chap!" said Mahony, as they passed out of earshot. "So even the great Henry's arrival is not to be

"Who knows! But it's plain he suspects the old boy has made his pile and intends him to fork out," said

Mahony carelessly; and, with this, dismissed the subject. Now that his own days in the colony were

numbered, he no longer felt constrained to pump up a spurious interest in local affairs. He consigned them

The two brothers came striding over the slope. Ned, clad in blue serge shirt and corduroys, laid an

affectionate arm round Polly's shoulder, and tossed his hat into the air on hearing that the "Salamander," as he

"For I've tons to tell you, Poll old girl. And when milady sits there turning up her nose at everything a chap

Polly had baked a large cake for her darling, and served out generous slices. Then, drawing up a chair she sat

From his place at the farther end of the table Mahony studied the trio these three young faces which were

so much alike that they might have been different readings of one and the same face. Polly, by reason of her

woman's lot, looked considerably the oldest. Still, the lamplight wiped out some of the shadows, and she was

never more girlishly vivacious than with Ned, entering as she did with zest into his plans and ideas more

sister now than wife. And Ned showed at his best with Polly: he laid himself out to divert her; forgot to brag

or to swear; and so natural did it seem for brother to open his heart to sister that even his egoistic chatter

passed muster. As for young Jerry, who in a couple of days was to begin work in the same claim as Ned, he

sat roundeyed, his thoughts writ large on his forehead. Mahony translated them thus: how in the world I

could ever have sat prim and proper on the schoolbench, when all this change, adventure, romance

was awaiting me? Jerry was only, Mahony knew, to push a wheelbarrow from hole to water and back again

for many a week to come; but for him it would certainly be a golden barrow, and laden with gold, so greatly

The onlooker felt odd man out, debarred as he was by his profounder experience from sharing in the young

people's lightlegged dreams. He took up his book. But his reading was cut into by Ned's sprightly account of

the Magpie rush; by his description of an engine at work on the Eureka, and of the wooden airpipes that were

being used to ventilate deepsinkings. There was nothing Ned did not know, and could not make

entertaining. One was forced, almost against one's will, to listen to him; and on this particular evening, when

he was neither sponging, nor acting the Big Gun, Mahony toned down his first sweeping judgment of his

young relative. Ned was all talk; and what impressed one so unfavourably his grumbling, his extravagant

boastfulness was the mere thistledown of the moment, puffed off into space. It mattered little that he

harped continually on "chucking up" his job. Two years had passed since he came to Ballarat, and he was still

working for hire in somebody else's hole. He still groaned over the hardships of the life, and still toiled on

NOT twentyfour hours later, Sarah had an accident to her machoire and returned posthaste to Melbourne.

That day at the dinnertable he had given his sisterinlaw a piece of his mind. Sarah had always resented

the name bestowed on her by her parents, and was at present engaged in altering it, in giving it, so to speak, a

foreign tang: henceforth she was to be not Sarah, but Sara (spoken Sahra). As often as Polly's tongue tripped

over the unfamiliar syllable, Sara gently but firmly put her right; and Polly corrected herself, even begged

pardon for her stupidity, till Mahony could bear it no longer. Throwing politeness to the winds, he twitted

Sara with her finical affectations, her oldmaidish ways, the morning sloth that expected Polly, in her

delicate state of health, to carry a breakfasttray to the bedside: cast up at her, in short, all that had made him

champ and fret in silence. Sara might, after a fitting period of the huff, have overlooked the rest; but the

"oldmaidish" she could not forgive. And directly dinner was over, the mishap to her mouthpiece was made

Too much in awe of Mahony to stand up to him for when he was angry, he was very angry Sara

"Manners, indeed! To turn and insult a visitor at his own table! And who and what is he, I should like to

know, to speak to me so? Nothing but a common storekeeper. My dear, you have my deepest sympathy. It's a

dreadful life for you. Of course you keep everything as nice as possible, under the circumstances. But the

surroundings, Polly! . . . and the store . . . and the want of society. I couldn't put up with it, not for a week!"

Polly, sitting on the side of the testerbed and feeling very cast down at Sara's unfriendly departure, shed a

few tears at this. For part of what her sister said was true: it had been wrong of Richard to be rude to Sara

while the latter was a guest in his house. But she defended him warmly. "I couldn't be happier than I am;

Richard's the best husband in the world. As for his being common, Sara, you know he comes of a much better

"My dear, common is as common does; and a vulgar calling ends by vulgarising those who have the

misfortune to pursue it. But there's another reason, Polly, why it is better for me to leave you. There are

certain circumstances, my dear, in which, to put it mildly, it is awkward for two people of opposite sexes to

"Sarah! I mean Sara do you really mean to say Hempel has made you a proposal?" cried Polly,

"I won't say, my dear, that he has so far forgotten himself as to actually offer marriage. But he has let me see

only too plainly what his feelings are. Of course, I've kept him in his place the preposterous creature! But

"Did she say where she was going, or what she intended to do?" Mahony inquired of his wife that night as

No, she hadn't, Polly admitted, rather out of countenance. But then Sara was like that very close about her

own affairs. "I think she's perhaps gone back to her last situation. She had several letters while she was here,

in that lady's hand. People are always glad to get her back. Not many finishing governesses can teach all she

can" and Polly checked off Sara's attainments on the fingers of both hands. "She won't go anywhere under

"A most accomplished person, your sister!" said Mahony sleepily. "Still, it's very pleasant to be by ourselves

An even more blessed peace shortly descended on the house; for the time was now come to get rid of the

children as well. Since nothing had been heard of John, they were to be boarded out over Polly's illness.

Through the butcher's lady, arrangements were made with a trooper's wife, who lived outside the racket and

dust of the township, and had a whole posse of little ones of her own. "Bless you! halfadozen more

wouldn't make any difference to me. There's the paddock for 'em to run wild in." This was the best that could

be done for the children. Polly packed their little kit, dealt out a parting bribe of barleysugar, and saw them

Once more husband and wife sat alone together, as in the days before John's domestic catastrophe. And now

Mahony said tentatively: "Don't you think, love, we could manage to get on without that old Beamish

The question did not come as a surprise to Polly; she had already put it to herself. After the affair with Sara

she awaited her new visitor in fear and trembling. Sara had at least stood in awe of Richard and held her

tongue before him; Mrs. Beamish prided herself on being afraid of nobody, and on always speaking her mind.

And yet, even while agreeing that it would be well to put "mother" off, Polly drooped her wings. At a time

like this a woman was a woman. It seemed as if even the best of husbands did not quite understand.

But "mother" was not the person to take a hint, no matter how broad. It was necessary to be blunt to the point

of rudeness; and Polly spent a difficult hour over the composition of her letter. She might have saved her

pains. Mrs. Beamish replied that she knew her darling little Polly's unwillingness to give trouble; but it was

not likely she would now go back on her word: she had been packed and ready to start for the past week.

Polly handed the letter to her husband, and did not say what she thought she read out of it, namely that

"mother," who so seldom could be spared from home, was looking forward with pleasure to her trip to

"I suppose it's a case of making the best of a bad job," sighed Mahony; and having one day drawn Mrs.

Beamish, at melting point, from the inside of a crowded coach, he loaded Long Jim with her bags and

His aversion was not lightened by his subsequently coming on his wife in the act of unpacking a hamper,

which contained half a ham, a stone jar of butter, some homemade loaves of bread, a bag of vegetables and

a plum pudding. "Good God! does the woman think we can't give her enough to eat?" he asked testily. He

"She means it kindly, dear. She probably thought things were still scarce here; and she knew I wouldn't be

able to do much cooking," pleaded Polly. And going out to the kitchen she untied the last parcel, in which

She had pulled Mrs. Beamish over the threshold, had got her into the bedroom and shut the door, before any

of the "ohs" and "ahs" she saw painted on the broad, rubicund face could be transformed into words. And

hugs and kisses over, she bravely seized the bull by the horns and begged her guest not to criticise house or

It took Mrs. Beamish a minute or two to grasp her meaning. Then, she said heartily: "There, there, my duck,

don't you worry! I'll be as mum as mum." And in a whisper: "So, 'e's got a temper, Polly, 'as 'e? But this I will

say: if I'd known this was all 'e 'ad to h'offer you, I'd 'a' said, stop w'ere you are, my lamb, in a comfortable,

"Oh, I am happy, mother dear, indeed I am!" cried Polly. "I've never regretted being married never once!"

"And it's only . . . I mean . . . this is the best we can afford in the meantime, and if I am satisfied . . ."

floundered Polly, dismayed to hear her words construed into blame of her husband. "It's only that it upsets

Richard if people speak slightingly of our house, and that upsets me and I musn't be worried just now, you

"Not a word will I say, ducky, make yer pore little mind easy about that. Though such a poky little 'encoop

of a place I never was in!" and, while tying her capstrings, Mrs. Beamish swept the little bedroom and its

sloping roof with a withering glance. "I was 'orrified, girls, simply 'orrified!" she related the incident to her

daughters. "An' I up an' told 'er so just like me, you know. Not room enough to swing a cat in, and 'im

sittin' at the 'ead of the table as 'igh an' mighty as a dook! You can thank yer stars, you two, 'e didn't take one

o' you instead o' Polly." But this was chiefly by way of a consolationprize for Tilly and Jinny.

"An' now, my dear, tell me everything." With these words, Mrs. Beamish spread her skirts and settled down

But like the majority of her sex she was an adept at dividing her attention; and while making delicate

inquiries of the young wife, she was also travelling her shrewd eye round the little bedchamber, spying out

and appraising: not one of poor Polly's makeshifts escaped her. The result of her inspection was to cause her

to feel justly indignant with Mahony. The idea! Him to rob them of Polly just to dump her down in a place

like this! She would never be able to resist telling him what she thought of him.

Here, however, she reckoned without Polly. Polly was sharp enough to doubt "mother's" ability to hold her

tongue; and saw to it that Richard and she were not left alone together. And of an evening when talk

languished, she would beg her husband to read to them from the Ballarat Star, until, as often as not, Mrs.

Beamish fell asleep. Frequently, too, she persuaded him to go out and take a hand in a newlyformed whist

Mahony went willingly enough; his home was less home than ever since the big woman's intrusion. Even his

food lost its savour. Mrs. Beamish had taken over the cooking, and she went about it with an air that implied

"There! what do you say to that now? That's something like a pudding!" and a great plumduff was planked

triumphantly down in the middle of the dinnertable. "Lor, Polly! your bit of a kitchen . . . in this weather . . .

I'm fair dished." And the good woman mopped her streaming face and could herself eat nothing.

Mahony much preferred his wife's cooking, which took account of his tastes it was done, too, without any

fuss and he persisted in upholding Polly's skill, in face of Mrs. Beamish's goodnatured disbelief. Polly,

on edge, lest he should openly state his preference, nervously held out her plate.

"It's so good, mother, I must have a second helping," she declared; and then, without appetite in the cruel,

midday heat, did not know what to do with the solid slab of pudding. Pompey and Palmerston got into the

She confided to Richard that Mrs. Beamish disapproved of his evening outings. "Many an 'usband takes to

goin' out at such a time, my dear, an' never gets back the 'abit of stoppin' at 'ome. So just you be careful,

ducky!" This was a standing joke between them. Mahony would wink at Polly when he put his hat on, and

However, he quite enjoyed a crack with the postmaster or the townsurveyor, at this juncture. Colonial

politics were more interesting than usual. The new Constitution had been proclaimed, and a valiant effort was

being made to form a Cabinet; to induce, that was, a sufficient number of welltodo men to give up time to

the service of their country. It looked as if the attempt were going to fail, just as on the goldfields the Local

Courts, by which since the Stockade the diggers governed themselves, were failing, because none could

Yet however high the discussion ran, he kept one ear turned towards his home. Here, things were at a

standstill. Polly's time had come and gone but there was no end set to their suspense. It was blazing hot

now in the little log house; walls and roof were black with flies; mosquitoes made the nights hideous. Even

Polly lost patience with herself when, morning after morning, she got up feeling as well as ever, and knowing

It was not the suspense alone: the strain of keeping the peace was growing too much for her.

"Oh, don't quarrel with her, Richard, for my sake," she begged her husband one night. "She means so well.

And she can't help being like she is she has always been accustomed to order Mr. Beamish about. But I

wish she had never, never come," sobbed poor Polly. And Mahony, in a sudden flash of enlightenment, put

his arms round her, and made humble promises. Not another word should cross his lips! "Though I'd like

nothing so well as to throw her out, and her bags and bundles after her. Come, laugh a little, my Polly. Think

of the old lady flying down the slope, with her packages in a shower about her head!"

Rogers, M.D., looked in whenever he passed. At this stage he was of the jocular persuasion. "Still an

unwelcome visitor, ma'am? No little tidbit of news for me today?" There he sat, twiddling his thumbs,

reiterating his singsong: "Just so!" and looking wise as an owl. Mahony knew the air had many a time

seen it donned to cloak perplexity and covert doubts of Rogers' ability began to assail him. But then he

fell mentally foul of every one he came in touch with, at present: Ned, for the barefaced fashion in which he

left his cheerfulness on the doormat; Mrs. Beamish for the eternal "Pore lamb!" with which she beplastered

However, this state of things could not last for ever, and at dawn, one hot January day, Polly was taken ill.

The early hours promised well. But the morning wore on, turned to midday, then to afternoon, and matters

still hung fire. While towards six o'clock the patient dismayed them by sitting up in bed, saying she felt much

better, and asking for a cup of tea. This drew: "Ah, my pore lamb, you've got to feel worse yet afore you're

Towards eleven o'clock Mahony and he sat, one on each side of the table, in the little sittingroom. The heat

was insupportable and all three doors and the window were propped open, in the feeble hope of creating a

draught. The lamp had attracted a swarm of flying things: giant moths beat their wings against the globe, or

fell singed and sizzling down the chimney; wingedants alighted with a click upon the table; blowflies and

From time to time Mahony rose and stole into the bedroom, where Mrs. Beamish sat fanning the pests off

Polly, who was in a feverish doze. Leaning over his wife he let his finger lie on her wrist; and, back again in

the outer room, he bit nervously at his littlefinger nail an old trick of his when in a quandary. He had

curtly refused a game of bezique; so Rogers had produced a pack of cards from his own pocket soiled,

frayed cards, which had likely done service on many a similar occasion and was whiling the time away

with solitaire. To sit there watching his slow manipulation of the cards, his patent intentness on the game; to

listen any longer to the accursed din of the gnats and flies passed Mahony's powers of endurance. Abruptly

This was some twenty paces across from the row of old kerosenetins that constituted his flowergarden,

past shed and woodstack to the postandrail fence. How often he walked it he did not know; but when he

went indoors again, his boots were heavy with mud. For a brief summer storm had come up earlier in the

evening. A dense black pall of cloud had swept like a heavy curtain over the stars, to the tune of flash and

bang. Now, all was clear and calm again; the white stardust of the Milky Way powdered the sky just

overhead; and though the heat was still intense, the air had a fragrant smell of saturated dust and rainsoaked

earth he could hear streamlets of water trickling down the hillside to the river below.

Out there in the dark, several things became plain to him. He saw that he had not had any real confidence in

Rogers from the start; while the effect of the evening spent at close quarters had been to sink his opinion to

nothing. Rogers belonged to an old school; his method was to sit by and let nature take its course perhaps

just this slowness to move had won him a name for extreme care. His old fogyism showed up unmistakably

in a short but heated argument they had had on the subject of chloroform. He cited such hoary objections to

the use of the new anaesthetic in maternity cases as Mahony had never expected to hear again: the therapeutic

value of pain; the moral danger the patient ran in yielding up her will ("What right have we to bid a

fellowcreature sacrifice her consciousness?") and the impious folly of interfering with the action of a

creative law. It had only remained for him to quote Genesis, and the talking serpent!

Had the case been in his own hands he would have intervened before now. Rogers, on the contrary, was still

satisfied with the shape of affairs or made pretence to be. For, watching lynxeyed, Mahony fancied each

time the fat man propelled his paunch out of the sickroom it was a shade less surely: there were nuances, too,

in the way he pronounced his vapid: "As long as our strength is well maintained . . . well maintained."

Mahony doubted Polly's ability to bear much more; and he made bold to know his own wife's constitution

best. Rogers was shillyshallying: what if he delayed too long and Polly slipped through his hands? Lose

Polly? Good God! the very thought turned him cold. And alive to his fingertips with the superstition of his

race, he impetuously offered up his fondest dream to those invisible powers that sat aloft, waiting to be

appeased. If this was to be the price exacted of him the price of his escape from exile then. . . then . . .

To come back to the present, however, he was in an awkward position: he was going to be forced to take

Polly's case out of the hands of the man to whom he had entrusted it. Such a step ran counter to all the stiff

rules of conduct, the punctilios of decorum, laid down by the most coderidden profession in the world.

But a fresh visit to Polly, whose pulse had grown markedly softer, put an end to his scruples.

Stalking into the sittingroom he said without preamble: "In my opinion any further delay will mean a risk to

Rogers blinked up from his cards, surprise writ across his ruddy countenance. He pushed his spectacles to his

forehead. "Eh? What? Well, well . . . yes, the time is no doubt coming when we shall have to lend Mother

Rogers had faced many an agitated husband in his day. "Now, now, Mr. Mahony," he said soothingly, and

laid his last two cards in line. "You must allow me to be the judge of that. Besides," he added, as he took off

his glasses to polish them on a red bandanna; "besides, I should have to ask you to go out and get some one to

Rogers smiled his broad, fat smile. "Easier said than done, my good sir! . . . easier said than done."

Mahony considerately turned his back; and kept it turned. Emptying a pitcher of water into a basin he began

to lather his hands. "I am a qualified medical man. Of the same university as yourself. I studied under

Simpson." It cost him an effort to get the words out. But, by speaking, he felt that he did ample penance for

"Well, upon my word!" he ejaculated, letting his hands with glasses and handkerchief fall to the table. "God

bless my soul! why couldn't you say so before? And why the deuce didn't you yourself attend "

But Rogers was not one of those who could deal rapidly with the unexpected: he continued to vent his

surprise, and to shoot distrustful glances at his companion. He was flurried, too, at being driven forward

quicker than he had a mind to go, and said sulkily that Mahony must take full responsibility for what they

were about to do. Mahony hardly heard him; he was looking at the instruments laid out on the table. His

"I'll prepare my wife," he said briskly. And going into the bedroom he bent over the pillow. It was damp with

"'Ere, you girl, get in quick now with your bucket and cloth, and give that place a good cleanup afore that

pore lamb opens 'er eyes again. I'm cooked that's what I am!" and sitting heavily down on the

kitchenchair, Mrs. Beamish wiped her face towards the four points of the compass.

Piqued by an unholy curiosity young Ellen willingly obeyed. But a minute later she was back, having done no

more than set her pail down inside the bedroom door. "Oh, sure, Mrs. Beamish, and I can't do't!" she cried

shrilly. "It's jus' like Andy Soakes's shop . . . when they've bin quarterin' a sheep."

"I'll quarter you, you lazy trollop, you!" cried Mrs. Beamish, rising to her aching legs again; and her dayold

anxiety found vent in a hearty burst of temper. "I'll teach you!" pulling, as she spoke, the floorcloth out of the

girl's hand. "Such airs and graces! Why, sooner or later, milady, you've got to go through it yourself."

"Me . . .? Catch me!" said Ellen, with enormous emphasis. "D'yer mean to say that's 'ow . . . 'ow the children

"Of course it is, you mincing Nannyhen! every blessed child that walks. And I just 'ope," said Mrs.

Beamish, as she marched off herself with brush and scrubber: "I 'ope, now you know it, you'll 'ave a little

"Oh lor!" said the girl. "Oh, lor!" And plumping down on the choppingblock she snatched her apron to her

Two months passed before Mahony could help Polly and Mrs. Beamish into the coach bound for Geelong.

It had been touch and go with Polly; and for weeks her condition had kept him anxious. With the inset of the

second month, however, she seemed fairly to turn the corner, and from then on made a steady recovery,

He had hurried the little cradle out of sight. But Polly was quick to miss it, and quite approved of its having

been given to a needy expectant mother near by. Altogether she bore the thwarting of her hopes bravely.

"Poor little baby, I should have been very fond of it," was all she said, when she was well enough to fold and

It was not to Mahony's mind that she returned with Mrs. Beamish but what else could be done? After

lying a prisoner through the hot summer, she was sadly in need of a change. And Mrs. Beamish promised her

a diet of unlimited milk and eggs, as well as the do nothing life that befitted an invalid. Just before they left, a

letter arrived from John demanding the keys of his house, and proposing that Polly should come to town to

set it in order for him, and help him to engage a housekeeper. A niggardly a truly "Johnish" fashion

of giving an invitation, thought Mahony, and was not for his wife accepting it. But Polly was so pleased at

the prospect of seeing her brother that he ended by agreeing to her going on to Melbourne as soon as she had

Peace between him and Mrs. Beamish was dearly bought up to the last; they barely avoided a final explosion.

At the beginning of her third month's absence from home the good woman grew very restive, and sighed

"I expec' my bein' away like this'll run clean into a fiftypoun' note," she said one evening. "When it comes to

managin' an 'ouse, those two girls of mine 'aven't a h'ounce o' gumption between them."

It was tactless of her, even Polly felt that; though she could sympathise with the worry that prompted the

words. As for Mahony, had he had the money to do it, he would have flung the sum named straight at her

"She must never come again," said Polly to herself, as she bent over the hairchain she was making as a gift

for John. "It is a pity, but it seems as if Richard can't get on with those sort of people."

In his relief at having his house to himself, Mahony accepted even Polly's absence with composure. To be

perpetually in the company of other people irked him beyond belief. A certain amount of privacy was as vital

Delighting in his newfound solitude, he put off from day to day the disagreeable job of winding up his

affairs and discovering how much or how little ready money there would be to set sail with. Another

thing, some books he had sent home for, a year or more ago, came to hand at this time, and gave him a fresh

pretext for delay. There were eight or nine volumes to unpack and cut the pages of. He ran from one to

another, sipping, devouring. Finally he cast anchor in a collected edition of his old chief's writings on

obstetrics slipped in, this, as a gift from the sender, a college chum and over it, his feet on the table, his

dead pipe in the corner of his mouth, Mahony sat for the better part of the night.

The effect of this mastermind on his was that of a spark on tinder. Under the flash, he cursed for the

hundredth time the folly he had been guilty of in throwing up medicine. It was a vocation that had fitted him

as coursing fits a hound, or housewifery a woman. The only excuse he could find for his apostasy was that

he had been caught in an epidemic of unrest, which had swept through the country, upsetting the balance of

men's reason. He had since wondered if the Great Exhibition of '51 had not had something to do with it, by

unduly whetting people's imaginations; so that but a single cry of "Gold!" was needed, to loose the spirit of

vagrancy that lurks in every Briton's blood. His case had perhaps been peculiar in this: no one had come

forward to warn or dissuade. His next relatives mother and sisters were, he thought, glad to know him

well away. In their eyes he had lowered himself by taking up medicine; to them it was still of a piece with

barber's pole and cuppingbasin. Before his time no member of the family had entered any profession but the

army. Oh, that infernal Irish pride! . . . and Irish poverty. It had chokedamped his youth, blighted the

prospects of his sisters. He could remember, as if it were yesterday, the jibes and fleers called forth by the suit

of a wealthy Dublin brewer, who had been attracted by sheer force of contrast, no doubt to the elder of

the two swannecked, stiffbacked Miss TownshendMahonys, with their long, thin noses, and the ingrained

lines that ran from the curled nostrils to the corners of their supercilious mouths, describing a sneer so deep

that at a distance it was possible to mistake it for a smile. "Beer, my dear, indeed and there are worse things

in the world than beer!" he heard his mother declare in her biting way. "By all means take him! You can wash

yourself in it if water gets scarce, and I'll place my kitchen orders with you." Lucinda, who had perhaps

sniffed timidly at release, burnt crimson: thank you! she would rather eat ratbane. He supposed they

pinched and scraped along as of old the question of money was never broached between him and them.

Prior to his marriage he had sent them what he could; but that little was in itself an admission of failure. They

made no inquiries about his mode of life, preferring it to remain in shadow; enough for them that he had not

amassed a fortune. Had that come to pass, they might have pardoned the rude method of its making in

fancy he listened to the witty, cutting, selfderisive words, in which they would have alluded to his success.

Lying back in his chair he thought of them thus, without unkindliness, even with a dash of humour. That was

possible, now that knocking about the world had rubbed off some of his own corners. In his young days, he,

too, had been hot and bitter. What, however, to another might have formed the chief crux in their conduct

it was by squandering such money as there was, his own portion among it, on his scamp of an elder brother,

that they had forced him into the calling they despised this had not troubled him greatly. For medicine was

the profession on which his choice would anyhow have fallen. And tonight the book that lay before him had

infected him with the old enthusiasm. He relived those days when a skilfully handled case of placenta

previa, or a successful delivery in the fourth position, had meant more to him than the Charge of the Light

Fresh from this dip into the past, this foretaste of the future, he turned in good heart to business. An inventory

had to be taken; damaged goods cleared out; a list of bad and less bad debts drawn up: he and Hempel were

hard at work all next day. The result was worse even than he had expected. His outlay that summer ever

since the day on which he had set off to the aid of his bereaved relative had been enormous. Trade had run

dry, and throughout Polly's long illness he had dipped blindly into his savings. He could never have said no to

Mrs. Beamish when she came to him for money rather would he have pawned the coat off his back. And

she, good woman, was unused to cheeseparing. His men's wages paid, berths booked, the numerous expenses

bound up with a departure defrayed, he would have but a scanty sum in hand with which to start on the other

For himself he was not afraid; but he shrank from the thought of Polly undergoing privations. So far, they had

enjoyed a kind of frugal comfort. But should he meet with obstacles at the outset: if patients were laggardly

and the practice slow to move, or if he himself fell ill, they might have a spell of real poverty to face. And it

was under the goad of this fear that he hit on a new scheme. Why not leave Polly behind for a time, until he

had succeeded in making a home for her? why not leave her under the wing of brother John? John stood

urgently in need of a head for his establishment, and who so well suited for the post as Polly? Surely, if it

were put before him, John must jump at the offer! Parting from Polly, and were it only for a little while,

would be painful; but, did he go alone, he would be free to do his utmost and with an easy mind, knowing

that she lacked none of the creaturecomforts. Yes, the more he considered the plan, the better he liked it.

The one flaw in his satisfaction was the thought that if their child had lived, no such smooth and simple

arrangement would have been possible. He could not have foisted a family on Turnham.

Now he waited with impatience for Polly to return his reasonable little Polly! But he did not hurry her.

Polly was enjoying her holiday. Having passed to Melbourne from Geelong she wrote:

John is so very kind. He doesn't of course go out yet himself, but I was present with some friends of his at a

very elegant soiree. John gave me a headdress composed of black pearls and frosted leaves. He means to go

And at length the day came when he could lift his wife out of the coach. She emerged powdered brown with

dust and very tired, but radiantly happy: it was a great event in little Polly's life, this homecoming, and

coming, too, strong and well. The house was a lively place that afternoon: Polly had so much to tell that she

sat holding her bonnet for over an hour, quite unable to get as far as the bedroom; and even Long Jim's mouth

went up at the corners instead of down; for Polly had contrived to bring back a little gift for every one. And in

presenting these, she found out more of what people were thinking and feeling than her husband had done in

Mahony was loath to damp her pleasure straightway; he bided his time. He could not know that Polly also

had been laying plans, and that she watched anxiously for the right moment to unfold them.

The morning after her return, she got a lift in the baker's cart and drove out to inspect John's children. What

she saw and heard on this visit was disquieting. The children had run wild, were grown dirty, sly, untruthful.

Especially the boy. "A young Satan, and that's a fact, Mrs. Mahony! What he needs is a man's hand over

It was not alone little Johnny's misconduct, however, that made Polly break silence. An incident occurred that

Husband and wife sat snug and quiet as in the early days of their marriage. Autumn had come round and a

fire burnt in the stove, before which Pompey snorted in his dreams. But, for all the cosy tranquillity, Polly

was not happy; and time and again she moistened and bit at the tip of her thread, before pointing it through

her needle. For the book open before Richard, in which he was making notes as he read, was the Bible.

Bending over him to drop a kiss on the top of his head, Polly had been staggered by what she saw. Opposite

the third verse of the first chapter of Genesis: "And God said, Let there be light: and there was light," he had

written: "Three days before the sun!" Her heart seemed to shrivel, to grow small in her breast, at the thought

of her husband being guilty of such impiety. Ceasing her pretence at sewing, she walked out of the house into

the yard. Standing there under the stars she said aloud, as if some one, the One, could hear her: "He doesn't

mean to do wrong. . . . I know he doesn't!" But when she reentered the room he was still at it. His beautiful

Deeply red, Polly took her courage in both hands, and struck a blow for the soul whose salvation was more to

her than her own. "Richard, do you think that . . . is . . . is right?" she asked in a low voice.

"I mean, do you think you ought . . . that it is right to do what you are doing?"

The smile, halftender, halfquizzical that she loved, broke over her husband's face. He held out his hand. "Is

"Polly, my dear, don't worry your little head over what you don't understand. And have confidence in me.

"One can be religious and yet not shut one's eyes to the truth. It's Saint Paul, you know, who says: we can do

nothing against the Truth but for the Truth. And you may depend on it, Polly, the AllWise would never have

given us the brains He has, if He had not intended us to use them. Now I have long felt sure that the Bible is

"Oh, Richard!" said Polly, and threw an anxious glance over her shoulder. "If anyone should hear you!"

"We can't afford to let our lives be governed by what other people think, Polly. Nor will I give any man the

On seeing the Bible closed Polly breathed again, at the same time promising herself to take the traitorous

volume into safekeeping, that no third person's eye should rest on it. Perhaps, too, if it were put away

Richard would forget to go on writing in it. He had probably begun in the first place only because he had

nothing else to do. In the store he sat and smoked and twirled his thumbs not half a dozen customers came

in, in the course of the day. If he were once properly occupied again, with work that he liked, he would not be

tempted to put his gifts to such a profane use. Thus she primed herself for speaking. For now was the time.

Richard was declaring that trade had gone to the dogs, his takings dropped to a quarter of what they had

formerly been. This headed just where she wished. But Polly would not have been Polly, had she not glanced

"It's the same everywhere, Richard. Everybody's complaining. And that reminds me, I forgot to tell you about

the Beamishes. They're in great trouble. You see, a bog has formed in front of the Hotel, and the traffic goes

round another way, so they've lost most of their custom. Mr. Beamish never opens his mouth at all now, and

mother is fearfully worried. That's what was the matter when she was here only she was too kind to say

"Indeed it is. But about us; I'm not surprised to hear trade is dull. Since I was over in the western township

last, no less than six new General Stores have gone up I scarcely knew the place. They've all got big

"Yes, there's a regular exodus up west. But that doesn't alter the fact, wife, that I've made a very poor job of

"Yes, but then, Richard," said Polly, and bent over her strip of needlework, "you were never cut out to be a

"I was not. And I verily believe, if it hadn't been for that old sobersides of a Hempel, I should have come a

"Yes, and Hempel," said Polly softly; "Hempel's been wanting to leave for ever so long."

"The dickens he has!" cried Mahony in astonishment. "And me humming and hawing about giving him

"Oh, nothing like that. He wants to enter the ministry. A helper's needed at the Baptist Chapel, and he means

to apply for the post. You see, he's saved a good deal, and thinks he can study to be a minister at the same

"Study for his grave, the fool! So that's it, is it? Well, well! it saves trouble in the end. I don't need to bother

my head now over what's to become of him . . . him or anyone else. My chief desire is to say goodbye to

this hole for ever. There's no sense, Polly, in my dawdling on. Indeed, I haven't the money to do it. So I've

arranged, my dear, with our friend Ocock to come in and sell us off, as soon as you can get our personal

Here Polly raised her head as if to interrupt; but Mahony, full of what he had to say, ignored the movement,

and went on speaking. He did not wish to cause his wife uneasiness, by dwelling on his difficulties; but some

explanation was necessary to pave the way for his proposal that she should remain behind, when he left the

colony. He spent all his eloquence in making this sound natural and attractive. But it was hard, when Polly's

big, astonished eyes hung on his face. "Do you think, for my sake, you could be brave enough?" he wound

up, rather unsurely. "It wouldn't be for long, love, I'm certain of that. Just let me set foot in England once

"Why . . . why, yes, dear Richard, I . . . I think I could, if you really wished it," said Polly in a small voice.

She tried to seem reasonable; though black night descended on her at the thought of parting, and though her

woman's eyes saw a hundred objections to the plan, which his had overlooked. (For one thing, John had just

installed Sara as housekeeper, and Sara would take it very unkindly to be shown the door.) "I think I could,"

She laid down her needlework; her heart was going pitapat. "Richard, did you ever.. . I mean have you

never thought of. .. of taking up your profession again I mean here starting practice here? No, wait

a minute! Let me finish. I . . . I . . . oh, Richard!" Unable to find words, Polly locked her fingers under the

tablecloth and hoped she was not going to be so silly as to cry. Getting up, she knelt down before her

husband, laying her hands on his knees. "Oh, Richard, I wish you would how I wish you would!"

"Why, Polly!" said Mahony, surprised at her agitation. "Why, my dear, what's all this? You want to know

if I never thought of setting up in practice out here? Of course I did . . . in the beginning. You don't think I'd

have chosen to keep a store, if there'd been any other opening for me? But there wasn't, child. The place was

overrun. Never a medico came out and found digging too much for him, but he fell back in despair on his

"Yes, then, Richard! but now?" broke in Polly. "Now, it's quite, quite different. Look at the size Ballarat

has grown there are more than forty thousand people settled on it; Mr. Ocock told me so. And you know,

dear, doctors have cleared out lately, not come fresh. There was that one, I forget his name, who drank

himself to death; and the two, you remember, who were sold up just before Christmas." But this was an

Mahony laughed at her slip, and smoothed her hair. "Typical fates, love! They mustn't be mine. Besides,

Polly, you're forgetting the main thing how I hate the place, and how I've always longed to get away."

"No, I'm not. But please let me go on. You know, Richard, every one believes some day Ballarat will be

the chief city bigger even than Geelong or Melbourne. And then to have a good practice here would mean

ever such a lot of money. I'm not the only person who thinks so. There's Sara, and Mrs. Beamish I know,

of course, you don't care much what they say; but still " Polly meant: still, you see, I have public opinion

on my side. As, however, once more words failed her, she hastened to add: "John, too, is amazed to hear you

think of going home to bury yourself in some little English village. He's sure there'd be a splendid opening

for you here. John thinks very, very highly of you. He told me he believes you would have saved Emma's life,

"I'm much obliged to your brother for his confidence," said Mahony dryly; "but "

"Wait a minute, Richard! You see, dear, I can't help feeling myself that you ought not to be too hasty in

deciding. Of course, I know I'm young, and haven't had much experience, but . . . You see, you're known

here, Richard, and that's always something; in England you'd be a perfect stranger. And though you may say

there are too many doctors on the Flat, still, if the place goes on growing as it is doing, there'll soon be room

for more; and then, if it isn't you, it'll just be some one else. And that does seem a pity, when you are so

clever so much, much cleverer than other people! Yes, I know all about it; Mrs. Beamish told me it was

you I owed my life to, not Dr. Rogers" at which Mahony winced, indignant that anyone should have

betrayed to Polly how near death she had been. "Oh, I do want people to know you for what you really are!"

"Pussy, I believe she has ambitions for her husband," said Mahony to Palmerston.

"Of course I have. You say you hate Ballarat, and all that, but have you ever thought, Richard, what a

difference it would make if you were in a better position? You think people look down on you, because

you're in trade. But if you were a doctor, there'd be none of that. You'd call yourself by your full name again,

and write it down on the visiting list at Government House, and be as good as anybody, and be asked into

society, and keep a horse. You'd live in a bigger house, and have a room to yourself and time to read and

write. I'm quite sure you'd make lots of money and soon be at the top of the tree. And after all, dear Richard, I

don't want to go home. I would much rather stay here and look after Jerry, and dear Ned, and poor John's

"Why, what a piece of special pleading!" cried Mahony, and leaning forward, he kissed the young flushed

"Why, no, child. But Polly, my dear, even if I were tempted for a moment to think seriously of what you say,

where would the money come from? Fees are high, it's true, if the ball's once set arolling. But till then? With

Polly had been waiting for this question. On hearing it, she sat back on her heels and drew a deep breath. The

communication she had now to make him was the hub round which all turned. Should he refuse to consider

it.... Plucking at the fringe of the tablecloth, she brought out, piecemeal, the news that John was willing to go

surety for the money they would need to borrow for the start. Not only that: he offered them a handsome sum

weekly to take entire charge of his children. "Not here, in this little house I know that wouldn't do,"

Polly hastened to throw in, forestalling the objection she read in Richard's eyes. Now did he not think he

should weigh an offer of this kind very carefully? A name like John's was not to be despised; most people in

their position would jump at it. "I understand something about it," said the little woman, and sagely nodded

her head. "For when I was in Geelong, Mr. Beamish tried his hardest to raise some money and couldn't, his

sureties weren't good enough." Mahony had not the heart to chide her for discussing his private affairs with

her brother. Indeed, he rather admired the businesslike way she had gone about it. And he admitted this, by

ceasing to banter and by calling her attention to the various hazards and inconveniences the step would entail.

Polly heard him out in silence. Enough for her, in the beginning, that he did not decline offhand. They had a

long talk, the end of which was that he promised to sleep over John's proposal, and delay fixing the date of

Having yielded this point Mahony kissed his wife and sent her to bed, himself going out with the dog for his

It was a fine night moonless, but thick with stars. So much, at least, could be said in favour of the place:

there was abundant skyroom; you got a clear half of the great vault at once. How he pitied, on such a night,

the dwellers in old, congested cities, whose view of the starry field was limited to a narrow strip, cut through

Yet he walked with a springless tread. The fact was, certain of his wife's words had struck home; and in the

course of the past year he had learnt to put considerable faith in Polly's practical judgment. As he wound his

way up the little hill to which he had often carried his perplexities, he let his pipe go out, and forgot to whistle

Sitting down on a log he rested his chin in his hands. Below him twinkled the sparse lights of the Flat; shouts

and singing rose from the circus. And so John would have been willing to go surety for him! Let no one

say the unexpected did not happen. All said and done, they were little more than strangers to each other, and

John had no notion what his moneymaking capacities as a doctor might be. It was true, Polly had been too

delicate to mention whether the affair had come about through her persuasions or on John's own initiative.

John might have some ulterior motive up his sleeve. Perhaps he did not want to lose his sister . . . or was

scheming to bind a pair of desirables fast to this colony, the welfare of which he had so much at heart. Again,

it might be that he wished to buy off the memory of that day on which he had stripped his soul naked.

Simplest of all, why should he not be merely trying to pay back a debt? He, Mahony, might shrink from lying

under an obligation to John, but, so far, the latter had not scrupled to accept favours from him. But that was

always the way with your rich men; they were not troubled by paltry pride; for they knew it was possible to

acquit themselves of their debts at a moment's notice, and with interest. This led him to reflect on the great

help to him the loan of his wealthy relative's name would be: difficulties would melt before it. And surely no

undue risk was involved in the use of it? Without boasting, he thought he was better equipped, both by

aptitude and training, than the ruck of colonial practitioners. Did he enter the lists, he could hardly fail to

succeed. And out here even a moderate success spelled a fortune. Gained doublequick, too. After which the

lucky individual sold out and went home, to live in comfort. Yes, that was a point, and not to be overlooked.

No definite surrender of one's hopes was called for; only a postponement. Ten years might do it meaty

years, of course, the best years of one's life still . . . . It would mean very hard work; but had he not just

been contemplating, with perfect equanimity, an even more arduous venture on the other side? What a

Another thought that occurred to him was that his services might prove more useful to this new country than

to the old, where able men abounded. He recalled many good lives and promising cases he had here seen lost

and bungled. To take the instance nearest home Polly's confinement. Yes, to show his mettle to such as

Rogers; to earn respect where he had lived as a mere null the idea had an insidious fascination. And as

Polly sagely remarked: if it were not he, it would be some one else; another would harvest the kudos that

might have been his. For the roughandready treatment the blue pills and black draughts that had

satisfied the early diggers had fallen into disrepute; medical skill was beginning to be appreciated. If this

went on, Ballarat would soon stand on a level with any city of its size at home. But even as it was, he had

never been quite fair to it; he had seen it with a jaundiced eye. And again he believed Polly hit the nail on the

head, when she asserted that the poor position he had occupied was responsible for much of his dislike.

But there was something else at work in him besides. Below the surface an admission awaited him, which he

shrank from making. All these pros and cons, these quibbles and hairsplittings were but a misfit attempt to

cloak the truth. He might gull himself with them for a time: in his heart he knew that he would yield if

yield he did because he was by nature only too prone to follow the line of least resistance. What he had

gone through tonight was no new experience. Often enough after fretting and fuming about a thing till it

seemed as if nothing under the sun had ever mattered so much to him, it could happen that he suddenly threw

up the sponge and bowed to circumstance. His vitality exhausted itself beforehand in a passionate

aversion, a torrent of words and failed him at the critical moment. It was a weakness in his blood in the

blood of his race. But in the present instance, he had an excuse for himself. He had not known till

Polly came out with her brother's offer how he dreaded having to begin all over again in England, an utter

stranger, without influence or recommendations, and with no money to speak of at his back.

But now he owned up, and there was no more need of shift or subterfuge: now it was one rush and hurry to

the end. He had capitulated; a thinskinned aversion to confronting difficulties, when he saw the chance of

avoiding them, had won the day. He intended had perhaps the whole time intended to take the hand

held out to him. After all, why not? Anyone else, as Polly said, would have jumped at John's offer. He alone

But as he sat and pondered the lengthy chain of circumstance Polly's share in it, John's, his own, even the

part played by incorporeal things he brought up short against the word "decision". He might flatter

himself by imagining he had been free to decide; in reality nothing was further from the truth. He had been

subtly and slily guided to his goal led blindfold along a road that not of his choosing. Everything and

every one had combined to constrain him: his favours to John, the failure of his business, Polly's inclinations

and persuasions, his own fastidious shrinkings. So that, in the end, all he had had to do was to brush aside a

flimsy gossamer veil, which hung between him and his fate. Was it straining a point to see in the whole affair

the workings of a Power outside himself against himself, in so far as it took no count of his poor

Well, if this were so, better still: his ways were in God's hand. And after all, what did it matter where one

strove to serve one's Maker east or west or south or north and whether the stars overhead were grouped

in this constellation or in that? Their light was a pledge that one would never be overlooked or forgotten,

traced by the hand of Him who had promised to note even a sparrow's fall. And here he spoke aloud into the

darkness the ancient and homely formula that is man's standby in face of the untried, the unknown.

THE house stood not far from the Great Swamp. It was of weatherboard, with a galvanised iron roof, and

might have been built from a child's drawing of a house: a door in the centre, a little window on either side, a

chimney at each end. Since the ground sloped downwards, the front part rested on piles some three feet high,

and from the rutty claytrack that would one day be a street wooden steps led up to the door. Much as

Mahony would have liked to face it with a verandah, he did not feel justified in spending more than he could

help. And Polly not only agreed with him, but contrived to find an advantage in the plainer style of

architecture. "Your plate will be better seen, Richard, right on the street, than hidden under a verandah." But

then Polly was overflowing with content. Had not two of the rooms fireplaces? And was there not a

washhouse, with a real copper in it, behind the detached kitchen? Not to speak of a spare room! To the

rear of the house a high palingfence enclosed a goodsized yard. Mahony dreamed of a garden, Polly of

There were no two happier people on Ballarat that autumn than the Mahonys. To and fro they trudged down

the hill, across the Flat, over the bridge and up the other side; first, through a Sahara of dust, then, when the

rains began, ankledeep in gluey red mud. And the building of the finest mansion never gave half so much

satisfaction as did that of this flimsy little wooden house, with its thin lathandplaster walls. In fancy they

had furnished it and lived in it, long before it was even roofed in. Mahony sat at work in his surgery it

measured ten by twelve Polly at her Berlinwoolwork in the parlour opposite: "And a cage with a little

The preliminaries to the change had gone smoothly enough Mahony could not complain. Pleasant they

had not been; but could the arranging and clinching of a complicated moneymatter ever be pleasant? He had

had to submit to hearing his private affairs gone into by a stranger; to make clear to strangers his capacity for

With John's promissory letter in his pocket, he had betaken himself to Henry Ocock's office.

This, notwithstanding its excellent position on the brow of the western hill, could not deny its humble origin

as a liverybarn. The entry was by a yard; and some of the former horseboxes had been rudely knocked

Tom Ocock raised his freckled face, from the chin of which sprouted some long fair hairs, and turned red.

"Yes, it's me. Do you want to see 'En " at an open kick from his brother "Mr. Ocock?"

Informed by Grindle that the "Captain" was at liberty, Mahony passed to an inner room where he was waved

to a chair. In answer to his statement that he had called to see about raising some money, Ocock returned an:

"Indeed? Money is tight, sir, very tight!" his face instantly taking on the blankwall solemnity proper to

Mahony did not at once hand over John's waysoothing letter. He thought he would first test the lawyer's

attitude towards him in person a species of selftorment men of his make are rarely able to withstand. He

spoke of the decline of his business; of his idea of setting up as a doctor and building himself a house; and, as

he talked, he read his answer pat and clear in the ferrety eyes before him. There was a bored tolerance of his

"H'm." Ocock, lying back in his chair, was fitting five outstretched fingers to their fellows. "All very well, my

"I have. May I trouble you to glance through this?" and triumphantly Mahony brandished John's letter.

Ocock raised his brows. "What? Mr. John Turnham? Ah, very good . . . very good indeed!" The brazenfaced

change in his manner would have made a cat laugh; he sat upright, was interested, courteous, alert. "Quite in

Unadvised, he had not been able, said Mahony, to determine the sum. So Ocock took pencil and paper, and,

prior to running off a reckoning, put him through a sharp interrogation. Under it Mahony felt as though his

clothing was being stripped piece by piece off his back. At one moment he stood revealed as mean and

stingy, at another as an unpractical spendthrift. More serious things came out besides. He began to see, under

the limelight of the lawyer's inquiry, in what a muddleheaded fashion he had managed his business, and

how unlikely it was he could ever have made a good thing of it. Still worse was his thoughtless folly in

wedding and bringing home a young wife without, in this settlement where accident was rife, where fires

were of nightly occurrence, insuring against either fire or death. Not that Ocock breathed a hint of censure: all

was done with a twist of the eye, a purse of the lip; but it was enough for Mahony. He sat there, feeling like

an eel in the skinning, and did not attempt to keep pace with the lawyer, who hunted figures into the centre of

The upshot of these calculations was: he would need help to the tune of something over one thousand pounds.

As matters stood at present on Ballarat, said Ocock, the plainest house he could build would cost him eight

hundred; and another couple of hundred would go in furnishing; while a saddlehorse might be put down at

fifty pounds. On Turnham's letter he, Ocock, would be prepared to borrow seven hundred for him and this

could probably be obtained at ten per cent on a mortgage of the house; and a further four hundred, for which

he would have to pay twelve or fifteen. Current expenses must be covered by the residue of this savings, and

by what he was able to make. They would include the keep of the horse, and the interest on the borrowed

money, which might be reckoned roughly at a hundred and twenty per annum. In addition, he would be well

The question also came up whether the land he had selected for building on should be purchased or not. He

was for doing so, for settling the whole business there and then. Ocock, however, took the opposite view.

Considering, said he, that the site chosen was far from the centre of the town, Mahony might safely postpone

buying in the meanwhile. There had been no government landsales of late, and all mainroad frontages had

still to come under the hammer. As occupier, when the time arrived, he would have first chance at the upset

price; though then, it was true, he would also be liable for improvements. The one thing he must beware of

Mahony agreed agreed to everything: the affair seemed to have passed out of his hands. A sense of

dismay invaded him while he listened to the lawyer tick off the obligations and responsibilities he was letting

himself in for. A thousand pounds! He to run into debt for such a sum, who had never owed a farthing to

anyone! He fell to doubting whether, after all, he had made choice of the easier way, and lapsed into a

"May I say, doctor, how wise I think your decision to come over to us?" He spoke as if Ballarat East were

in the heart of the Russian steppes. "And that reminds me. There's a friend of mine. . . . I may be able at once

Mahony walked home in a mood of depression which it took all Polly's arts to dispel.

Under its influence he wrote an outspoken letter to Purdy but with no very satisfactory result. It was like

projecting a feeler for sympathy into the void, so long was it since they had met, and so widely had his

Purdy's answer it was headed "The Ovens" did not arrive till several weeks later, and was mainly about

In a way I'm with you, old pillbox, he wrote. You'll cut a jolly sight better figure as an M.D. then ever

you've done behind a counter. But I don't know that I'd care to stake my last dollar on you all the same. What

does Mrs. Polly say? As for me, old boy, since you're good enough to ask, why the less said the better.

One of these days a poor worn old shicer'll come crawling round to your back door to see if you've any

castoff duds you can spare him. Seriously, Dick, old man, I'm stonybroke once more and the Lord only

In the course of that winter, custom died a natural death; and one day, the few oddments that remained having

been sold by auction, Mahony and his assistant nailed boards horizontally across the entrance to the store.

The day of weighing out pepper and salt was over; never again would the tinny jangle of the accursed bell

smite his ears. The next thing was that Hempel packed his chattels and departed for his new walk in life.

Mahony was not sorry to see him go. Hempel's thoughts had soared far above the counter; he was arrived at

the stage of: "I'm just as good as you!" which everyone here reached sooner or later.

Mahony spoke kindly, but in a tone which, as Polly who stood by, very well knew, people were apt to

"I should think so!" she chimed in. "I shall feel very hurt indeed, Hempel, if you don't come and see us."

With regard to Long Jim, she had a talk with her husband one night as they went to bed.

"There really won't be anything for him to do in the new house. No heavy crates or barrels to move about.

And he doesn't know a thing about horses. Why not let him go home? he does so want to. What would

you say, dear, to giving him thirty pounds for his passagemoney and a trifle in his pocket? It would make

him very happy, and he'd be off your hands for good. Of course, though, just as you think best."

"We shall need every penny we can scrape together, for ourselves, Polly. And yet, my dear, I believe you're

right. In the new house, as you say, he'll be a mere encumbrance. As for me, I'd be only too thankful never to

hear his cantankerous old pipe again. I don't know now what evil genius prompted me to take him in."

"Evil genius, indeed!" retorted Polly. "You did it because you're a dear, good, kindhearted man."

"Think so, wifey? I'm inclined to put it down to sheer dislike of botheration Irish inertia . . . the curse of

"Yes, yes, I knoo you'd be wantin' to get rid o' me, now you're goin' up in the world," was Long Jim's answer

when Polly broached her scheme for his benefit. "Well, no, I won't say anythin' against you, Mrs. Mahony;

you've treated me square enough. But doc., 'e's always thought 'imself a sight above one, an' when 'e does, 'e

This was more than Polly could brook. "And sighing and groaning as you have done to get home, Jim! You're

"Poor old fellow, he's grumbled so long now, that he's forgotten how to do anything else," she afterwards

made allowance for him. And added, pierced by a sudden doubt: "I hope his wife will still be used to it, or . . .

And now the last day in the old house was come. The furniture, stacked in the yard, awaited the dray that was

to transport it. Hardly worth carrying with one, thought Mahony, when he saw the few poor sticks exposed to

the searching sunlight. Pipe in mouth he mooned about, feeling chiefly amazed that he could have put up, for

so long, with the miserable little hut which his house, stripped of its trimmings, proved to be.

His reflections were cut short by old Ocock, who leaned over the fence to bid his neighbours goodbye.

"No disturbance! Come in, come in!" cried Mahony, with the rather spurious heartiness one is prone to throw

into a final invitation. And Polly rose from her knees before a clothesbasket which she was filling with

crockery, and bustled away to fetch the cake she had baked for such an occasion.

"I'll miss yer bright little face, that I will!" said Mr. Ocock, as he munched with the relish of a Jerry or a Ned.

He held his slice of cake in the hollow of one great palm, conveying with extreme care the pieces he broke

"Besides, mark my words, it'll be your turn next to build," Mahony removed his pipe to throw in. "We'll have

"And what a lovely surprise for Miss Amelia when she arrives, to find a bran'new house awaiting her."

"Well, that's the end of this little rooftree," said Mahony. The loaded dray had driven off, the children

and Ellen perched on top of the furniture, and he was giving a last look round. "We've spent some very happy

"Oh, very," said Polly, shaking out her skirts. "But we shall be just as happy in the new one."

"God grant we may! It's not too much to hope I've now seen all the downs of my life. I've managed to pack a

good many into thirty short years. And that reminds me, Mrs. TownshendMahony, do you know you

"Why, so we shall!" cried Polly, and was transfixed in the act of tying her bonnetstrings. "How time does

fly! It seems only the other day I saw this room for the first time. I peeped in, you know, while you were

fetching the box. Do you remember how I cried, Richard? I was afraid of a spider or something." And the

Polly of eighteen looked back, with a motherly amusement, at her sixteenyearold eidolon. "But now, dear,

if you're ready . . . or else the furniture will get there before we do. We'd better take the short cut across

Soldiers' Hill. That's the cat in that basket, for you to carry, and here's your microscope. I've got the decanter

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 knew, too, that she was happily employed; the fittingup 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

threequarters 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 toilettables. She hung her curtains on strings, and herself sewed the seams of the

parlour carpet, squatting Turkfashion 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 kitchentable, 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

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 hominginstinct 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 grasstree

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 blackdraped 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 chinablue 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

flyblight. 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

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 castiron 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 pavingstones; town and university combined to form a

hotbed of intellectual unrest, a breedingground 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 fossilfish 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

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 masterstroke, 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

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 agoing, there had been no further intervention on the part of the Creator, then the very

headandcorner 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 worldold 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

For he sought, not to deny God, but to discover Him anew, by freeing Him from the drift of error, superstition

and deadletterism 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 studentdays. 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

In all this critical readjustment, the thought he had to spare for his fellowmen 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

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

Summoned to dinner, he sat at table with stupid hands and evasive eyes. Little Johnny, who was, as Polly put

"What you staring at, Nunkey?" he demanded, his mouth full of rolypudding, which he was stuffing down

"I mean . . ." Young John squeezed his last mouthful over his windpipe and raised his plate. "I mean, you

"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

"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

"An ancient wish, my son," said Mahony, when Johnny had been reproved and Trotty comforted.

"Tomthumbs like you have voiced it since the world or rather since war first began."

But Mahony shrank from the gush of whats and whys he would let loose on himself, did he attempt to answer

"Wiv a mast an' sails an' everyfing?" cried John wildly; and throwing his spoon to the floor, he scrambled

"Oh, you cupboard lovers, you!" said Mahony as, order restored and sticky mouths wiped, two pudgy hands

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.

POLLY had no such absorbing occupation to tide her over these empty days of waiting; and sometimes

especially late in the afternoon, when her household duties were done, the children safely at play she

found it beyond her power to stitch quietly at her embroidery. Letting the canvas fall to her knee, she would

listen, listen, listen till the blood sang in her ears, for the footsteps and knocks at the door that never came.

And did she draw back the windowcurtain and look out, there was not a soul to be seen: not a trace of the

string of prosperous, paying patients she had once imagined winding their way to the door.

And meanwhile Richard was shut up in his room, making those dreadful notes in the Bible which it pinched

her heart even to think of. He really did not seem to care whether he had a practice or not. All the new

instruments, got from Melbourne, lay unused in their casings; and the horse was eating its head off, at over a

pound a week, in the liverybarn. Polly shrank from censuring her husband, even in thought; but as she took

up her work again, and went on producing in wools a green basket of yellow fruit on a magenta ground, she

could not help reflecting what she would have done at this pass, had she been a man. She would have

announced the beginning of her practice in big letters in the Star, and she would have gone down into the

township and mixed with people and made herself known. With Richard, it was almost as if he felt averse

Only another month now, and the second instalment of interest would fall due. Polly did not know exactly

what the sum was; but she did know the date. The first time, they had had no difficulty in meeting the bill,

owing to their economy in furnishing. But what about this one, and the next again? How were payments to be

She wished with all her heart that she was ten years older. For what could a person who was only eighteen be

supposed to understand of business? Richard's invariable answer, did she venture a word, was not to worry

When, however, another week had dribbled away in the same fashion, Polly began to be afraid the date of

payment had slipped his memory altogether. She would need to remind him of it, even at the risk of vexing

him. And having cast about for a pretext to intrude, she decided to ask his advice on a matter that was giving

her much uneasiness; though, had he been really busy, she would have gone on keeping it to herself.

Johnny was a highspirited, passionate child, who needed most careful handling. At first she had managed

him well enough. But ever since his five months' boardingout, he had fallen into deceitful ways; and the

habit of falsehood was gaining on him. Bad by nature, Polly felt sure the child was not; but she could not

keep him on the straight path now he had discovered that a lie might save him a punishment. He was not to

be shamed out of telling it; and the only other cure Polly knew of was whipping. She whipped him; and

A new misdeed on his part gave her the handle she sought. Johnny had surreptitiously entered her pantry and

stolen a plateful of cakes. Taxed with the theft he denied it; and cornered, laid, Adamlike, the blame on his

companion, asserting that Trotty had persuaded him to take the goodies; though bewildered innocence was

Mahony had the young sinner up before him. But he was able neither to touch the child's heart, nor to make

him see the gravity of what he had done: never being allowed inside the surgery, John could now not take his

eyes off the wonderful display of gold and purple and red moths, which were pinned, with outstretched

wings, to a sheet of cork. He stood omouthed and absentminded, and only once shot a blue glance at his

uncle to say: "But if dey're so baddy . . . den why did God make lies an' de debble?" which intelligent

No real depravity, was his verdict. Still, too much of a handful, it was plain, for Polly's inexperience. "A

problem for John himself to tackle, my dear. Why should we have to drill a nonexistent morality into his

progeny? Besides, I'm not going to have you blamed for bad results, later on." He would write to John there

Polly was not prepared for this summary solution of her dilemma, and began to regret having brought it up;

though she could not but agree with Richard that it would never do for the younger child to be corrupted by a

bad example. However she kept her wits about her. Did John take the boy away, said she, she was afraid she

would have to ask for a larger housekeeping allowance. The withdrawal of the money for Johnny's board

But Polly stood her ground. "Talking of money, Richard, I don't know whether you remember . . . you've

been so busy . . . that it's only about a fortnight now till the second lot of interest falls due."

"What! a fortnight?" exclaimed her husband, and reached out for an almanack. "Good Lord, so it is! And

"Well, dear, you can't expect to jump into a big practice all at once, can you? But you see, I think the trouble

is, not nearly enough people know you've started." And a little imploringly, and very apologetically, Polly

"Wife, I've a grave suspicion!" said Mahony, and took her by the chin. "While I've sat here with my head in

the clouds, you've been worrying over ways and means, and over having such an unpractical old dreamer for

a husband. Now, child, that won't do. I didn't marry to have my girl puzzling her little brains where her next

day's dinner was to come from. Away with you, to your stitching! Things will be all right, trust to me."

And Polly did trust him, and was so satisfied with what she had effected that, raising her face for a kiss, she

But the door having clicked behind her, Mahony's air of forced assurance died away. For an instant he

hesitated beside the table, on which a rampart of books lay open, then vigorously clapped each volume to and

moved to the window, chewing at the ends of his beard. A timely interruption! What the dickens had he been

about, to forget himself in this fool's paradise, when the crassest of material anxieties that of pounds,

That night he wakened with a jerk from an uneasy sleep. Though at noon the day before, the thermometer had

registered over a hundred in the shade, it was now bitterly cold, and these abrupt changes of temperature

always whipped up his nerves. Even after he had piled his clothes and an opossumrug on top of the

blankets, he could not drop off again. He lay staring at the moonlit square of the window, and thinking the

What if he could not manage to work up a practice? . . . found it impossible to make a living? His plate had

been on the door for close on two months now, and he had barely a fivepound note to show for it. What was

to be done? Here Polly's words came back to him with new stress. "Not nearly enough people know you've

started." That was it! Polly had laid her finger on the hitch. The genteel manners of the old country did not

answer here; instead of sitting twiddling his thumbs, waiting for patients to seek him out, he ought to have

adopted the screaming methods of advertisement in vogue on Ballarat. To have had "Holloway's Pills sold

here!" "Teeth extracted painlessly!" "Cures guaranteed!" painted manhigh on his outside housewall. To

have gone up and down and round the township; to have been on the spot when accidents happened; to have

hobnobbed with Tom, Dick and Harry in bars and saloons. And he saw a figure that looked like his the centre

of a boisterous crowd; saw himself slapped on the back by dirty hands, shouting and shouted to drinks. He

turned his pillow, to drive the image away. Whatever he had done or not done, the fact remained that a couple

of weeks hence he had to make up the sum of over thirty pounds. And again he discerned a phantom self, this

time a humble supplicant for an extension of term, brought up short against Ocock's stony visage, flouted by

his cocksy clerk. Once more he turned his pillow. These quarterly payments, which dotted all his coming

years, were like little rockislands studding the surface of an ocean, and telling of the sunken continent

below: this monstrous thousand odd pounds he had been fool enough to borrow. Never would he be able to

pay off such a sum, never again be free from the incubus of debt. Meanwhile, not the ground he stood on, not

the roof over his head could actually be called his own. He had also been too pushed for money, at the time,

These thoughts spun themselves to a nightmareweb, in which he was the hapless fly. Putting a finger to his

wrist, he found he had the pulse of a hundred that was not uncommon to him. He got out of bed, to dowse his

head in a basin of water. Polly, only half awake, sat up and said: "What's the matter, dear? Are you ill?" In

replying to her he disturbed the children, the door of whose room stood ajar; and by the time quiet was

restored, further sleep was out of the question. He dressed and quitted the house.

Day was breaking; the moon, but an hour back a globe of polished silver, had now no light left in her, and

stole, a misty ghost, across the duncoloured sky. A bank of clouds that had had their nightcamp on the

summit of Mount Warrenheip was beginning to disperse; and the air had lost its edge. He walked out beyond

the cemetary, then sat down on a treestump and looked back. The houses that nestled on the slope were

growing momently whiter; but the Flat was still sunk in shadow and haze, making old Warrenheip, for all its

halfdozen miles of distance, seem near enough to be touched by hand. But even in full daylight this woody

peak had a way of tricking the eye. From the brow of the western hill, with the Flat out of sight below, it

appeared to stand at the very foot of those streets that headed east first of one, then of another, moving

with you as you changed position, like the eyes of a portrait that follow you wherever you go. And now

the sky was streaked with crimsonmadder; the last clouds scattered, drenched in orange and rose, and flames

burned in the glass of every windowpane. Up came the tip of the sun's rim, grew to a fiery quarter, to a half;

till, bounding free from the horizon, it began to mount and to lose its girth in the immensity of the sky.

The phantasms of the night yielded like the clouds to its power. He was still reasonably young, reasonably

sound, and had the better part of a lifetime before him. Rising with a fresh alacrity, he whistled to his dog,

But that evening, at the heel of another empty day, his nervous restlessness took him anew. From her parlour

Polly could hear the thud of his feet, going up and down, up and down his room. And it was she who was to

And meditatively pricking her needle in and out of the windowcurtain, Polly fell into a reverie over her

husband and his ways. How strange Richard was . . . how difficult! First, to be able to forget all about how

John demanded the immediate delivery of his young son, undertaking soon to knock all nasty tricks out of

him. On the day fixed for Johnny's departure husband and wife were astir soon after dawn. Mahony was to

have taken the child down to the coachoffice. But Johnny had been awake since two o'clock with

excitement, and was now so fractious that Polly tied on her bonnet and accompanied them. She knew

"You just walk on, dear, and get his seat," she said, while she dragged the cross, tired child on her hand to the

And she did well to be there. Instantly on arriving Johnny set up a wail, because there was talk of putting him

inside the vehicle; and this persisted until the coachman, a goatbearded Yankee, came to the rescue and said

he was darned if such a plucky young nipper shouldn't get his way: he'd have the child tied on beside him on

the boxseat be blowed if he wouldn't! But even this did not satisfy Johnny; and while Mahony went to

procure a length of rope, he continued to prance round his aunt and to tug ceaselessly at her sleeve.

"Can I dwive, Aunt Polly, can I dwive? Ask him, can I dwive!" he roared, beating her skirts with his fists. He

was only silenced by the driver threatening to throw him as a juicy morsel to the gang of bushrangers who,

sure as blazes, would be waiting to stick the coach up directly it entered the bush.

Husband and wife lingered to watch the start, when the champing horses took a headlong plunge forward and,

together with the coach, were swallowed up in a whirlwind of dust. A last glimpse discovered Johnny, pale

"The spirit of your brother in that child, my dear!" said Mahony as they made to walk home.

"Poor little Johnny," and Polly wiped her eyes. "If only he was going back to a mother who loved him, and

"Yes, but a real mother wouldn't need to give him up, however naughty he had been."

"I think the young varmint might have shown some regret at parting from you, after all this time," returned

her husband, to whom it was offensive if even a child was lacking in good feeling. "He never turned his head.

Well, I suppose it's a fact, as they say, that the natural child is the natural barbarian."

"Johnny never meant any harm. It was I who didn't know how to manage him," said Polly staunchly.

"Why, Richard, what is the matter?" For letting her arm fall Mahony had dashed to the other side of the road.

"This" was a printed notice, nailed to a shed, which announced that a sale of frontages in Mair and Webster

"Good Lord, don't you see that if they're there already, they'll be out with us before we can say Jack

"Let us talk it over. But first come home and have breakfast. Then . . . yes, then, I think you should go down

"You're right. I must see Ocock. Confound the fellow! It's he who has let me in for this."

"Quite true, my Polly. None the less, it looks as if I were in for a run of real bad luck, all along the line."

ONE hot morning some few days later, Polly, with Trotty at her side, stood on the doorstep shading her eyes

with her hand. She was on the lookout for her "vegetable man," who drove in daily from the Springs with

his greenstuff. He was late as usual: if Richard would only let her deal with the cheaper, more punctual Ah

Sing, who was at this moment coming up the track. But Devine was a reformed character: after, as a digger,

having squandered a fortune in a week, he had given up the drink and, backed by a hardworking, sober wife,

The Chinaman jogtrotted towards them, his baskets asway, his mouth stretched to a friendly grin. "You no

want cabbagee today? Me got velly good cabbagee," he said persuasively and lowered his pole.

"Me bling pleasant for lilly missee," said the Chow; and unknotting a dirty nosecloth, he drew from it an

ancient lump of candied ginger. "Lilly missee eatee him . . . oh, yum, yum! Velly good. My word!"

But Chinamen to Trotty were fearsome bogies, corresponding to the swartfaced, whiteeyed

chimneysweeps of the English nursery. She hid behind her aunt, holding fast to the latter's skirts, and only

"Thank you, John. Me takee chowchow for lilly missee," said Polly, who had experience in disposing of such

"You no buy cabbagee today?" repeated Ah Sing, with the catlike persistence of his race. And as Polly, with

equal firmness and goodhumour, again shook her head, he shouldered his pole and departed at a halfrun,

Meanwhile at the bottom of the road another figure had come into view. It was not Devine in his springcart;

it was some one on horseback, was a lady, in a holland habit. The horse, a piebald, advanced at a sober pace,

At the first of the three houses the rider had dismounted, and knocked at the door with the butt of her whip.

After a word with the woman who opened, she threw her ridingskirt over one arm, put the other through the

As she drew near she smiled, showing a row of white teeth. "Does Dr. Mahony live here?"

But almost instantly Polly grasped that this would tell in his favour. "He won't be long, I know."

"I wonder," said the lady, "if he would come out to my house when he gets back? I am Mrs Glendinning

Polly flushed, with sheer satisfaction: Dandaloo was one of the largest stations in the neighbourhood of

"I am so glad you think so," said Mrs. Glendinning. "A mutual friend, Mr. Henry Ocock, tells me how clever

Polly's brain leapt at the connection; on the occasion of Richard's last visit the lawyer had again repeated the

promise to put a patient in his way. Ocock was one of those people, said Richard, who only remembered your

existence when he saw you. Oh, what a blessing in disguise had been that troublesome old land sale!

The lady had stooped to Trotty, whom she was trying to coax from her lurkingplace. "What a darling! How

"Have you no children?" Polly asked shyly, when Trotty's relationship had been explained.

"Yes, a boy. But I should have liked a little girl of my own. Boys are so difficult," and she sighed.

The horse nuzzling for sugar roused Polly to a sense of her remissness. "Won't you come in and rest a little,

after your ride?" she asked; and without hesitation Mrs. Glendinning said she would like to, very much

The latter felt proud this morning of its applepie order. She drew up the best armchair, placed a footstool

before it and herself carried in a tray with refreshments. Mrs. Glendinning had taken Trotty on her lap, and

given the child her long gold chains to play with. Polly thought her the most charming creature in the world.

She had a slender waist, and an abundant light brown chignon, and cheeks of a beautiful pink, in which two

fascinating dimples came and went. The feather from her ridinghat lay on her neck. Her eyes were the

colour of forgetmenots, her mouth was red as any rose. She had, too, so sweet and natural a manner that

Polly was soon chatting frankly about herself and her life, Mrs. Glendinning listening with her face pressed to

When she rose, she clasped both Polly's hands in hers. "You dear little woman. . . may I kiss you? I am ever

They laughed and kissed. "I shall ask your husband to bring you out to see me. And take no refusal. Au

For all her pleasurable excitement Polly did not let the grass grow under her feet. There being still no sign of

Richard he had gone to Soldiers' Hill to extract a rusty nail from a child's foot Ellen was sent to

summon him home; and when the girl returned with word that he was on the way, Polly dispatched her to the

No, she hadn't; and Polly had not liked to ask her; it could surely be nothing very serious, or she would have

"H'm. Then it's probably as I thought. Glendinning's failing is well known. Only the other day, I heard that

more than one medical man had declined to have anything further to do with the case. It's a long way out, and

fees are not always forthcoming. He doesn't ask for a doctor, and, womanlike, she forgets to pay the bills. I

Pressed by Polly, who was curious to learn everything about her new friend, he answered: "I should be sorry

to tell you, my dear, how many bottles of brandy it is Glendinning's boast he can empty in a week."

"Drink? Oh, Richard, how terrible! And that pretty, pretty woman!" cried Polly, and drove her thoughts

backwards: she had seen no hint of tragedy in her caller's lovely face. However, she did not wait to ponder,

"Go? Of course I shall! Beggars can't be choosers." "Besides, you know, you might be able to do something

Mahony rode out across the Flat. For a couple of miles his route was one with the Melbourne Road, on which

plied the usual motley traffic. Then, branching off at right angles, it dived into the bush in this case a

Here went no one but himself. He and the mare were the sole living creatures in what, for its stillness, might

have been a painted landscape. Not a breath of air stirred the weeping greygreen foliage of the gums; nor

was there any birdlife to rustle the leaves, or peck, or chirrup. Did he draw rein, the silence was so intense

On striking the outlying boundary of Dandaloo, he dismounted to slip a rail. After that he was in and out of

the saddle, his way leading through numerous gateless paddocks before it brought him up to the homestead.

This, a low white wooden building, overspread by a broad verandah from a distance it looked like an

elongated mushroom stood on a hill. At the end, the road had run alongside a wellstocked fruit and

flowergarden; but the hillside itself, except for a gravelled walk in front of the house, was uncultivated

Fastening his bridle to a post, Mahony unstrapped his bag of necessaries and stepped on to the verandah. A

row of French windows stood open; but flexible green sunblinds hid the rooms from view. The front door

was a French window, too, differing from the rest only in its size. There was neither bell nor knocker. While

he was rapping with the knuckles on the panel, one of the. blinds was pushed aside and Mrs. Glendinning

She was still in hat and ridinghabit; had herself, she said, reached home but half an hour ago. Summoning a

stationhand to attend to the horse, she raised a blind and ushered Mahony into the diningroom, where she

had been sitting at lunch, alone at the head of a large table. A Chinaman brought fresh plates, and Mahony

was invited to draw up his chair. He had an appetite after his ride; the room was cool and dark; there were no

Throughout the meal, the lady kept up a running fire of talk the graceful chitchat that sits so well on pretty

lips. She spoke of the coming Races; of the last Government House Ball; of the untimely death of Governor

Hotham. To Mahony she instinctively turned a different side out, from that which had captured Polly. With

all her wellbred ease, there was a womanly deference in her manner, a readiness to be swayed, to stand

corrected. The ridingdress set off her figure; and her delicate features were perfectly chiselled. ("Though

Some juicy nectarines finished, she pushed back her chair. "And now, doctor, will you come and see your

Mahony followed her down a broad, bare passage. A number of rooms opened off it, but instead of entering

one of these she led him out to a back verandah. Here, before a small door, she listened with bent head, then

The room was so dark that Mahony could see nothing. Gradually he made out a figure lying on a

stretcherbed. A watcher sat at the bedside. The atmosphere was more than close, smelt rank and sour. His

It was the wreck of a fine man that lay there, strapped over the chest, bound hand and foot to the framework

of the bed. The forehead, on which the hair had receded to a few mean grey wisps, was high and domed, the

features were straight with plenty of bone in them, the shoulders broad, the arms long. The skin of the face

had gone a mahogany brown from exposure, and a score of deep wrinkles ran out fanwise from the corners

of the closed lids. Mahony untied the dirty towels that formed the bandages they had cut ridges in the

"How long has he lain like this?" he asked, as he returned the arm to its place.

"How long is it, Saunderson?" asked Mrs. Glendinning. She had sat down on a chair at the foot of the bed;

"Was he unusually violent on this occasion? for I presume such attacks are not uncommon with him,"

continued Mahony, who had meanwhile made a superficial examination of the sick man.

"I am sorry to say they are only too common, doctor," replied the lady. "Was he worse than usual this

time, Saunderson?" she turned again to the man; at which fresh proof of her want of knowledge Mahony

"To say trewth, I never see'd the boss so bad before," answered Saunderson solemnly, grating the palms of

the big red hands that hung down between his knees. "And I've helped him through the jumps more'n once.

It's my opinion it would ha' been a narrow squeak for him this time, if me and a mate hadn't nipped in and got

these bracelets on him. There he was, ravin' and sweatin' and cursin' his head off, grey as death. Hellgate, he

called it, said he was devil'sporter at hellgate, and kept hollerin' for napkins and his firesticks. Poor ol'

By dint of questioning Mahony elicited the fact that Glendinning had been unseated by a young horse, three

days previously. At the time, no heed was paid to the trifling accident. Later on, however, complaining of

feeling cold and unwell, he went to bed, and after lying wakeful for some hours was seized by the horrors of

Requesting the lady to leave them, Mahony made a more detailed examination. His suspicions were

confirmed: there was internal trouble of old standing, rendered acute by the fall. Aided by Saunderson, he

worked with restoratives for the best part of an hour. In the end he had the satisfaction of seeing the coma

"Well, he's through this time, but I won't answer for the next," he said, and looked about him for a basin in

which to wash his hands. "Can't you manage to keep the drink from him? or at least to limit him?"

"Nay, the Almighty Himself couldn't do that," gave back Saunderson, bringing forward soap and a tin dish.

"How does it come that he lies in a place like this?" asked Mahony, as he dried his hands on a corner of the

least dirty towel, and glanced curiously round. The room in size it did not greatly exceed that of a

ship'scabin was in a state of squalid disorder. Besides a deal table and a couple of chairs, its main

contents were rows and piles of old papercovered magazines, the thick brown dust on which showed that

they had not been moved for months or even years. The whitewashed walls were smoketanned and

dotted with millions of flyspecks; the dried corpses of squashed spiders formed large black patches; all four

Saunderson shrugged his shoulders. "This was his den when he first was manager here, in old Morrison's

time, and he's stuck to it ever since. He shuts himself up in here, and won't have a female cross the threshold

"I will not conceal from you that your husband is in a very precarious condition."

"Do you mean, doctor, he won't live long?" She had evidently been lying down: one side of her face was

flushed and marked. Crying, too, or he was much mistaken: her lids were redrimmed, her shapely features

"Ah, you ask too much of me; I am only a woman; I have no influence over him," she said sadly, and shook

Mahony had put him down for at least ten years older, and said so. But the lady was not listening: she

fidgeted with her laceedged handkerchief, looked uneasy, seemed to be in debate with herself. Finally she

said aloud: "Yes, I will." And to him: "Doctor, would you come with me a moment?"

This time she conducted him to a wellappointed bedchamber, off which gave a smaller room, containing a

little fourposter draped in dimity. With a vague gesture in the direction of the bed, she sank on a chair

Drawing the curtains Mahony discovered a fairhaired boy of some eight or nine years old. He lay with his

But the doctor's eye was quick to see that it was no natural sleep. "Good God! who is responsible for this?"

Mrs. Glendinning held her handkerchief to her face. "I have never told any one before," she wept. "The

"Oh, doctor, don't scold me. . . I am so unhappy." The pretty face puckered and creased; the full bosom

heaved. "He is all I have. And such a bright, clever little fellow! You will cure him for me, won't you?"

"I don't know . . . about five or six times, I think . . . perhaps more. There's a place not far from here where he

can get it . . . an old hutcook my husband dismissed once, in a fit of temper he has oh such a temper!

Eddy saddles his pony and rides out there, if he's not watched; and then . . . then, they bring him back . . . like

"Money? Oh, but doctor, he can't be kept without pocketmoney! He has always had as much as he wanted.

No, it is all my husband's doing," and now she broke out in one of those shameless confessions, from

which the medical adviser is never safe. "He hates me; he is only happy if he can hurt me and humiliate me. I

"Compose yourself, my dear lady. Later you may regret such hasty words. And what has this to do with

"You are so kind, doctor," she sobbed, and drank, with hysterical gurglings, the glass of water Mahony

poured out for her. "Yes, I will tell you everything. It began years ago when Eddy was only a tot in

jumpers. It used to amuse my husband to see him toss off a glass of wine like a grownup person; and it was

comical, when he sipped it, and smacked his lips. But then he grew to like it, and to ask for it, and be cross

when he was refused. And then. . . then he learnt how to get it for himself. And when his father saw I was

upset about it, he egged him on gave it to him on the sly. Oh, he is a bad man, doctor, a bad, cruel

man! He says such wicked things, too. He doesn't believe in God, or that it is wrong to take one's own life,

and he says he never wanted children. He jeers at me because I am fond of Eddy, and because I go to church

when I can, and says . . . oh, I know I am not clever, but I am not quite such a fool as he makes me out to be.

He speaks to me as if I were the dirt under his feet. He can't bear the sight of me. I have heard him curse the

day he first saw me. And so he's only too glad to be able to come between my boy and me . . . in any way he

Mahony led the weeping woman back to the diningroom. There he sat long, patiently listening and advising;

sat, till Mrs. Glendinning had dried her eyes and was her charming self once more.

The gist of what he said was, the boy must be removed from home at once, and placed in strict, yet kind

Here, however, he ran up against a weak maternal obstinacy. "Oh, but I couldn't part from Eddy. He is all I

As Mahony insisted, she looked the picture of helplessness. "But I should have no idea how to set about it.

"Oh, how kind you are!" cried Mrs. Glendinning again. "But mind, doctor, it must be somewhere where Eddy

will lack none of the comforts he is accustomed to, and where his poor mammy can see him whenever she

Mahony promised to do his best to satisfy her, and declining, very curtly, the wine she pressed on him, went

Following him on to the verandah, Mrs. Glendinning became once more the pretty woman frankly concerned

for her appearance. "I don't know how I look, I'm sure," she said apologetically, and raised both hands to her

hair. "Now I will go and rest for an hour. There is to be opossuming and a moonlight picnic tonight at

Warraluen." Catching Mahony's eye fixed on her with a meaning emphasis, she changed colour. "I cannot sit

When he was in the saddle she showed him her dimples again, and her small, even teeth. "I want you to bring

your wife to see me next time you come," she sad, patting the horse's neck. "I took a great fancy to her a

But Mahony, jogging downhill, said to himself he would think twice before introducing Polly there. His

young wife's sunny, girlish outlook should not, with his consent, be clouded by a knowledge of the sordid

things this material prosperity hid from view. A whited sepulchre seemed to him now the richly appointed

house, the wellstocked gardens, the acres on acres of good pastureland: a fair outside when, within, all was

foul. He called to mind what he knew by hearsay of the owner. Glendinning was one of the pioneer squatters

of the district, had held the run for close on fifteen years. Nowadays, when the land round was entirely taken

up, and a place like Ballarat stood within stone'sthrow, it was hard to imagine the awful solitude to which

the early settlers had been condemned. Then, with his next neighbour miles and miles away, Melbourne, the

nearest town, a couple of days' ride through trackless bush, a man was a veritable prisoner in this desert of

paddocks, with not a soul to speak to but rough stationhands, and nothing to occupy his mind but the

damage done by summer droughts and winter floods. No support or comradeship in the wife either this

poor pretty foolish little woman: "With the brains of a pigeon!" Glendinning had the name of being

intelligent: was it, under these circumstances, matter for wonder that he should seek to drown doubts,

memories, inevitable regrets; should be led on to the bitter discovery that forgetfulness alone rendered life

endurable? Yes, there was something sinister in the dead stillness of the melancholy bush; in the harsh,

A couple of miles out his horse cast a shoe, and it was evening before he reached home. Polly was watching

for him on the doorstep, in a twitter lest some accident had happened or he had had a brush with bushrangers.

"It never rains but it pours, dear!" was her greeting: he had been twice sent for to the Flat, to attend a woman

in labour. And with barely time to wash the worst of the ride's dust off him, he had to pick up his bag and

Her head bent over her sewing, Polly repeated these words to herself with a happy little smile. They had been

told her, in confidence, by Mrs. Glendinning, and had been said by this lady's best friend, Mrs. Urquhart of

Yarangobilly: on the occasion of Richard's second call at Dandaloo, he had been requested to ride to the

neighbouring station to visit Mrs. Urquhart, who was in delicate health. And of course Polly had passed the

flattering opinion on; for, though she was rather a good hand at keeping a secret Richard declared he had

never known a better yet that secret did not exist or up till now had not existed which she could

For the past few weeks these two ladies had vied with each other in singing Richard's praises, and in making

much of Polly: the second time Mrs. Glendinning called she came in her buggy, and carried off Polly, and

Trotty, too, to Yarangobilly, where there was a nestful of little ones for the child to play with. Another day a

whole brakeful of lively people drove up to the door in the early morning, and insisted on Polly

accompanying them, just as she was, to the Racecourse on the road to Creswick's Creek. And everybody was

so kind to her that Polly heartily enjoyed herself, in spite of her plain print dress. She won a pair of gloves

and a piece of music in a philippine with Mr Urquhart, a jolly, carrotyhaired man, beside whom she sat on

the boxseat coming home; and she was lucky enough to have halfacrown on one of the winners. An

impromptu dance was got up that evening by the merry party, in a hall in the township; and Polly had the

honour of a turn with Mr. Henry Ocock, who was most affable. Richard also looked in for an hour towards

Polly had quite lost her heart to her new friend. At the outset Richard had rather frowned on the intimacy

but then he was a person given to taking unaccountable antipathies. In this case, however, he had to yield; for

not only did a deep personal liking spring up between the two women, but a wave of pity swept over Polly,

blinding her to more subtle considerations. Before Mrs. Glendinning had been many times at the house, she

had poured out all her troubles to Polly, impelled thereto by Polly's quick sympathy and warm young eyes.

Richard had purposely given his wife few details of his visits to Dandaloo; but Mrs. Glendinning knew no

What a dreadful man the husband must be! "For she really is the dearest little woman, Richard. And means so

well with every one I've never heard her say a sharp or unkind word. Well, not very clever, perhaps.

But everybody can't be clever, can they? And she's good which is better. The only thing she seems a

teenyweeny bit foolish about is her boy. I'm afraid she'll never consent to part with him." Polly said this

to prepare her husband, who was in correspondence on the subject with Archdeacon Long and with John in

Melbourne. Richard was putting himself to a great deal of trouble, and would naturally be vexed if nothing

Polly paid her first visit to Dandaloo with considerable trepidation. For Mrs. Urquhart, who herself was

happily married although, it was true, her merry, redhaired husband had the reputation of being a little

too fond of the ladies, and though he certainly did not make such a paying concern of Yarangobilly as Mr.

Glendinning of Dandaloo Mrs. Urquhart had whispered to Polly as they sat chatting on the verandah:

"Such a dreadful man, my dear! . . . a perfect brute! Poor little Agnes. It is wonderful how she keeps her

Polly, however, was in honour bound to admit that to her the owner of Dandaloo had appeared anything but

the monster report made him out to be. He was perfectly sober the day she was there, and did not touch wine

at luncheon; and afterwards he had been most kind, taking her with him on a quiet little broadbacked mare

to an outlying part of the station, and giving her several hints how to improve her seat. He was certainly very

haggardlooking, and deeply wrinkled, and at table his hand shook so that the water in his glass ran over. But

"My dear, you are favoured! I never knew James make such an offer before," whispered Mrs. Glendinning, as

The one thing about him that disturbed Polly was his manner towards his wife: he was savagely ironic with

her, and trampled hobnailed on her timid opinions. But then Agnes didn't know how to treat him, Polly soon

saw that: she was nervous and fluttery evasive, too; and once during lunch even told a deliberate fib.

Slight as was her acquaintance with him, Polly felt sure this want of courage must displease him; for there

"Dearest, I dare not. If you knew him as I do, Polly. . . . He terrifies me. Oh, what a lucky little woman

Polly had recalled these words that very morning as she stood to watch Richard ride away: never did he

forget to kiss her goodbye, or to turn and wave to her at the foot of the road. Each time she admired afresh

the figure he cut on horseback: he was so tall and slender, and sat so straight in his saddle. Now, too, he had

yielded to her persuasions and shaved off his beard; and his moustache and sidewhiskers were like his hair,

of an extreme, silky blond. Ever since the day of their first meeting at Beamish's Family Hotel, Polly had

thought her husband the handsomest man in the world. And the best, as well. He had his peculiarities, of

course; but so had every husband; and it was part of a wife's duty to study them, to adapt herself to them, or

to endeavour to tone them down. And now came these older, wiser ladies and confirmed her high opinion of

him. Polly beamed with happiness at this juncture, and registered a silent vow always to be the best of wives.

Not like but here she tripped and coloured, on the threshold of her thought. She had recently been the

recipient of a very distressing confidence; one, too, which she was not at liberty to share, even with Richard.

For, after the relief of a thoroughpaced confession, Mrs. Glendinning had implored her not to breathe a

word to him "I could never look him in the face again, love!" Besides, the affair was of such a painful

nature that Polly felt little desire to draw Richard into it; it was bad enough that she herself should know. The

thing was this: once when Polly had stayed overnight at Dandaloo Agnes Glendinning in a sudden fit of

misery had owned to her that she cared for another person more than for her own husband, and that her

Shocked beyond measure, Polly tried to close her friend's lips. "I don't think you should mention any names,

But Mrs. Glendinning was hungry for the luxury of speech not even to Louisa Urquhart had she broken

silence, she wept; and that, for the sake of Louisa's children and she persisted in laying her heart bare.

And here certain vague suspicions that had crossed Polly's mind on the night of the impromptu ball they

were gone again, in an instant, quick as thistledown on the breeze these suddenly returned, lifesize and

weighty; and the name that was spoken came as no surprise to her. Yes, it was Mr. Henry Ocock to whom

poor Agnes was attached. There had been a mutual avowal of affection, sobbed the latter; they met as often as

circumstances permitted. Polly was thunderstruck: knowing Agnes as she did, she herself could not believe

any harm of her; but she shuddered at the thought of what other people Richard, for instance would

say, did they get wind of it. She implored her friend to caution. She ought never, never to see Mr. Ocock.

Why did she not go away to Melbourne for a time? And why had he come to Ballarat?

"To be near me, dearest, to help me if I should need him. Oh, you can't think what a comfort it is, Polly, to

feel that he is here so good, and strong, and clever! Yes, I know what you mean . . . but this is quite,

quite different. Henry does not expect me to be clever, too does not want me to be. He prefers me as I am.

He dislikes clever women. . . would never marry one. And we shall marry, darling, some day when . . ."

Henry Ocock! Polly tried to focus everything she knew of him, all her fleeting impressions, in one picture

and failed. He had made himself very agreeable, the single time she had met him; but. . . . There was

Richard's opinion of him: Richard did not like him or trust him; he thought him unscrupulous in business,

cold and selfseeking. Poor, poor little Agnes! That such a misfortune should befall just her! Stranger still

She had, of course, always known from books that such things did happen; but then they seemed quite

different, and very far away. Her thoughts at this crisis were undeniably woolly; but the gist of them was, that

life and books had nothing in common. For in stories the woman who forgot herself was always a bad

woman; whereas not the harshest critic could call poor Agnes bad. Indeed, Polly felt that even if some one

proved to her that her friend had actually done wrong, she would not on that accoUnt be able to stop caring

While these thoughts came and went, she half sat, half knelt, a pair of scissors in her hand. She was busy

cutting out a dress, and no table being big enough for the purpose, had stretched the material on the parlour

floor. This would be the first new dress she had had since her marriage; and it was high time, considering all

the visiting and going about that fell to her lot just now. Sara had sent the pattern up from Melbourne, and

John, hearing what was in the wind, had most kindly and generously made her a present of the silk. Polly

hoped she would not bungle it in the cutting; but skirts were growing wider and wider, and John had not

Steps in the passage made her note subconsciously that Ned had arrived Jerry had been in the house for

the past three weeks, with a sprained wrist. And at this moment her younger brother himself entered the

Picking his steps round the sea of stuff, Jerry sat down and lowered Trotty to his knee. "Ned's grizzling for

Polly did not reply; she was laying an oddshaped piece of paper now this way, now that.

For a while Jerry played with the child. Then he burst out: "I say, Poll!" And since Polly paid no heed to his

"That's a good thing," answered his sister with an air of abstraction: she had solved her puzzle to within half a

Jerry cast a boyishly imploring glance at her back, and rubbed his chin with his hand. "Poll, old girl I say,

wouldn't you put in a word for me with Richard? I'm hanged if I want to go back to the claim. I'm sick to

At this Polly did raise her head, to regard him with grave eyes. "What! tired of work already, Jerry? I don't

know what Richard will say to that, I'm sure. You had better speak to him yourself."

Again Jerry rubbed his chin. "That's just it what's so beastly hard. I know he'll say I ought to stick to it."

Jerry ruefully admitted it. "One expects to dig out gold like spuds; while the real thing's enough to give you

the blight. As for stopping a wagesman all my life, I won't do it. I might just as well go home and work in a

"Oh, Ned! Ned walks about with his head in the clouds. He's always blowing of what he's going to do, and

But Jerry's words fell on deaf ears. A noise in the next room was engaging Polly's whole attention. She heard

a burr of suppressed laughter, a scuffle and what sounded like a sharp slap. Jumping up she went to the door,

Ned sat in an armchair, with his feet on the chimneypiece. "I had the girl bring in a log, Poll," he said; and

looked back and up at his sister with his cheery smile. Standing behind him, Polly laid her hand on his hair.

"I'll go and see after the tea." Ned was so unconcerned that she hesitated to put a question.

In the kitchen she had no such tender scruples; nor was she imposed on by the exaggerated energy with which

Ellen bustled about. "What was that noise I heard in the diningroom just now?" she demanded.

"Oh, get along with you! It was only one of Ned's jokes." And going on her knees, Ellen set to scrubbing the

brick floor with a hiss and a scratch that rendered speech impossible. Polly took up the laden teatray and

carried it into the diningroom. Richard had come home, and the four drew chairs to the table.

Mahony had a book with him; he propped it open against the buttercooler, and snatched sentences as he ate.

It fell to Ned to keep the ball rolling. Polly was distraite to the point of going wrong in her sugars; Jerry

uneasy at the prospect of coming in conflict with his brotherinlaw, whom he thought the world of.

Ned was as full of talk as an egg of meat. The theme he dwelt longest on was the new glory that lay in store

for the Ballarat diggings. At present these were under a cloud. The alluvial was giving out, and the costs and

difficulties of boring through the rock seemed insuperable. One might hear the opinion freely expressed that

Ballarat's day as premier goldfield was done. Ned set up this belief merely for the pleasure of demolishing it.

He had it at first hand that great companies were being formed to carry on operations. These would reckon

their areas in acres instead of feet, would sink to a depth of a quarter of a mile or more, raise washdirt in

hundreds of tons per day. One such company, indeed, had already sprung into existence, out on Golden Point;

and now was the time to nip in. If he, Ned, had the brass, or knew anybody who'd lend it to him, he'd buy up

all the shares he could get. Those who followed his lead would make their fortunes. "I say, Richard, it'ud be

His words evoked no response. Sorry though I shall be, thought Polly, dear Ned had better not come to the

house so often in future. I wonder if I need tell Richard why. Jerry was on pins and needles, and even put

Trotty ungently from him: Richard would be so disgusted by Ned's blatherskite that he would have no

Mahony kept his nose to his book. As a matter of principle. He made a rule of believing, on an average, about

the half of what Ned said. To appear to pay attention to him would spur him on to more flagrant

"D'ye hear, Richard? Now's your chance," repeated Ned, not to be done. "A very different thing this, I can tell

you, from running round dosing people for the collywobbles. I know men who are raising the splosh any way

"I dare say. There's never been any lack of gamblers on Ballarat," said Mahony dryly, and passed his cup to

Pigheaded fool! was Ned's mental retort, as he sliced a chunk of rabbitpie. "Well, I bet you'll feel sore

"We shall see, my lad, we shall see!" replied Mahony. "In the meantime, let me inform you, I can make good

use of every penny I have. So if you've come here thinking you can wheedle something out of me, you're

mistaken." He could seldom resist tearing the veil from Ned's gross hints and impostures.

Ned answered huffily: "'Pon my word, I never met such a fellow as you, for thinking the worst of people."

The thrust went home. Mahony clapped his book to. "You lay yourself open to it, sir! If I'm wrong, I beg your

pardon. But for goodness' sake, Ned, put all these trashy ideas of making a fortune out of your mind. Digging

Jerry flushed and floundered, till Polly came to his aid. "He's been wanting to speak to you, Richard. He hates

Thus encouraged, Jerry made his appeal; and fearing lest Richard should throw him, halfheard, into the

same category as Ned, he worded it very tersely. Mahony, who had never given much heed to Jerry no

one did was pleased by his straightforward air. Still, he did not know what could be done for him, and said

Here Polly had an inspiration. "But I think I do. I remember Mr. Ocock saying to me the other day he must

take another boy into the business, it was growing so the fourth, this will make. I don't know if he's suited

yet, but even if he is, he may have heard of something else. Only you know, Jerry, you mustn't mind what

it is. After tea I'll put on my bonnet and go down to the Flat with you. And Ned shall come, too," she added,

with a consoling glance at her elder brother: Ned had extended his huff to his second slice of pie, which lay

"Somebody has always got something up her sleeve," said Mahony affectionately, when Polly came to him in

walking costume. "None the less, wife, I shouldn't be surprised if those brothers of yours gave us some

IN the weeks and months that followed, as he rode from one end of Ballarat to the other from Yuille's

Swamp in the west, as far east as the ranges and gullies of Little Bendigo it gradually became plain to

Mahony that Ned's frothy tales had some body in them after all. The character of the diggings was changing

before his very eyes. Nowadays, except on an outlying muddy flat or in the hands of the retrograde Chinese,

tubs, cradles, and windlasses were rarely to be met with. Enginesheds and boilerhouses began to dot the

ground; here and there a tall chimney belched smoke, beside a lofty poppethead or an aerial trolleyline.

The richest gutters were found to take their rise below the basaltic deposits; the difficulties and risks of

rockmining had now to be faced, and the capitalist, so long held at bay, at length made free of the field.

Large sums of money were being subscribed; and, where these proved insufficient, the banks stepped into the

breach with subsidies on mortgages. The population, in whose veins the goldfever still burned, plunged by

wholesale into the new hazard; and under the wooden verandahs of Bridge Street a motley crew of jobbers

and brokers came into existence, who would demonstrate to you, a' la Ned, how you might reap a fortune

from a claim without putting in an hour's work on it without even knowing where it was.

A temptation, indeed! . . . but one that did not affect him. Mahony let the reins droop on his horse's neck, and

the animal picked its way among the impedimenta of the bush road. It concerned only those who had money

to spare. Months, too, must go by before, from even the most promising of these cooperative affairs, any

return was to be expected. As for him, there still came days when he had not a fivepound note to his name.

It had been a delusion to suppose that, in accepting John's offer, he was leaving moneytroubles behind him.

Despite Polly's thrift, their improved style of life cost more than he had reckoned; the patients, slow to come,

were slower still to discharge their debts. Moreover, he had not guessed how heavily the quarterly payments

of interest would weigh on him. With as good as no margin, with the fate of every shilling decided

beforehand, the saving up of thirty odd pounds four times a year was a veritable achievement. He was always

in a quake lest he should not be able to get it together. No one suspected what near shaves he had not even

Polly. The last time hardly bore thinking about. At the eleventh hour he had unexpectedly found himself

several pounds short. He did not close an eye all night, and got up in the morning as though for his own

execution. Then, fortune favoured him. A welltodo butcher, his hearty: "What'll yours be?" at the nearest

publichouse waved aside, had settled his bill offhand. Mahony could still feel the sudden lift of the black

fogcloud that had enveloped him the sense of bodily exhaustion that had succeeded to the intolerable

For the coming quarterday he was better prepared if, that was, nothing out of the way happened. Of late

he had been haunted by the fear of illness. The long hours in the saddle did not suit him. He ought to have a

buggy, and a second horse. But there could be no question of it in the meantime, or of a great deal else

besides. He wanted to buy Polly a piano, for instance; all her friends had pianos; and she played and sang

very prettily. She needed more dresses and bonnets, too, than he was able to allow her, as well as a change to

the seaside in the summer heat. The first spare money he had should go towards one or the other. He loved to

give Polly pleasure; never was such a contented little soul as she. And well for him that it was so. To have

had a complaining, even an impatient wife at his side, just now, would have been unbearable. But Polly did

not know what impatience meant; her sunny temper, her fixed resolve to make the best of everything was not

Well, comforts galore should be hers some day, he hoped. The practice was shaping satisfactorily. His

attendance at Dandaloo had proved a key to many doors: folk of the Glendinnings' and Urquharts' standing

could make a reputation or mar it as they chose. It had got abroad, he knew, that at whatever hour of the day

or night he was sent for, he could be relied on to be sober; and that unfortunately was not always the case

with some of his colleagues. In addition his fellowpractitioners showed signs of waking up to his existence.

He had been called in lately to a couple of consultations; and the doyen of the profession on Ballarat, old

The distances to be covered that was what made the work stiff. And he could not afford to neglect a single

summons, no matter where it led him. Still, he would not have grumbled, had only the money not been so

hard to get in. But the fifty thousand odd souls on Ballarat formed, even yet, anything but a stable population:

a patient you attended one day might be gone the next, and gone where no bill could reach him. Or he had

been sold off at public auction; or his wooden shanty had gone up in a flare hardly a night passed without

a fire somewhere. In these and like accidents the unfortunate doctor might whistle for his fee. It seldom

happened nowadays that he was paid in cash. Money was growing as scarce here as anywhere else.

Sometimes, it was true, he might have pocketed his fee on the spot, had he cared to ask for it. But the

presenting of his palm professionally was a gesture that was denied him. And this standoffishness drove

from people's minds the thought that he might be in actual need of money. Afterwards he sat at home and

racked his brains how to pay butcher and grocer. Others of the fraternity were by no means so nice. He knew

of some who would not stir a yard unless their fee was planked down before them old stagers these, who

at one time had been badly bitten and were now grown cynically distrustful. Or tired. And indeed who could

blame a man for hesitating of a pitchdark night in the winter rains, or on a blazing summer day, whether or

no he should set out on a twentymile ride for which he might never see the ghost of a remuneration?

Reflecting thus, Mahony caught at a couple of hard, spicy, greygreen leaves, to chew as he went: the gums,

on which the old bark hung in ribbons, were in flower by now, and bore feathery yellow blossoms side by

side with nutty capsules. His horse had been ambling forward unpressed. Now it laid its ears flat, and a

minute later its master's slower senses caught the clopclop of a second set of hoofs, the noise of wheels.

Mahony had reached a place where two roads joined, and saw a covered buggy approaching. He drew rein

The occupant of the vehicle had wound the reins round the empty lampbracket, and left it to the sagacity of

his horse to keep the familiar track, while he dozed, head on breast, in the corner. The animal halted of itself

"Ah, goodday to you, doctor! Yes, as you see, enjoying a little nap. I was out early."

He got down from the buggy and, with bent knees and his hands in his pockets, stretched the creased cloth of

his trousers, where this had cut into his flesh. He was a big, brawny, handsome man, with a massive nose, a

cloven chin, and the most companionable smile in the world. As he stood, he touched here a strap, there a

buckle on the harness of his chestnut a wellknown trotter, with which he often made a match and

affectionately clapped the neck of Mahony's bay. He could not keep his hands off a horse. By choice he was

his own stableman, and in earlier life had been a daredevil rider. Now, increasing weight led him to prefer

buggy to saddle; but his recklessness had not diminished. With the reins in his left hand, he would run his

light, twowheeled trap up any wooded, boulderstrewn hill and down the other side, just as in his

harumscarum days he had set it at felled trees, and, if rumour spoke true, wirefences.

Mahony admired the splendid vitality of the man, as well as the indestructible optimism that bore him

triumphantly through all the hardships of a colonial ministry. No sick bed was too remote for Long, no sinner

sunk too low to be helped to his feet. The leprous Chinaman doomed to an unending isolation, the drunken

Paddy, the degraded white woman each came in for a share of his benevolence. He spent the greater part

of his life visiting the outcasts and outposts, beating up the unbaptised, the unconfirmed, the unwed. But his

church did not suffer. He had always some fresh scheme for this on hand: either he was getting up a

teameeting to raise money for an organ; or a series of pennyreadings towards funds for a chancel; or he

was training with his choir for a sacred concert. There was a boyish streak in him, too. He would enter into

the joys of the annual Sundayschool picnic with a zest equal to the children's own, leading the way, in

shirtsleeves, at leapfrog and obstaclerace. In doctrine he struck a happy mean between lowchurch

practices and ritualism, preaching short, spirited sermons to which even languid Christians could listen

without tedium; and on a weekday evening he would take a hand at a rubber of whist or ecarte and not

for love or play a sound game of chess. A man, too, who, refusing to be bound by the letter of the

Thirtynine Articles, extended his charity even to persons of the Popish faith. In short, he was one of the few

to whom Mahony could speak of his own haphazard efforts at criticising the Pentateuch.

The Archdeacon was wont to respond with his genial smile: "Ah, it's all very well for you, doctor! you're

a free lance. I am constrained by my cloth. And frankly, for the rest of us, that kind of thing's too well,

Doctor and parson the latter, considerably over six feet, made Mahony, who was tall enough, look short

and doubly slender walked side by side for nearly a mile, flitting from topic to topic: the rivalry that

prevailed between Ballarats East and West; the seditious uprising in India, where both had relatives; the

recent rains, the prospects for grazing. The last theme brought them round to Dandaloo and its unhappy

owner. The Archdeacon expressed the outsider's surprise at the strength of Glendinning's constitution, and the

"One's heart aches for the poor little lady, struggling to bear up as though nothing were the matter. Between

ourselves, doctor" and Mr. Long took off his straw hat to let the air play round his head "between

ourselves, it's a thousand pities he doesn't just pop off the hooks in one of his bouts. Or that some of you

He let out his great hearty laugh as he spoke, and his companion's involuntary stiffening went unnoticed. But

on Mahony voicing his attitude with: "And his immortal soul, sir? Isn't it the church's duty to hope for a

miracle? . . . just as it is ours to keep the vital spark going," he made haste to take the edge off his words.

It was even easier to soothe than to ruffle Mahony. "Remember me very kindly to Mrs. Long, will you?" he

said as the Archdeacon prepared to climb into his buggy. "But tell her, too, I owe her a grudge just now. My

wife's so lost in flannel and brown holland that I can't get a word out of her."

"And mine doesn't know where she'd be, with this bazaar, if it weren't for Mrs. Mahony." Long was husband

to a dot of a woman who, having borne him half a dozen children of his own feature and build, now worked

as parish clerk and district visitor rolled in one; driving about in sunbonnet and gardeninggloves behind a

pair of cream ponies tiny, sharpfeatured, resolute; with little of her husband's large tolerance, but an

energy that outdid his own, and made her an object of both fear and respect. "And that reminds me: over at

the crossroads by Spring Hill, I met your young brotherinlaw. And he told me, if I ran across you to ask

you to hurry home. Your wife has some surprise or other in store for you. No, nothing unpleasant! Rather the

reverse, I believe. But I wasn't to say more. Well, goodday, doctor, goodday to you!"

Mahony smiled, nodded and went on his way. Polly's surprises were usually simple and transparent things:

some one would have made them a present of a suckingpig or a bushturkey, and Polly, knowing his relish

for a savoury morsel, did not wish it to be overdone: she had sent similar chance calls out after him before

When, having seen his horse rubbed down, he reached home, he found her on the doorstep watching for him.

She was flushed, and her eyes had those peculiar highlights in them which led him jokingly to exhort her to

"Well, what is it, Pussy?" he inquired as he laid his bag down and hung up his wideawake. "What's my little

Polly was smiling roguishly. "Aren't you going into the surgery, Richard?" she asked, seeing him heading for

"Aha! So that's it," said he, and obediently turned the handle. Polly had on occasion taken advantage of his

The blind had been let down. He was still blinking in the halfdark when a figure sprang out from behind the

door, barging heavily against him, and a loud voice shouted: "Boh, you old beefbrains! Boh to a goose!"

Displeased at such horseplay, Mahony stepped sharply back his first thought was of Ned having

unexpectedly returned from Mount Ararat. Then recognising the voice, he exclaimed incredulously: "You,

"Dick, old man. . . . I say, Dick! Yes, it's me right enough, and not my ghost. The old bad egg come back to

The blind was raised; and the friends, who had last met in the dingy bush hut on the night of the Stockade,

stood face to face. And now ensued a babel of greeting, a quick fire of question and answer, the two voices

going in and out and round each other, singly and together, like the voices in a duet. Tears rose to Polly's eyes

as she listened; it made her heart glow to see Richard so glad. But when, forgetting her presence, Purdy cried:

"And I must confess, Dick. . . . I took a kiss from Mrs. Polly. Gad, old man, how she's come on!" Polly

At table the same high spirits prevailed: it did not often happen that Richard was brought out of his shell like

this, thought Polly gratefully, and heaped her visitor's plate to the brim. His first hunger stilled, Purdy fell to

giving a slapdash account of his experiences. He kept to no orderly sequence, but threw them out just as they

occurred to him: a rub with bushrangers in the Black Forest, his adventures as a longdistance drover in the

Mildura, the trials of a week he had spent in a boilingdown establishment on the Murray: "Where the stink

wa so foul, you two, that I vomited like a dog every day!" Under the force of this Odyssey husband and wife

gradually dropped into silence, which they broke only by single words of astonishment and sympathy; while

the child Trotty spooned in her pudding without seeing it, her round, solemn eyes fixed unblinkingly on this

In Mahony's feelings for Purdy at this moment, there was none of the old intolerant superiority. He had been

dependent for so long on a mere surface acquaintance with his fellows, that he now felt to the full how

precious the tie was that bound him to Purdy. Here came one for whom he was not alone the reserved,

struggling practitioner, the rather moody man advancing to middleage; but also the Dick of his boyhood and

He had often imagined the satisfaction it would be to confide his troubles to Purdy. Compared, however, with

the hardships the latter had undergone, these seemed of small importance; and dinner passed without any

allusion to his own affairs. And now the chances of his speaking out were slight; he could have been entirely

Even when they rose from the table Purdy continued to hold the stage. For he had turned up with hardly a

shirt to his back, and had to be rigged out afresh from Mahony's wardrobe. It was decided that he should

remain their guest in the meantime; also that Mahony should call on his behalf on the Commissioner of

Police, and put in a good word for him. For Purdy had come back with the idea of seeking a job in the

When Mahony could no longer put off starting on his afternoon round, Purdy went with him to the

liverybarn, limping briskly at his side. On the way, he exclaimed aloud at the marvellous changes that had

taken place since he was last in the township. There were half a dozen gaslamps in Sturt Street by this time,

"One wouldn't credit it if one didn't see it with one's own peepers!" he cried, repeatedly bringing up short

before the plateglass windows of the shops, the many handsome, verandahed hotels, the granite front of

Christ Church. "And from what I hear, Dick, now companies have jumped the claims and are deepsinking in

But on getting home again, he sat down in front of Polly and said, with a businesslike air: "And now tell me

all about old Dick! You know, Poll, he's such an odd fish; if he himself doesn't offer to uncork, somehow one

can't just pump him. And I want to know everything that concerns him from A to Z."

Polly could not hold out against this affectionate curiosity. Entrenching her needle in its stuff, she put her

work away and complied. And soon to her own satisfaction. For the first time in her married life she was led

to discuss her husband's ways and actions with another; and, to her amazement, she found that it was easier to

talk to Purdy about Richard than to Richard himself. Purdy and she saw things in the same light; no rigmarole

of explanation was necessary. Now with Richard, it was not so. In conversation with him, one constantly felt

that he was not speaking out, or, to put it more plainly, that he was going on meanwhile with his own, very

different thoughts. And behind what he did say, there was sure to lurk some imaginary scruple, some rather

farfetched delicacy of feeling which it was hard to get at, and harder still to understand.

SUMMER had come round again, and the motionless white heat of December lay heavy on the place. The

low little houses seemed to cower beneath it; and the smoke from their chimneys drew black, perpendicular

lines on the pale sky. If it was a misery at this season to traverse the blazing, dusty roads, it was almost worse

to be within doors, where the thin wooden walls were powerless to keep out the heat, and flies and

mosquitoes raged in chorus. Nevertheless, determined Christmas preparations went on in dozens of tiny,

zincroofed kitchens, the temperature of which was not much below that of the ovens themselves; and

kindly, welltodo people like Mrs. Glendinning and Mrs. Urquhart drove in in hooded buggies, with green

flyveils dangling from their broadbrimmed hats, and dropped a goose here, a turkey there, on their less

prosperous friends. They robbed their gardens, too, of the summer's last flowers, arumlilies and brilliant

geraniums, to decorate the Archdeacon's church for the festival; and many ladies spent the whole day

No one was busier than Polly. She wanted to give Purdy, who had been on short commons for so long, a

special Christmas treat. She had willing helpers in him and Jerry: the two of them chopped and stoned and

stirred, while she, seated on the block of the woodstack, her head tied up in an old pillowcase, plucked and

singed the goose that had fallen to her share. Towards four o'clock on Christmas Day they drew their chairs to

the table, and with loosened collars set about enjoying the good things. Or pretending to enjoy them. This

was Mahony's case; for the day was no holiday for him, and his head ached from the sun. At teatime

Hempel arrived to pay a call, looking very spruce in a long black coat and white tie; and close on his heels

followed old Mr. Ocock. The latter, having deposited his hat under his seat and tapped several pockets,

produced a letter, which he unfolded and handed to Polly with a broad grin. It was from his daughter, and

contained the news of his wife's death. "Died o' the grumbles, I lay you! An' the first good turn she ever done

me." The main point was that Miss Amelia, now at liberty, was already taking advice about the safest line of

clipperships, and asking for a reply by return to a number of extraordinary questions. Could one depend on

hearing God's Word preached of a Sunday? Was it customary for females to go armed as well as men? Were

"Thinks she's comin' to the back o' beyond, does Mely!" chuckled the old man, and slapped his thigh at the

sudden idea that occurred to him of "takin' a rise out of 'er." "Won't she stare when she gits 'ere, that's all!"

"Well, now you'll simply have to build," said Polly, after threatening to write privately to Miss Amelia, to

reassure her. Why not move over west, and take up a piece of ground in the same road as themselves? But

from this he excused himself, with a laugh and a spit, on the score that no landsales had yet been held in

their neighbourhood: when he did turn out of his present four walls, which had always been plenty good

enough for him, he wanted a place he could "fit up tidy"; which it 'ud stick in his throat to do so, if he thought

it might any day be sold over his head. Mahony winced at this. Then laughed, with an exaggerated

carelessness. If, in a country like this, you waited for all to be fixed and sure, you would wait till Domesday.

None the less, the thrust rankled. It was a fact that he himself had not spent a sou on his premises since they

finished building. The thought at the back of his mind, too, was, why waste his hardearned income on

improvements that might benefit only the nextcomer? The yard they sat in, for instance! Polly had her hens

and a ramshackle henhouse; but not a spadeful of earth had been turned towards the wishedfor garden. It

was just the ordinary colonial backyard, fenced round with rude palings which did not match, and were

mended here and there with bits of hoopiron; its ground space littered with a medley of articles for which

there was no room elsewhere: boards left lying by the builders, empty kerosenetins, a couple of tubs, a

ragged canechair, some old cases. Washlines, on which at the moment a row of stockings hung, stretched

permanently from corner to corner; and the whole was dominated by the big round galvanisediron tank.

On Boxing Day Purdy got the loan of a lorry and drove a large party, including several children, comfortably

placed on straw, hassocks and low chairs, to the Races a few miles out. Half Ballarat was making in the same

direction; and whoever owned a horse that was sound in the wind and anything of a stepper had entered it for

some item on the programme. The Grand Stand, a bark shed open to the air on three sides, was resorted to

only in the case of a sudden downpour; the occupants of the dustladen buggies, wagonettes, brakes, carts

and drays preferred to follow events standing on their seats, and on the boards that served them as seats. After

the meeting, those who belonged to the UrquhartGlendinning set went on to Yarangobilly, and danced till

long past midnight on the broad verandah. It was nearly three o'clock before Purdy brought his load safely

home. Under the round white moon, the lorry was strewn with the forms of sleeping children.

Early next morning while Polly, still only half awake, was pouring out coffee and giving Richard who, poor

fellow, could not afford to leave his patients, an account of their doings with certain omissions, of course:

she did not mention the glaring indiscretion Agnes Glendinning had been guilty of, in disappearing with Mr.

Henry Ocock into a dark shrubbery while Polly talked, the postman handed in two letters, which were of a

nature to put balls and races clean out of her head. The first was in Mrs. Beamish's illformed hand, and told

a sorrowful tale. Custom had entirely gone: a new hotel had been erected on the new road; Beamish was

forced to declare himself a bankrupt; and in a few days the Family Hotel, with all its contents, would be put

up at public auction. What was to become of them, God alone knew. She supposed she would end her days in

taking in washing, and the girls must go out as servants. But she was sure Polly, now so up in the world, with

a husband doing so well, would not forget the old friends who had once been so kind to her with much

more in the same strain, which Polly skipped, in reading the letter aloud. The long and short of it was: would

Polly ask her husband to lend them a couple of hundred pounds to make a fresh start with, or failing that to

"Of course she hasn't an idea we were obliged to borrow money ourselves," said Polly in response to

"No . . . nor that it's a perpetual struggle to keep the wolf from the door," answered her husband, battering in

"Oh, Richard dear, things aren't quite so bad as that," said Polly cheerfully. Then she heaved a sigh. "I know,

of course, we can't afford to help them; but I do feel so sorry for them" she herself would have given the

dress off her back. "And I think, dear, if you didn't mind very much, we might ask one of the girls up to stay

"Yes, I suppose that wouldn't be impossible," said Mahony. "If you've set your heart on it, my Polly. If, too,

you can persuade Master Purdy to forgo the comfort of your good featherbed. And I'll see if I can wring out

Polly jumped up and kissed him. "Purdy is going anyhow. He said only last night he must look for lodgings

near the Police Station." Here a thought struck her; she coloured and smiled. "I'll ask Tilly first," said she.

Mahony laughed and shook his finger at her. "The best laid plans o' mice and men! And what's one to say to a

At this Polly clapped a hand over his mouth, for fear Ellen should hear him. It was a sore point with her that

As soon as she was alone she sat down to compose a reply to Mrs. Beamish. It was no easy job: she was

obliged to say that Richard felt unable to come to their aid; and, at the same time, to avoid touching on his

private affairs; had to disappoint as kindly as she could; to be truthful, yet tactful. Polly wrote, and rewrote:

She could not even press Tilly to pack her box and come at once; for her second letter that morning had been

from Sara, who wrote that, having decided to shake the dust of the colony off her feet, she wished to pay

them a flying visit before sailing, "pour faire mes adieux." She signed herself "Your affectionate sister Zara,"

and on her arrival explained that, tired of continually instructing people in the pronunciation of her name, she

had decided to alter the spelling and be done with it. Moreover, a little bird had whispered in her ear that,

under its new form, it fitted her rather "French" air and looks a thousand times better than before.

Descending from the coach, Zara eyed Polly up and down and vowed she would never have known her; and,

on the way home, Polly more than once felt her sister's gaze fixed critically on her. For her part, she was able

to assure Zara that she saw no change whatever in her, since her last visit even since the date of the

wedding. And this pleased Zara mightily; for as she admitted, in removing hat and mantle, and passing the

damped corner of a towel over her face, she dreaded the ageing effects of the climate on her fine complexion.

Close as ever about her own concerns, she gave no reason for her abrupt determination to leave the country;

but from subsequent talk Polly gathered that, for one thing, Zara had found her position at the head of John's

establishment "Undertaken in the first place, my dear, at immense personal sacrifice!" no sinecure.

John had proved a regular martinet; he had countermanded her orders, interfered about the household bills

had even accused her of lining her own pocket. As for little Johnny the bait originally thrown out to

induce her to accept the post he had long since been sent to boardingschool. "A thoroughly bad,

unprincipled boy!" was Zara's verdict. And when Polly, big with pity, expostulated: "But Zara, he is only six

years old!" her sister retorted with a: "My dear, I know the world, and you don't," to which Polly could think

Zara had announced herself for a bare fortnight's stay; but the man who carried her trunk groaned and

sweated under it, and was so insolent about the size of the coin she dropped in his palm that Polly followed

him by stealth into the passage, to make it up to a crown. As usual Zara was attired in the height of fashion.

She brought a set of "the hoops" with her the first to be seen on Ballarat and once more Polly was torn

between an honest admiration of her sister's daring, and an equally honest embarrassment at the notice she

attracted. Zara swam and glided about the streets, to the hilarious amazement of the population; floated

featherlight, billowing here, depressing there, with all the waywardness of a child's balloon; supported or

so it seemed by two of the tiniest feet ever bestowed on mortal woman. Aha! but that was one of the chief

merits of "the hoops," declared Zara; that, and the possibility of getting still more stuff into your skirts

without materially increasing their weight. There was something in that, conceded Polly, who often felt hers

drag heavy. Besides, as she reminded Richard that night, when he lay alternately chuckling and snorting at

woman's folly, custom was everything. Once they had smiled at Zara appearing in a hat: "And now we're all

Another practical consideration that occurred to her she expressed with some diffidence. "But Zara, don't you

Zara had to repeat her shocked but emphatic denial in the presence of Mrs. Glendinning and Mrs. Urquhart,

both ladies having a mind to bring their wardrobes up to date. They agreed that there was much to be said in

favour of the appliance, over and above its novelty. Especially would it be welcome at those times when. . .

But here the speakers dropped into woman's mysterious code of nods and signs; while Zara, turning modestly

Yes, nowadays, as Mrs. Dr. Mahony, Polly was able to introduce her sister to a society worthy of Zara's gifts;

and Zara enjoyed herself so well that, had her berth not been booked, she might have contemplated extending

her visit. She overflowed with gracious commendation. The house though, of course, compared with

John's splendour, a trifle plain and poky was a decided advance on the store; Polly herself much

improved: "You do look robust, my dear!" And though Zara held her peace about this the fact of

Mahony's being from home each day, for hours at a stretch, lent an additional prop to her satisfaction. Under

Zara's natty appearance and sprightly ways made her a favourite with every one especially the gentlemen.

The episcopal bazaar came off at this time; and Zara had the brilliant idea of a branpie. This was the success

of the entertainment. From behind the refreshmentstall where, with Mrs. Long, she was pouring out cups of

tea and serving cheesecakes and sausagerolls by the hundred, Polly looked proudly across the beflagged

hall, to the merry group of which her sister was the centre. Zara was holding her own, even with Mr. Henry

"Your sister is no doubt a most fascinating woman," said Mrs. Urquhart from the seat with which she had

been accommodated; and heaved a gentle sigh. "How odd that she should never have married!"

"I'm afraid Zara's too particular," said Polly. "It's not for want of being asked."

Her eyes met Purdy's as she spoke Purdy had come up laden with empty cups, a pair of infants' boots

dangling round his neck and they exchanged smiles; for Zara's latest affaire du coeur was a source of great

Polly had assisted at the first meeting between her sister and Purdy with very mixed feelings. On that

occasion Purdy happened to be in plain clothes, and Zara pronounced him charming. The next day, however,

he dropped in clad in the doublebreasted blue jacket, the high boots and greenveiled cabbagetree he wore

when on duty; and thereupon Zara's opinion of him sank to null, and was not to be raised even by him

presenting himself in full dress: whitebraided trousers, red faced shell jacket, pillbox cap, cartouche box

and cavalry sword. "La, Polly! Nothing but a common policeman!" In vain did Polly explain the difference

between a member of the ordinary force and a mounted trooper of the goldescort; in vain lay stress on

Richard's pleasure at seeing Purdy buckle to steady work, no matter what. Zara's thoughts had taken wing for

a land where such anomalies were not; where you were not asked to drink tea with the wellmeaning

constable who led you across a crowded thoroughfare or turned on his bull's eye for you in a fog, preparatory

But the chilly condescension with which, from now on, Zara treated him did not seem to trouble Purdy.

When he ran in for five minutes of a morning, he eschewed the front entrance and took up his perch on the

kitchentable. From here, while Polly cooked and he nibbled halfbaked pastry, the two of them followed the

Zara's arrival on Ballarat had been the cue for Hempel's reappearance, and now hardly a day went by on

which the layhelper did not neglect his chapel work, in order to pay what Zara called his "devoirs." Slight

were his pretexts for coming: a rare bit of dried seaweed for bookmark; a religious journal with a

turneddown page; a nosegay. And though Zara would not nowadays go the length of walking out with a

dissenter she preferred on her airings to occupy the boxseat of Mr. Urquhart's fourinhand she had

no objection to Hempel keeping her company during the empty hours of the forenoon when Polly was lost in

domestic cares. She accepted his offerings, mimicked his faulty speech, and was continually hauling him up

the precipice of selfdistrust, only to let him slip back as soon as he reached the top.

One day Purdy entered the kitchen doubled up with laughter. In passing the front of the house he had thrown

a look in at the parlourwindow; and the sight of the prim and proper Hempel on his knees on the woolly

hearthrug so tickled his sense of humour that, having spluttered out the news, back he went to the passage,

But there was something in Purdy's pranks that a laughterlover like Polly could never for long withstand.

Here, now, in feigning to imitate the unfortunate Hempel, he was sheerly irresistible. He clapped his hands to

his heart, showed the whites of his eyes, wept, gesticulated and tore his hair; and Polly, after trying in vain to

keep a straight face, sat down and went off into a fit of stifled mirth and when Polly did give way, she was

apt to set every one round her laughing, too. Ellen's shoulders shook; she held a fist to her mouth. Even little

Trotty shrilled out her tinny treble, without knowing in the least what the joke was.

When the merriment was at its height, the front door opened and in walked Mahony. An instant's blank

amazement, and he had grasped the whole situation Richard was always so fearfully quick at

understanding, thought Polly ruefully. Then, though Purdy jumped to his feet and the laughter died out as if

by command, he drew his brows together, and without saying a word, stalked into the surgery and shut the

Like a schoolboy who has been caned, Purdy dug his knuckles into his eyes and rubbed his hindquarters

"Well, so long, Polly! I'd better be making tracks. The old man's on the warpath." And in an undertone:

"It was only his fun, Richard," she pleaded, as she held out a linen jacket for her husband to slip his arms

"Fun of a kind I won't permit in my house. What an example to set the child! What's more, I shall let Hempel

know that he is being made a butt of. And speak my mind to your sister about her heartless behaviour."

"Oh, don't do that, Richard. I promise it shan't happen again. It was very stupid of us, I know. But Purdy

didn't really mean it unkindly; and he is so comical when he starts to imitate people." And Polly was all but

But Mahony, stooping to decipher the names Ellen had written on the slate, did not unbend. It was not merely

the vulgar joke that had offended him. No, what really rankled was the sudden chill his unlookedfor

entrance had cast over the group; they had scattered and gone scurrying about their business, like a pack of

naughty children who had been up to mischief behind their master's back. He was the schoolmaster the

But here came Polly herself to say: "Dinner, dear," in her kindest tone. She also put her arm round his neck

and hugged him. "Not cross any more, Richard? I know we behaved disgracefully." Her touch put the crown

But the true origin of the unpleasantness, Zara, who in her ghoulish delight at seeing Hempel grovel before

her thus Mahony worded it behaved more kittenishly than ever at table: Zara Mahony could not so

easily forgive; and for the remainder of her stay his manner to her was so forbidding that she, too, froze; and

But Zara was enjoying herself too well to cut her visit short on Mahony's account. "Besides, poor thing,"

thought Polly, "she has really nowhere to go." What she did do was to carry her head very high in her

brotherinlaw's presence; to speak at him rather than to him; and in private to insist to Polly on her powers

of discernment. "You may say what you like, my dear I can see you have a very great deal to put up

At last, however, the day of her departure broke, and she went off amid a babble of farewells, of requests for

remembrance, a fluttering of pockethandkerchiefs, the like of which Polly had never known; and to himself

Mahony breathed the hope that they had seen the last of Zara, her fripperies and affectations. "Your sister will

Polly cried at the parting, which might be final; then blew her nose and dried her eyes; for she had a busy day

before her. Tilly Beamish had been waiting with illconcealed impatience for Zara to vacate the spare room,

Mahony was not at home to welcome the newcomer, nor could he be present at high tea. When he returned,

towards nine o'clock, he found Polly with a very red face, and so full of fussy cares for her guest's comfort

her natural kindliness distorted to caricature that she had not a word for him. One look at Miss Tilly

explained everything, and his respects duly paid he retired to the surgery, to indulge a smile at Polly's

expense. Here Polly soon joined him, Tilly, fatigued by her journey and by her bounteous meal, having

"Ha, ha!" laughed Mahony, not without a certain mischievous satisfaction at his young wife's discomfiture.

But Polly would not capitulate right off. "I don't think it's very kind of you to talk like that, Richard," she said

warmly. "People can't help their looks." She moved about the room putting things straight, and avoiding his

eye. "As long as they mean well and are good. . . . But I think you would rather no one ever came to stay with

Fixing her with meaning insistence and still smiling, Mahony opened his arms. The next moment Polly was

on his knee, her face hidden in his shoulder. There she shed a few tears. "Oh, isn't she dreadful? I don't know

what I shall do with her. She's been serving behind the bar, Richard, for more than a year. And she's come

At coachtime she had dragged a reluctant Purdy to the office. But as soon as he caught sight of Tilly: "On

the box, Richard, beside the driver, with her hair all towsywowsy in the wind he just said: 'Oh, lor,

Polly!' and disappeared, and that was the last I saw of him. I don't know how I should have got on if it hadn't

been for old Mr. Ocock, who was down meeting a parcel. He was most kind; he helped us home with her

carpetbag, and saw after her trunk. And, oh dear, what do you think? When he was going away he said to

me in the passage so loud I'm sure Tilly must have heard him he said: 'Well! that's something like a

THAT night a great storm rose. Mahony, sitting reading after everyone else had retired, saw it coming, and

lamp in hand went round the house to secure hasps and catches; then stood at the window to watch the

storm's approach. In one half of the sky the stars were still peacefully alight; the other was hidden by a dense

cloud, which came racing along like a giant bat with outspread wings, devouring the stars in its flight. The

storm broke; there was a sudden shrill screeching, a grinding, piping, whistling, and the wind hurled itself

against the house as if to level it with the ground; failing in this, it banged and battered, making windows and

doors shake like loose teeth in their sockets. Then it swept by to wreak its fury elsewhere, and there was a

grateful lull out of which burst a peal of thunder. And now peal followed peal, and the face of the sky, with

its masses of swirling, frothy cloud, resembled an angry sea. The lightning ripped it in fierce zigzags, darting

Polly came running to see where he was, the child cried, Miss Tilly opened her door by a hand'sbreadth, and

thrust a red, puffy face, framed in curltwists, through the crack. Nobody thought of sleep while the

commotion lasted, for fear of fire: once alight, these exposed little wooden houses blazed up like heaps of

shavings. The clockhands pointed to one before the storm showed signs of abating. Now, the rain was

pouring down, making an earsplitting din on the iron roof and leaping from every gutter and spout. It had

He seemed hardly to have closed an eye when he was wakened by a loud knocking; at the same time the wire

of the nightbell was almost wrenched in two. He sat up and looked at his watch. It wanted a few minutes to

three; the rain was still falling in torrents, the wind sighed and moaned. Wild horses should not drag him out

on such a night! Thrusting his arms into the sleeves of his dressinggown, he threw up the parlour window.

A figure on the doorstep turned at the sound. "Is this a doctor's? I wuz sent here. Doctor! for God's sake . . ."

He did so, letting in a blast of wind and a rush of rain that flooded the oilcloth. The intruder, off whom the

"It's me Mat Doyle's me name! It's me wife, doctor; she's dying. I've bin all night on the road. Ah, for the

"Where is it?" Mahony put his hand to the side of his mouth, to keep his words from flying adrift in the wind.

"Paddy's Rest. You're the third I've bin to. Not one of the dirty dogs'ull stir a leg! Me girl may die like a

"Doctor! you're from th' ould country, I can hear it in your lip. Haven't you a wife, too, doctor? Then show a

"Tut, tut, man, none of that!" said Mahony curtly. "You should have bespoken me at the proper time to attend

The other caught the note of yielding. "Sure an' you'd go out, doctor dear, without thinkin', to save your dog if

he was drownin'. I've got me buggy down there; I'll take you safe. And you shan't regret it; I'll make it worth

"Pshaw!" Mahony opened the door of the surgery and struck a match. It was a rough grizzled fellow a

"cocky," on his own showing who presented himself in the lamplight. His wife had fallen ill that

afternoon. At first everything seemed to be going well; then she was seized with fits, had one fit after another,

and all but bit her tongue in two. There was nobody with her but a young girl he had fetched from a mile

away. He had meant, when her time came, to bring her to the District Hospital. But they had been taken

unawares. While he waited he sat with his elbows on his knees, his face between his clenched fists.

In dressing, Mahony reassured Polly, and instructed her what to say to people who came inquiring after him;

it was unlikely he would be back before afternoon. Most of the patients could wait till then. The one

exception, a case of typhoid in its second week, a young Scotch surgeon, Brace, whom he had obliged in a

similar emergency, would no doubt see for him she should send Ellen down with a note. And having

poured Doyle out a nobbler and put a flask in his own pocket, Mahony reopened the front door to the howl of

The lantern his guide carried shed only a tiny circlet of light on the blackness; and the two men picked their

steps gingerly along the flooded road. The rain ran in jets off the brim of Mahony's hat, and down the back of

Having climbed into the buggy they advanced at a funeral pace, leaving it to the sagacity of the horse to keep

the track. At the creek, sure enough, the water was out, the bridge gone. To reach the next bridge, five miles

off, a crazy crosscountry drive would have been necessary; and Mahony was for giving up the job. But

Doyle would not acknowledge defeat. He unharnessed the horse, set Mahony on its back, and himself holding

to its tail, forced the beast, by dint of kicking and lashing, into the water; and not only got them safely across,

but up the steep sticky clay of the opposite bank. It was six o'clock and a cloudless morning when, numb with

cold, his clothing clinging to him like wet seaweed, Mahony entered the wooden hut where the real work he

Later in the day, clad in an odd collection of baggy garments, he sat and warmed himself in the sun, which

was fast drawing up in the form of a blankety mist the moisture from the ground. He had successfully

performed, under the worst possible conditions, a ticklish operation; and was now so tired that, with his chin

Doyle wakened him by announcing the arrival of the buggy. The good man, who had more than one nobbler

during the morning could not hold his tongue, but made still another wordy attempt to express his gratitude.

"Whither me girl lives or dies, it'll not be Mat Doyle who forgits what you did for him this night, doctor! An'

if iver you want a bit o' work done, or some one to do your lyin' awake at night for you, just you gimme the

tip. I don't mind tellin' you now, I'd me shootin'iron here" he touched his right hip "an' if you'd

refused you was the third, mind you, I'd have drilled you where you stood, God damn me if I

Mahony eyed the speaker with derision. "Much good that would have done your wife, you fathead! Well,

"No, may all the saints bless 'er and give 'er health! An' as I say, doctor. . . ." In speaking he had drawn a roll

of banknotes from his pocket, and now he tried to stuff them between Mahony's fingers.

"What's this? My good man, keep your money till it's asked for!" and Mahony unclasped his hands, so that

But when, in clothes dried stiff as cardboard, Mahony was rolling townwards his coachman, a lad of some

ten or twelve who handled the reins to the manner born as they went he chanced to feel in his coat pocket,

The main part of the road was dry and hard again; but all dips and holes were wells of liquid mud, which

bespattered the two of them from top to toe as the buggy bumped carelessly in and out. Mahony diverted

himself by thinking of what he could give Polly with this sum. It would serve to buy that pair of gilt cornices

or the heavy giltframed pierglass on which she had set her heart. He could see her, pink with pleasure,

expostulating: "Richard! What wicked extravagance!" and hear himself reply: "And pray may my wife not

have as pretty a parlour as her neighbours?" He even cast a thought, in passing, on the pianoforte with which

Polly longed to crown the furnishings of her room though, of course, at least treble this amount would be

needed to cover its cost. But a fig for such nonsense! He knew but one legitimate use to make of the

unexpected little windfall, and that was, to put it by for a rainy day. "At my age, in my position, I ought to

have fifty pounds in the bank!" times without number he had said this to himself, with a growing

impatience. But he had not yet managed to save a halfpenny. Thrive as the practice might, the expenses of

living held even pace with it. And now, having got its cue, his brain started off again on the old treadmill,

reckoning, totting up, finding totals, or more often failing to find them, till his head was as hot as his feet

Nor the next day either. By the time he reached home he was conscious of feeling very ill: he had lancinating

pains in his limbs, a chill down his spine, an outrageous temperature. To set out again on a round of visits

He got between the sheets with that sense of utter wellbeing, of almost sensual satisfaction, which only one

who is shivering with fever knows. And at first very small things were enough to fill him with content: the

smoothness of the pillow's sleek linen; the shadowy light of the room after long days spent in the dusty glare

outside; the possibility of resting, the knowledge that it was his duty to rest; Polly's soft, firm hands, which

were always of the right temperature warm in the cold stage, cool when the fever scorched him, and

neither hot nor cold when the dripping sweats came on. But as the fever declined, these slight pleasures lost

their hold. Then he was ridden to death by black thoughts. Not only was day being added to day, he

meanwhile not turning over a penny; but ideas which he knew to be preposterous insinuated themselves in his

brain. Thus, for hours on end he writhed under the belief that his present illness was due solely to the

proximity of the Great Swamp, and lay and cursed his folly in having chosen just this neighbourhood to build

in. Again, there was the case of typhoid he had been anxious about, prior to his own breakdown: under his

locum, peritonitis had set in and carried off the patient. At the time he had accepted the news from Polly's lips

with indifference too ill to care. But a little later the knowledge of what it meant broke over him, and he

suffered the tortures of the damned. Not Brace; he alone would be held responsible for the death; and perhaps

not altogether unjustly. Lying there, a prey to morbid apprehensions, he rebuilt the case in memory,

struggling to recall each slight variation in temperature, each swift change for better or worse; but as fast as

he captured one such detail, his drowsy brain let the last but one go, and he had to beat it up anew. During the

night he grew confident that the relatives of the dead woman intended to take action against him, for

An attempt to speak of these devilish imaginings to wife and friend was a failure. He undertook it in a fit of

desperation, when it seemed as if only a strong and well grounded opposition would save his reason. But this

was just what he could not get. Purdy, whom he tried first, held the crude notion that a sick person should

never be gainsaid; and soothingly sympathised and agreed, till Mahony could have cried aloud at such

blundering stupidity. Polly did better; she contradicted him. But not in the right way. She certainly

poohpoohed his idea of the nearness of Yuille's Swamp making the house unhealthy; but she did not argue

the matter, step by step, and convince him that he was wrong. She just laughed at him as at a foolish child,

and kissed him, and tucked him in anew. And when it came to the typhoid's fatal issue, she had not the

knowledge needed to combat him with any chance of success. She heard him anxiously out, and allowed

herself to be made quite nervous over a possible fault on his part, so jealous was she for his growing

"Don't take any notice of what I say today, wife. It's this blessed fever. . . . I'm lightheaded, I think."

It was not till his pulse beat normally again that he could smile at his exaggerated fears. Now, too, reviving

health brought back a wholesome interest in everyday affairs. He listened with amusement to Polly's account

of the shifts Purdy was reduced to, to enter the house unseen by Miss Tilly. On his faithful daily call, the

young man would creep round by the back door, and Tilly was growing more and more irate at her inability

to waylay him. Yes, Polly was rather redly forced to admit, she had abetted him in his evasions. ("You know,

Poll, I might just as well tie myself up to old Mother B. herself and be done with it!") Out of sheer pique Tilly

had twice now accepted old Mr. Ocock's invitation to drive with him. Once, she had returned with a huge bag

of lollies; and once, with a face like a turkeycock. Polly couldn't help thinking. . . no, really, Richard, she

could not!. . . that perhaps something might come of it. He should not laugh; just wait and see.

Many inquiries had been made after him. People had missed their doctor, it seemed, and wanted him back. It

was a real redletter day when he could snap to the catches of his gloves again, and mount the step of a

He had instructed Purdy to arrange for the hire of this vehicle, saddlework being out of the question for him

in the meantime. And on his first long journey it led him past Doyle's hut, now, he was sorry to see, in the

hands of strangers; for the wife, on the way to making a fair recovery, had got up too soon, overtaxed her

strength and died, and the brokenhearted husband was gone off no one knew where on this drive, as mile

after mile slid from under the wheels, Mahony felt how grateful was the screen of a hood between him and

While he was laid up, the eternal question of how to live on his income had left him, relatively speaking, in

peace. He had of late adopted the habit of doing his scraping and saving at the outset of each quarter, so as to

get the money due to Ocock put by betimes. His illness had naturally made a hole in this; and now the living

With what remained of Doyle's money he proposed to settle his account at the liverystable. Then the

unexpected happened. His reappearance he looked very thin and washedout evidently jogged a

couple of sleepy memories. Simultaneously two big bills were paid, one of which he had entirely given up. In

consequence, he again found himself fifty pounds to the good. And driving to Ocock's office, on term day, he

resolved to go on afterwards to the Bank of Australasia and there deposit this sum.

Grindle, set off by a pair of flaming "sideboards," himself ushered Mahony into the sanctum, and the affair

was disposed of in a trice. Ocock was one of the busiest of men nowadays he no longer needed to invent

sham clients and fictitious interviews and he utilised the few odd minutes it took to procure a signature,

jot down a note, open a drawer, unlock a tin box to remark abstractedly on the weather and put a polite

On emerging from the inner room, Mahony saw that the places formerly filled by Tom and Johnny were

occupied by strangers; and he was wondering whether it would be indiscreet to ask what had become of the

brothers, when Ocock cut across his intention. "By the way, Jenkins, has that memorandum I spoke of been

With a sheet of foolscap in his hand, he invited Mahony with a beck of the chin to reenter his room. "Half a

moment! Now, doctor, if you happen to have a little money lying idle, I can put you on to a good thing a

very good thing indeed. I don't know, I'm sure, whether you keep an eye on the fluctuations of the

sharemarket. If so, you'll no doubt have noticed the . . . let me say the extreme instability of 'Porepunkahs.'

After making an excellent start, they have dropped till they are now to be had at onetwentieth of their

He did not take much interest in mining matters was Mahony's reply. However he knew something of the

claim in question, if only because several of his acquaintances had abandoned their shares, in disgust at the

"Exactly. Well now, doctor, I'm in a position to inform you that 'Porepunkahs' will very shortly be prime

favourites on the market, selling at many times their original figure their original figure, sir! No one with

a few hundreds to spare could find a better investment. Now is the time to buy."

A few hundreds! . . . what does he take me for? thought Mahony; and declined the transaction offhand. It

was very good of Mr. Ocock to think of him; but he preferred to keep clear of that kind of thing.

"Quite so, quite so!" returned Ocock suavely, and drywashed his hands with the smile Mahony had never

learnt to fathom. "Just as you please, of course. I'll only ask you, doctor, to treat the matter as strictly

"I suppose he says the same to everyone he tells," was Mahony's comment as he flicked up his horse; and he

wondered what the extent might be of the lawyer's personal interest in the "Porepunkah Company." Probably

Still, the incident gave him food for thought, and only after closing time did he remember his intention of

Later in the day he came back on the incident, and pondered his abrupt refusal of Ocock's offer. There was

nothing unusual in this: he never took advice well; and, was it forced upon him, nine times out of ten a

certain inborn contrariness drove him to do just the opposite. Besides, he had not yet learned to look with

lenience on the rage for speculation that had seized the people of Ballarat; and he held that it would be

culpable for a man of his slender means to risk money in the great game. But was there any hint of risk in

the present instance? To judge from Ocock's manner, the investment was as safe as a house, and lucrative to a

degree that made one's head swim. "Many times their original figure!" An Arabiannights fashion of growing

rich, and no mistake! Very different from the laborious grind of his days, in which he had always to reckon

with the chance of not being paid at all. That very afternoon had brought him a fresh example of this. He was

returning from the Old Magpie Lead, where he had been called to a case of scarlet fever, and saw himself

covering the same road daily for some time to come. But he had learned to adjudge his patients in a winking;

and these, he could swear to it, would prove to be nonpayers; of a kind even to cut and run, once the child

was out of danger. Was he really justified, cramped for money as he was, in rejecting the straight tip Ocock

had given him? And he debated this moot point argued his need against his principles the whole way

As soon as he had changed and seen his suspect clothing hung out to air, he went impetuously back to

Ocock's office. He had altered his mind. A small gift from a grateful patient: yes, fifty, please; they might

bring him luck. And he saw his name written down as the owner of half a hundred shares.

After this, he took a new interest in the mining sheet of the Star; turned to it, indeed, first of all. For a week, a

fortnight, "Porepunkahs" remained stationary; then they made a call, and, if he did not wish to forfeit, he had

to pay out as many shillings as he held shares. A day or two later they sank a trifle, and Mahony's hopes with

them. There even came a day when they were not mentioned; and he gave up his money for lost. But of a

sudden they woke to life again, took an upward bound, and within a month were quoted at five pounds on

rumour alone. "Very sensitive indeed," said the Star. Purdy, his only confidant, went about swearing at

himself for having let the few he owned lapse; and Mahony itched to sell. He could now have banked two

But Ocock laughed him out of countenance even went so far as to pat him on the shoulder. On no account

was he to think of selling. "Sit tight, doctor . . . sit tight! Till I say the word."

IN the course of the following winter John Turnham came to stand as one of two candidates for the newly

The first news his relatives had of his intention was gleaned from the daily paper. Mahony lit on the

paragraph by chance one morning; said: "Hullo! Here's something that will interest you, my dear," and read it

Polly laid down her knife and fork, pushed her plate from her, and went pink with pleasure and surprise.

"Richard! You don't mean it!" she exclaimed, and got up to look over his shoulder. Yes, there it was

John's name in all the glory of print. "Mr. John Millibank Turnham, one of the foremost citizens and most

highly respected denizens of our marvellous metropolis, and a staunch supporter of democratic rights and the

interests of our people." Polly drew a deep breath. "Do you know, Richard, I shouldn't wonder if he came to

live on Ballarat I mean if he gets in. Does Trotty hear? This is Trotty's papa they're writing about in

the papers. Of course we must ask him to stay with us." For this happened during an interregnum, when

"Of course we must do nothing of the kind. Your brother will need the best rooms Bath's can give him; and

when he's not actually on the hustings, he'll be hobnobbing in the bar, standing as many drinks as there are

throats in the crowd," gave back Mahony, who had the lowest possible opinion of colonial politics.

"Well, at least I can write and tell him how delighted we are," said Polly, not to be done.

"Find out first, my dear, if there's any truth in the report. I can hardly think John would have left us in the

But John corroborated the news; and, in the letter Polly read out a week later, announced the opening of his

I shall feel much obliged to your husband if he will meanwhile exert his influence on my behalf. He is no

doubt acquainted professionally with many of the leading squatters round Ballarat, whom he can induce to

"Umph!" said Mahony grumpily, and went on scooping out his egg. "We're good enough to tout for him."

"Ssh!" warned Polly, with a glance at Trotty. "Think what it means to him, Richard, and to us, too. It will do

your practice ever so much good if he gets in to be the brotherinlaw of the member! We must help all

She was going driving to Yarangobilly that day with Archdeacon Long to see a new arrival Richard had

recently brought into the world; and now she laid plans to kill two birds with one stone, entering into the

scheme with a gusto that astonished Mahony. "Upon my word, wife, I believe you're glad to have something

"Perhaps. But you will have to be a very good girl, and not talk with your mouth full or dirty your pinnies.

Oh, here's a postscript!" Polly had returned to the sheet, and was gloating over it. "John writes:

Especially must he endeavour to win Lawyer Ocock over to my side. I lay great weight on O.'s support.

Oh, Richard, now isn't that unfortunate? I do hope it won't make any difference to John's chances."

Polly's dismay had good grounds. A marked coolness had sprung up between her husband and the lawyer;

and on no account, she knew, would Richard consent to approach Mr. Henry. Some very hot remarks made

by the latter had been passed on to her by Mrs. Glendinning. She had not dared to tell Richard the worst.

The coolness dated from an afternoon when Tilly Beamish had burst into the house in a state of rampant

excitement. "Oh, Polly! oh, I say! my dear, whatever do you think? That old cove old O. 'as actually

"Tilly!" gasped Polly, and flushed to the roots of her hair. "Oh, my dear, I am pleased!" For Polly's

conscience was still somewhat tender about the aid she had lent Purdy in his evasions. The two women

kissed, and Tilly cried a little. "It's certainly her first offer," thought Mrs. Polly. Aloud, she asked

hesitatingly: "And do you . . . shall you . . . I mean, are you going to accept him, Tilly?"

But this was just where Tilly could not make up her mind: should she take him, or should she not? For two

whole days she sat about debating the question; and Polly listened to her with all the sympathy and interest so

"If you feel you could really learn to care for him, dear. Of course it would be nice for you to have a house of

Tilly tore the last veil from her feelings, uttered gross confidences. Polly knew well enough where her real

inclination lay. "I've hoped against hope, Poll, that a certain person would come to the scratch at last." Yes, it

was true enough, he had nothing to offer her; but she wasn't the sort to have stuck at that. "I'd have worked

my hands to the bone for 'im, Poll, if 'e'd only said the word." The one drawback to marriage with "you know

'oo" would have been his infirmity. "Some'ow, Polly, I can't picture myself dragging a husband with a gammy

leg at my heels." From this, Tilly's mind glanced back to the suitor who had honourably declared himself. Of

course "old O." hadn't a great deal of the gentleman about him; and their ages were unsuitable. "'E owns to

fiftyeight, and as you know, Poll, I'm only just turned twentyfive," at which Polly drooped her head a little

lower over the handkerchief she was hemming, to avoid meeting her friend's eye. Poor dear Tilly! she would

never see thirty again; and she need hardly have troubled, thought Polly, to be insincere with her. But in the

same breath she took back the reproach. A woman herself, she understood something of the fear, and shame,

and heartburning that had gone to the making of the lie. Perhaps, too, it was a gentle hint from Tilly what age

she now wished to be considered. And so Polly agreed, and said tenderly: yes, certainly, the difference was

very marked. Meanwhile Tilly flowed on. These were the two chief objections. On the other hand, the old

boy was ludicrously smitten; and she thought one might trust her, Tilly B., to soon knock him into shape. It

would also, no doubt, be possible to squeeze a few pounds out of him towards assisting "pa and ma" in their

present struggle. Again, as a married woman she would have a chance of helping Jinny to find a husband:

"Though Jinn's gone off so, Polly, I bet you'd hardly know her if you met 'er in the street." To end all, a bird

So, when she was asked, Tilly accepted without further humming and hawing an invitation to drive out in the

smart dogcart Mr. Ocock had hired for the purpose; and Polly saw her off with many a small private sign of

encouragement. All went well. A couple of hours later Tilly came flying in, caught Polly up in a bear's hug,

and danced her round the room. "My dear, wish me joy! Oh, lor, Polly, I do feel 'appy!" She was wearing

a large halfhoop of diamonds on her ringfinger: nothing would do "old O." but that they should drive there

and then to the finest jeweller's in Sturt Street, where she had the pick of a trayful. And now Mr. Ocock, all

asmirk with sheepish pride, was fetched in to receive congratulations, and Polly produced refreshments; and

healths were drunk. Afterwards the happy couple dallied in the passage and loitered on the doorstep, till

It was Polly who, in clearing away, was struck dumb by the thought: "But now whatever is to become of Miss

She wondered if this consideration troubled the old man. Trouble there was, of some sort: he called at the

house three days running for a word with Richard. He wore a brandnew pair of shepherd'splaid trousers, a

choker that his workstained hands had soiled in tying, a black coat, a massive gold watchchain. On the

third visit he was lucky enough to catch Mahony, and the door of the surgery closed behind them.

Here Mr. Ocock sat on the extreme edge of a chair; alternately crushed his wideawake flat between his

palms and expanded it again, as though he were playing a concertina; and coughed out a wordy preamble. He

assured Mahony, to begin with, how highly he esteemed him. It was because of this, because he knew doctor

was as straight as a pound of candles, that he was going to ask his advice on an awkward matter devilish

awkward! one nobody had any idea of either except Henry. And Henry had kicked up such a deuce of

a row at his wanting to marry again, that he was damned if he'd have anything more to do with him. Besides,

the doctor knew what lawyers were the whole breed of 'em! Sharp as needles especially Henry but

with a sort of squint in their upper storey that made 'em see every mortal thing from the point of view of law.

And that was no good to him. What he needed was a plain and honest, a . . . he hesitated for a word and

repeated, "a honest opinion;" for he only wanted to do the right thing, what was straight and above board.

And at last out it came: did "doc." think it would be acting on the square, and not taking a lowdown

advantage of a female, if he omitted to mention to "the future Mrs. O" that, up till six months back, he had

been obliged to . . . well, he'd spit it out short and say, obliged to report himself to the authorities at fixed

intervals? Women were such shy cattle, so damned odd! You never knew how they'd take a thing like this.

One might raise Cain over it, another only laugh, another send him packing. He didn't want to let a fine

young woman like Matilda slip if he could help it, by dad he didn't! But he felt he must either win her by fair

dealing or not at all. And having got the load off his chest, the old colonist swallowed hard, and ran the back

He had kept his eyes glued to the tableleg in speaking, and so saw neither his hearer's involuntary start at the

damaging disclosure, nor the nervous tightening of the hand that lay along the arm of the chair. Mahony sat

silent, balancing a paperknife, and fighting down a feeling of extraordinary discomfort his very

fingertips curled under the strain. It was of little use to remind himself that, ever since he had known him,

Ocock had led a decent, Godfearing life, respected both in his business relations and by his brethren of the

chapel. Nor could he spare more than a glance in passing for those odd traits in the old man's character which

were now explained: his itch for public approval; his unvarying harshness towards the pair of incorrigibles

who weighed him down. At this moment he discounted even the integrity that had prompted the confession.

His attitude of mind was one of: why the deuce couldn't the old fool have held his tongue?

Oh, these unbidden, injudicious confidences! How they complicated life! And as a doctor he was pestered

with only too many; he was continually being forced to see behind the scenes. Now, outsiders, too, must

needs choose him for the storehouse of their privacies. Himself he never made a confidence; but it seemed as

though just this buttonedupness on his part loosened people's tongues. Blind to the flags of warning he

hoisted in looks and bearing, they innocently proceeded, as Ocock had done, to throw up insurmountable

barriers. He could hear a new tone in his own voice when he replied, and was relieved to know the old man

dull of perception. For now Ocock had finished speaking, and sat perspiring with anxiety to learn his fate.

Mahony pulled himself together; he could, in good faith, tender the advice to let the dead past bury its dead.

Whatever the original fault had been no, no, please! . . . and he raised an arresting hand it was, he felt

sure, long since fully atoned. And Mr. Ocock had said a true word: women were strange creatures. The

revelation of his secret might shipwreck his latefound happiness. It also, of course, might not and

personally Mahony did not believe it would; for Ocock's buisness throve like the green baytree, and Miss

Tilly had been promised a fine twostoreyed house, with bowwindows and a garden, and a carriagedrive

up to the door. Again, the admission might be accepted in peace just now, and later on used as a weapon

against him. In his, Mahony's, eyes, by far the wisest course would be, to let the grass grow over the whole

And here he rose, abruptly terminating the interview. "You and I, too, sir, if you please, will forget what has

passed between us this morning, and never come back on it. How is Tom getting on in the drapery business?

But none the less as he ushered his visitor out, he felt that there was a certain finality about the action. It was

as far as his private feelings were concerned the old man's moral exit from the scene.

On the doorstep Ocock hoped that nothing that had been said would reach "your dear little lady." "To 'Enry,

too, doc., if you'll be so good, mum's the word! 'Enry 'ud never forgive me, nay, or you eether, if it got to 'is

'ears I'd bin an' let the cat outer the bag. An' 'e's got a bit of a down on you as it is, for it 'avin' bin your place I

"My good man!" broke from Mahony and in this address, which would previously never have crossed his

lips, all his sensations of the past hour were summed up. "Has your son Henry the" he checked himself;

He turned back to the surgery hot with annoyance. This, too! Not enough that he must be put out of

countenance by indiscreet babbling; he must also get drawn into family squabbles, even be held responsible

for them: he who, brooking no interference in his own life, demanded only that those about him should be as

It all came from Polly's indiscriminate hospitality. His house was never his own. And now they had the

prospect of John and his electoral campaign before them. And John's chances of success, and John's stump

oratory, and the backstairwork other people were expected to do for him would form the main theme of

She came to talk over the engagement with Polly, and sitting in the parlour cried a little, and was sorry. But

then "poor little Agnes" cried so easily nowadays. Richard said her nerves had been shattered by the terrible

affair just before Christmas, when Mr. Glendinning had tried first to kill her, and then to cut his own throat.

Agnes said: "But I told Henry quite plainly, darling, that I would not cease my visits to you on that account. It

is both wrong and foolish to think you or Dr. Mahony had anything to do with it and after the doctor was

so kind, too, so very kind, about getting poor Mr. Glendinning into the asylum. And so you see, dear, Henry

and I have had quite a disagreement"; and Agnes cried again at the remembrance. "Of course, I can

sympathise with his point of view. . . . Henry is so ambitious. All the same, dearest, it's not quite so bad is

it? as he makes out. Matilda is certainly not very comme il faut you'll forgive my saying so, love,

won't you? But I think she will suit Henry's father in every way. No, the truth is, the old gentleman has made

a great deal of money, and we naturally expected it to fall to Henry at his death; no one anticipated his

marrying again. Not that Henry really needs the money; he is getting on so well; and I have. . . . I shall have

"Dearest Agnes! . . . don't fret about it. Mr. Henry thinks too much of you, I'm sure, to be vexed with you for

long. And when he looks at it calmly, he'll see how unfair it is to make us responsible. I'm like you, dear; I

can't consider it a misfortune. Tilly is not a lady; but she's a dear, warmhearted girl and will make the old

man a good wife. I only hope though, Agnes, Mr. Henry won't say anything to Richard. Richard is so touchy

The two women kissed, Polly with feelings of the tenderest affection: the fact that, on behalf of their

friendship, Agnes had pitted her will against Mr. Henry's, endeared her to Polly as nothing else could have

But when, vigilant as a motherhen, she sought to prepare her husband for a possible unpleasantness, she

found him already informed; and her wellmeant words were like a match laid to his suppressed indignation.

He turned embarrassingly cool to Tilly. And Tilly, innocent of offence and quite unskilled in deciphering

subtleties, put this sudden change of front down to jealousy, because she was going to live in a grander house

than he did. For the same reason he had begun to turn up his nose at "Old O.," or she was very much

mistaken; and in vain did Polly strive to convince her that she was in error. "I don't know anyone Richard has

But it was a very uncomfortable state of things; and when a message arrived over the electric telegraph

announcing the dangerous illness of Mrs. Beamish, distressed though she was by the news, Polly could not

help heaving a tiny sigh of relief. For Tilly was summoned back to Melbourne with all speed, if she wished to

They mingled their tears, Polly on her knees at the packing, Tilly weeping wholeheartedly among the

"If it 'ad only been pa now, I shouldn't have felt it half so much," and she blew her nose for the hundredth

time. "Pa was always such a rum old stick. But poor ma . . . when I think how she's toiled and moiled 'er

whole life long, to keep things going. She's 'ad all the pains and none of the pleasures; and now, just when I

The one bright spot in Tilly's grief was that the journey would be made in a private conveyance. Mr. Ocock

had bought a smart gig and was driving her down himself; driving past the foundations of the new house,

along the seventy odd miles of road, right up to the door of the mean lodging in a Collingwood back street,

where the old Beamishes had hidden their heads. "If only she's able to look out of the window and see me

Polly fitted out a substantial luncheonbasket, and was keenest sympathy to the last. But Mahony was a poor

dissembler; and his sudden thaw, as he assisted in the farewell preparations, could, Polly feared, have been

Tilly hugged Polly to her, and gave her kiss after kiss. "I shall never forget 'ow kind you've been, Poll, and all

you've done for me. I've had my disappointments 'ere, as you know; but p'raps after all it'll turn out to be for

the best. One o' the good sides to it anyhow is that you and me'll be nextdoor neighbours, so to say, for the

rest of our lives. And I'll hope to see something of you, my dear, every blessed day. But you'll not often catch

me coming to this house, I can tell you that! For, if you won't mind me saying so, Poll, I think you've got one

of the queerest sticks for a husband that ever walked this earth. Blows hot one day and cold the next, for all

the world like the wind in spring. And without caring twopence whose corns 'e treads on." Which, thought

Polly, was but a sorry return on Tilly's part for Richard's hospitality. After all, it was his house she had been a

Such were the wheels within wheels. And thus it came about that, when the question rose of paving the way

for John Turnham's candidature, Mahony drew the line at approaching Henry Ocock.

JOHN drove from Melbourne in a drag and four, accompanied by numerous friends and wellwishers. A

mile or so out of Ballarat, he was met by a body of supporters headed by a brass band, and escorted in

triumph to the George Hotel. Here, the horses having been led away, John at once took the field by mounting

the boxseat of the coach and addressing the crowd of idlers that had gathered round to watch the arrival. He

got an excellent hearing so Jerry reported, who was an eye and earwitness of the scene and was

With Jerry at his heels, Mahony called at the hotel that evening. He found John entertaining a large

impromptu party. The table of the public diningroom was disorderly with the remains of a liberal meal;

napkins lay crushed and flung down among plates piled high with empty nutshells; the cloth was

winestained, and bestrewn with ashes and breadcrumbs, the air heady with the fumes of tobacco. Those of

the guests who still lingered at the table had pushed their chairs back or askew, and sat, some astraddle,

some even with their feet on the cloth. John was confabbing with half a dozen blackcoats in a corner. Each

held a wineglass in his hand from which he sipped, while John, legs apart, did all the talking, every now and

then putting out his forefinger to prod one of his hearers on the middle button of the waistcoat. It was some

time before he discovered the presence of his relatives; and Mahony had leisure to admire the fashion in

which, this cornertalk over, John dispersed himself among the company; drinking with this one and that;

glibly answering questions; patting a glumfaced brewer on the back; and simultaneously checking over,

with an oilyhaired agent, his committeemeetings for the following days. His customary arrogance and

pompousness of manner were laid aside. For the nonce, he was a simple man among men.

Then espying them, he hurried over, and rubbing his hands with pleasure said warmly: "My dear Mahony,

this is indeed kind! Jerry, my lad, how do, how do? Still growing, I see! We'll make a fine fellow of you yet.

Well, doctor! . . . we've every reason, I think, to feel satisfied with the lie of the land."

But here he was snatched from them by an urgent request for a pronouncement "A quite informal word,

sir, if you'll be so good," on the vexed question of vote by ballot. And this being a pet theme of John's,

and a principle he was ready to defend through thick and thin, he willingly complied.

Mahony had no further talk with him. The speech over it was a concise and spirited utterance, and, if you

were prepared to admit the efficacy of the ballot, convincing enough Mahony quietly withdrew. He had to

see a patient at eleven. Polly, too, would probably be lying awake for news of her brother.

As he threw back his braces and wound up his watch, he felt it incumbent on him to warn her not to pitch her

hopes too high. "You mustn't expect, my dear, that your brother's arrival will mean much to us. He is now a

public man, and will have little time for small people like ourselves. I'm bound to admit, Polly, I was very

"Oh, Richard, I'm so glad!" and Polly, who had been sitting on the edge of the bed, stood on tiptoe to give

As Mahony predicted, John's private feelings went down before the superior interests of his campaign. Three

days passed before he found time to pay his sister a visit; and Polly, who had postponed a washing, baked her

richest cakes and pastries, and clad Trotty in her Sunday best each day of the three: Polly was putting a good

face on the matter, and consoling herself with Jerry's descriptions of John's triumphs. How she wished she

could hear some of the speechifying! But Richard would never consent; and electioneering did certainly

seem, from what Jerry said, a very roughandready business nothing for ladies. Hence her delight knew

no bounds when John drove up unexpectedly late one afternoon, between a hard day's personal canvassing

and another of the innumerable dinners he had to eat his way through. Tossing the reins to the gentleman who

sat next him, he jumped out of the wagonette it was hung with placards of "Vote for Turnham!" and

Forgetting in her excitement that this was Ellen's job, Polly opened to him herself, and drew him in. "John!

"My dear girl, how are you? God bless me, how you've altered! I should never have known you." He held her

"But you haven't changed in the least, John. Except to grow younger. Richard, here's John at last! and

Trotty, John . . . here's Trotty! Take your thumb out of your mouth, naughty girl! She's been watching

for you all day, John, with her nose to the window." And Polly pushed forward the scarlet, shrinking child.

John's heartiness suffered a distinct check as his eyes lit on Trotty, who stood stiff as a bit of Dresden china in

her bunchy starched petticoats. "Come here, Emma, and let me look at you." Taking the fat little chin

between thumb and first finger, he turned the child's face up and kept it so, till the red button of a mouth

trembled, and the great blue eyes all but ran over. "H'm! Yes . . . a notable resemblance to her mother. Ah,

time passes, Polly my dear time passes!" He sighed. "I hope you mind your aunt, Emma, and are

Abruptly quitting his hold, he swept the parlour with a glance. "A very snug little place you have here, upon

While Polly, with Trotty pattering after, bustled to the larder, Mahony congratulated his brotherinlaw on

the more favourable attitude towards his election policy which was becoming evident in the local press.

John's persuasive tongue was clearly having its effect, and the hostility he had met with at the outset of his

candidature was yielding to more friendly feelings on all sides. John was frankly gratified by the change, and

did not hesitate to say so. When the wine arrived they drank to his success, and Polly's delicacies met with

their due share of praise. Then, having wiped his mouth on a large silk handkerchief, John disclosed the

business object of his call. He wanted specific information about the more influential of their friends and

acquaintances; and here he drew a list of names from his pocketbook. Mahony, his chin propped on the

flaxen head of the child, whom he nursed, soon fell out of the running for Polly proved far the cleverer at

grasping the nature of the information John sought, and at retailing it. And John complimented her on her

shrewdness, ticked off names, took notes on what she told him; and when he was not writing sat tapping his

thick, carnationred underlip, and nodding assent. It was arranged that Polly should drive out with him next

day to Yarangobilly, by way of Dandaloo; while for the evening after they plotted a cardparty, at which

John might come to grips with Archdeacon Long. John expected to find the reverend gentleman a hard nut to

crack, their views on the subject of a state aid to religion being diametrically opposed. Polly thought a

substantial donation to the chancelfund might smooth things over, while for John to display a personal

interest in Mrs. Long's charities would help still more. Then there were the Ococks. The old man could be

counted on, she believed; but John might have some difficulty with Mr. Henry and here she initiated her

brother into the domestic differences which had split up the Ocock family, and prevented Richard from

approaching the lawyer. John, who was in his most democratic mood, was humorous at the expense of Henry,

and declared the latter should rather wish his father joy of coming to such a fine, bouncing young wife in his

old age. The best way of getting at Mr. Henry, Polly considered, would be for Mrs Glendinning to give a

luncheon or a bushingparty, with the lawyer among the guests: "Then you and I, John, could drive out and

join them either by chance or invitation, as you think best." Polly was heart and soul in the affair.

But business over, she put several straight questions about the boy, little Johnny Polly still blamed herself

for having meekly submitted to the child's removal from her charge and was not to be fobbed off with

evasions. The unfavourable verdict she managed to worm out of John: "Incorrigible, my dear Polly utterly

incorrigible! His masters report him idle, disobedient, a bad influence on the other scholars," she met

staunchly with: "Perhaps it has something to do with the school. Why not try another? Johnny had his good

For the first time Mahony saw his wife and her eldest brother together and he could not but be struck by

Polly's attitude. Greatly as she admired and reverenced John, there was not a particle of obsequiousness in her

manner, nor any truckling to his point of view; and she plainly felt nothing of the peculiar sense of discomfort

that invariably attacked him, in John's presence. Either she was not conscious of her brother's grossly

patronising air, or, aware of it, did not resent it, John having always been so much her superior in age and

position. Or was it indeed the truth that John did not try to patronise Polly? That his overbearing nature

recognised in hers a certain springy resistance, which was not to be crushed? In other words, that, in a

John retook his seat in the front of the wagonette, Trotty was lifted up to see the rosettes and streamers

adorning the horses, the gentlemen waved their hats, and off they went again at a fine pace, and with a

Polly had pink cheeks with it all, and even sought to excuse the meagre interest John had shown in his

daughter. "Trotty was only a baby in arms when he saw her last. Besides, I think she reminded him too much

of her dear mother. For I'm sure, though he doesn't let it be seen, John still feels his loss."

"I wonder!" said Mahony slowly and with a strong downward inflection, as he turned indoors.

On the eve of the polling Polly had the honour of accompanying her brother to a performance at the Theatre

Royal. A ticket came for Richard, too; but, as usual, he was at the last moment called out. So Purdy took her

on his arm and escorted her not exactly comfortably; for, said Polly, no one who had not tried it, knew

how hard it was to walk arminarm with a lame person, especially if you did not want to hurt his feelings

Purdy took her to the theatre, helped her to unmuffle and to change her boots, and bore her company till

her brother arrived. They had seats in the centre of the front row of the dress circle; all eyes were turned on

them as they entered; and Polly's appearance was the subject of audible and embarrassing comment.

In every interval John was up and away, to shake a hand here, pass the time of day there; and watching him

with affectionate pride, Polly wondered how Richard could ever have termed him "highhanded and

difficult." John had the knack, it seemed to her, of getting on with people of every class, and of always

finding the right word to say. But as the evening advanced his seat remained empty even while the curtain

was up, and she was glad when, between the fourth and fifth acts, her husband at last appeared.

On his way to her Mahony ran into his brotherinlaw, and John buttonholed him to discuss with him the

prospects of the morrow. As they talked, their eyes rested on Polly's glossy black chignon; on the nape of her

white neck; on the beautiful, rounded young shoulders which, in obedience to the fashion, stood right out of

her blue silk bodice. Mahony shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. He could not imagine

Polly enjoying her exposed position, and disapproved strongly of John having left her. But for all answer to

the hint he threw out John said slowly, and with a somewhat unctuous relish: "My sister has turned into a

remarkably handsome woman!" words which sent the lightningthought through Mahony that, had Polly

remained the insignificant little slip of a thing of earlier days, she would not have been asked to fill the

John sent his adieux and excuses to Polly. He had done what was expected of him, in showing himself at a

public entertainment, and a vast mass of correspondence lay unsorted on his desk. So Mahony moved

"Oh, Richard, there you are! Oh dear, what you've missed! I never thought there could be such acting." And

Polly turned her great dark eyes on her husband; they were moist from the noble sentiments of The True

The day of the election broke, a gusty spring day cut up by stinging hailshowers, which beat like fusillades

on the galvanised iron roofs. Between the showers, the sun shone in a gentianblue sky, against which the

little wooden houses showed up crassly white. Ballarat made holiday. Early as Mahony left home, he met a

long line of conveyances heading townwards spring carts, dogcarts, double and single buggies, in some of

which, built to seat two only, five or six persons were huddled. These and similar vehicles drew up in rows

outside the publichouses, where the lean, longlegged colonial horses stood jerking at their tethers; and they

were still there, still jerking, when he passed again toward evening. On a huge poster the "Unicorn" offered to

lunch free all those "thinking men" who registered their vote for "the one and only true democrat, the miners'

In the hope of avoiding a crush Mahony drove straight to the pollingbooth. But already all the loafers and

roughs in the place seemed to be congregated round the entrance, after the polite custom of the country to

chivy, or boo, or huzza those who went in. In waiting his turn, he had to listen to comments on his dress and

Just as he was getting back into his buggy John rode up, flanked by a bodyguard of friends; John was

galloping from booth to booth, to verify progress and put the thumbscrew on wobblers. He beamed as

well he might. He was certain to be one of the two members elected, and quite likely to top the poll by a

For once Mahony did not grumble at his outlying patients; was only too thankful to turn his back on the town.

It was pandemonium. Bands of music, one shriller and more discordant than the next, marched up and down

the main streets from the fifes and drums of the Fire Brigade, to the kerosenetins and pennywhistles of

mere determined noisemakers. Straggling processions, with banners that bore the distorted features of one

or other of the candidates, made driving difficult; and, to add to the confusion, the schoolchildren were let

loose, to overrun the place and fly advertisement balloons round every corner. And so it went on till far

into the night, the dark hours being varied by torchlight processions, fireworks, free fights and orgies of

When, something after this hour Mahony reached home, he found Polly and the gentle, oxeyed Jinny

Beamish, who was the present occupant of the spare room, pacing up and down before the house. According

to Jerry news might be expected now at any minute. And when he had lunched and changed his coat,

Mahony, bitten by the general excitement, made his way down to the junction of Sturt Street and the Flat.

A great crowd blocked the approaches to the hustings. Here were the four candidates, who, in attending the

issue, strove to look decently unconcerned. John had struck a quasiNapoleonic attitude: his right elbow

propped in the cup of his left hand, he held his drooped chin between thumb and forefinger, leaving it to his

glancing black eyes to reveal how entirely alive he was to the gravity of the moment. Standing on the fringe

of the crowd, Mahony listened to the piebald jokes and rude wit with which the people beguiled the interim;

and tried to endure with equanimity the jostling, the profane language and offensive odours, by which he was

assailed. Half an hour elapsed before the returning officer climbed the ladder at the back of the platform, and

came forward to announce the result of the voting: Mr. John Millibank Turnham topped the poll with a

majority of four hundred and fiftytwo. The crowd, which at sight of the clerk had abruptly ceased its

fooling, drowned his further statements in a roar of mingled cheers and boos. The cheers had it; hats were

tossed into the air, and loud cries for a speech arose. John's advance to grip the railing led to a fresh outburst,

in which the weakening opposition was quashed by the singing of: "When Johnny comes marching home!"

and "Cheer, boys, cheer, For home and mother country!" an incongruity of sentiment that made Mahony

smile. And John, having repeatedly bowed his thanks from side to side, joined in and sang with the rest.

The opening of his speech was inaudible to Mahony. Just behind him stood one of his brotherinlaw's most

arrant opponents, a butcher by trade, and directly John began to hold forth this man produced a

cornetapiston and started to blow it. In vain did Mahony expostulate: he seemed to have got into a very

wasps'nest of hostility; for the player's friends took up the cudgels and baited him in a language he would

have been sorry to imitate, the butcher blaring away unmoved, with the fierce solemnity of face the cornet

demands. Mahony lost his temper; his tormentors retaliated; and for a moment it looked as though there

would be trouble. Then a number of John's supporters, enraged by the bellowing of the instrument, bore down

Having indignantly explained, and shaken coat and collar to rights, he returned to his place on the edge of the

crowd. The speaker's deep voice had gone steadily on during the disturbance. Indeed John might have been

born to the hustings. Interruptions did not put him out; he was brilliant at repartee; and all the stock gestures

of the public speaker came at his call: the pounding of the bowl of one hand with the closed fist of the other;

the dramatic wave of the arm with which he plumbed the depths or invited defiance; the jaunty

standingatease, arms akimbo; the earnest bend from the waist when he took his hearers into his confidence.

At this moment he was gripping the rail of the platform as though he intended to vault it, and asserting: "Our

first cry, then, is for men to people the country; our next, for independence, to work out our own salvation.

Yes, my friends, the glorious future of this young and prosperous colony, which was once and most

auspiciously known as Australia Felix blest, thriceblest Australia! rests with ourselves alone. We

who inhabit here can best judge of her requirements, and we refuse to see her hampered in her progress by the

shackles of an ancient tradition. What suits our hoary mothercountry God bless and keep her and keep us

loyal to her! is but dry husks for us. England knows nothing of our most pressing needs. I ask you to

consider how, previous to 1855, that pretty pair of mandarins, Lord John Russell and Earl Grey, boggled and

botched the crucial question of unlocking the lands even yet, gentlemen, the result of their muddling lies

heavy on us. And the Land Question, though first in importance, is but one, as you know, of many" and

here John, playing on the tips of five widestretched fingers, counted them off. He wound up with a flaming

plea for the creation and protection of purely national industries. "For what, I would ask you, is the true

meaning of democracy in a country such as ours? What is, for us, the democratic principle? The answer, my

friends, is conservatism; yes, I repeat it conservatism!" . . . and thus to a final peroration.

In the braying and hurrahing that followed the din was heightened by some worthy mounting a barrel to

move that "this yere Johnny Turnham" was not a fit person to represent "the constitooency," by the barrel

being dragged from under him, and the speaker rolled in the mud; while this went on Mahony stood silent,

and he was still standing meditatively pulling his whiskers when a sudden call for a doctor reached his ear.

How the accident happened no one knew. John had descended from the platform to a verandah, where

countless hands were stretched out to shake his. A pile of shutters was leaning against the wall, and in some

unexplained fashion these had fallen, striking John a blow that knocked him down. When Mahony got to him

he was on his feet again, wiping a drop of blood from his left temple. He looked pale, but poohpoohed

injury or the idea of interfering with his audience's design; and Mahony saw him shouldered and borne off.

That evening there was a lengthy banquet, in which all the notables of the place took part. Mahony's seat was

some way off John's; he had to lean forward, did he wish to see his brotherinlaw.

Towards eleven o'clock, just as he was wondering if he could slip out unobserved, a hand was laid on his

arm. John stood behind him, white to the lips. "Can I have a word with you upstairs?"

Here he confessed to a knifelike pain in his left side; the brunt of the blow, it seemed, had met him

Having expressed the chief guest's regrets to the company, he ordered a horse and trap, and helping John into

it drove him home. And that night John lay in their bed, letting out the groans he had suppressed during the

evening; while Polly snatched forty winks beside Jinny Beamish, and Mahony got what sleep he could on the

THERE for some weeks John was a prisoner, with a fractured rib encased in strips of plaster. "In your

element again, old girl!" Mahony chaffed his wife, when he met her bearing invalid trays.

"Oh, it doesn't all fall on me, Richard. Jinny's a great help sitting with John and keeping him company."

Mahony could see it for himself. Oftenest when he entered the room it was Jinny's blackrobed figure she

was in mourning for her parents; for Mrs. Beamish had sunk under the twofold strain of failure and disgrace,

and the day after her death it had been necessary to cut old Beamish down from a nail oftenest it was

Jinny he found sitting behind a curtain of the testerbed, watching while John slept, ready to read to him or to

listen to his talk when he awoke. This service set Polly free to devote herself to the extra cooking; and John

was content. "A most modest and unassuming young woman," ran his verdict on Jinny.

Polly reported it to her husband in high glee. "Who could ever have believed two sisters would turn out so

differently? Tilly to get so . . . so . . . well, you know what I mean . . . and Jinny to improve as she has done.

Have you noticed, Richard, she hardly ever really quite seldom now drops an h? It must all have been

By the time John was so far recovered as to exchange bed for sofa, it had come to be exclusively Jinny who

carried in to him the dainties Polly prepared the wife as usual was content to do the dirty work! John

declared Miss Jinny had the foot of a fay; also that his meals tasted best at her hands. Jinny even succeeded in

making Trotty fond of her; and the love of the fat, shy child was not readily won. Entering the parlour one

evening Mahony surprised quite a family scene: John, stretched on the sofa, was stringing cats'cradles, Jinny

"He could if he wanted to. But I'm sure he doesn't," answered her aunt, deftly turning a wellrolled sheet of

And righting her dolly, which she had been dragging upside down, Trotty let slip her fears with the sovereign

From the kitchen Polly could hear the boom of John's deep bass: it made nothing of the lathandplaster

walls. Of course, shut up as he was, he had to talk to somebody, poor fellow; and Richard was too busy to

spare him more than half an hour of an evening. Jinny was a good listener. Through the crack of the door,

Polly could see her sitting humbly drinking in John's words, and even looking rather pretty, in her fair, full

"Oh, Polly!" she burst out one day, after being held thus spellbound. "Oh, my dear, what a splendid man your

brother is! I feel sometimes I could sink through the floor with shame at my ignorance, when 'e talks to me

But as time went on Mahony noticed that his wife grew decidedly thoughtful; and if John continued to sing

Jinny's praises, he heard nothing more of it. He had an acute suspicion what troubled Polly; but did not try to

Then one afternoon, on his getting home, she came into the surgery looking very perturbed, and could hardly

find words to break a certain piece of news to him. It appeared that not an hour previously, Jinny, flushed and

tearful, had lain on her neck, confessing her feelings for John and hinting at the belief that they were returned.

"Well, I think you might have been prepared for something of this sort, Polly," he said with a shrug, when he

had heard her out. "Convalescence is notoriously dangerous for fanning the affections."

"Oh, but I never dreamt of such a thing, Richard! Jinny is a dear good girl and all that, but she is not John's

equal. And that he can even think of putting her in poor Emma's place! What shall I say to him?"

"Say nothing at all. Your brother John is not the man to put up with interference."

"He longs so for a real home again, Polly darling," said Jinny, wiping her eyes. "And how 'appy it will make

me to fulfil 'is wish! Don't let me feel unwelcome and an intruder, dear. I know I'm not nearly good enough

for 'im, and 'e could 'ave had the choice of ever such handsome women. But 'e 'as promised to be patient with

Polly's dismay at the turn of events yielded to a womanly sympathy with her friend. "It's just like poor little

Agnes and Mr. Henry over again," was her private thought. For she could not picture John stooping to guide

But she had been touched on a tender spot that of ambitious pride for those related to her and she made

what Mahony called "a real Turnham attempt" to stand up to John. Against her husband's express advice.

"For if your brother chooses to contract a mesalliance of this kind, it's nobody's business but his own. Upon

my word though, Polly, if you don't take care, this house will get a bad name over the matches that are made

Mahony was feeling particularly rasped by John's hoitytoity behaviour in this connection. Having been

nursed back to health, John went about with his chin in the air, and hardly condescended to allude to his

engagement let alone talk it over with his relatives. So Mahony retired into himself after all, the world

of John's mind was so dissimilar to his own that he did not even care to know what went on in it. "The fellow

has been caught on the hop by a buxom form and a languishing eye," was how he dismissed the matter in

"I raise my wife to my own station, Mary. And you will greatly oblige me by showing Jane every possible

attention," was the only satisfaction Polly could get from John, made in his driest tone.

Before the engagement was a week old Tilly reappeared she was to be married from their house on the

hither side of Christmas. At first she was too full of herself and her own affairs to let either Polly or Jinny get

a word in. Just to think of it! That old cabbagegrower, Devine, had gone and bought the block of land next

the one Mr. O. was building on. She'd lay a bet he would put up a house the dead spit of theirs. Did ever

At the news that was broken to her, the first time she paused for breath, she let herself heavily down on a

"Well, I'm blowed!" was all she could ejaculate. "Blowed!. . . that's what I am."

But afterwards, when Jinny had left the room, she gave free play to a very real envy and regret. "In all my life

I never did! Jinn to be Mrs. John! . . . and, as like as not, the Honourable Mrs. John before she's done. Oh,

On being presented to John, however, she became more reconciled to her lot. "'E's got a temper, your brother

has, or I'm very much mistaken. It won't be all beer and skittles for 'er ladyship. For Jinn hasn't a scrap of

spunk in 'er, Polly. She got so mopey the last year or two, there was no doing anything with 'er. Now it was

just the other way round with me. No matter how black things looked, I always kept my pecker up. Poor ma

And at a still later date: "No, Polly, my dear, I wouldn't change places with the future Mrs. T. after all, thank

you not for Joseph! I say! she'll need to mind her p's and q's." For Tilly had listened to John explaining to

Jinny what he expected of her, what she might and might not do; and had watched Jinny sitting meekly by

There was nothing in the way of the marriage; indeed, did it not take place immediately, Jinny would have to

look about her for a situation of some kind; and, said John, that was nothing for his wife. His house stood

empty; he was very much in love; and pressed for the naming of the day. So it was decided that Polly should

accompany Jinny to lodgings in Melbourne, help her choose her trousseau and engage servants. Afterwards

there would be a quiet wedding by reason of Jinny's mourning at which Richard, if he could possibly

contrive to leave his patients, would give the bride away. Polly was to remain in John's house while the happy

couple were on honeymoon, to look after the servants. This arrangement would also make the break less hard

for the child. Trotty was still blissfully unconscious of what had befallen her. She had learnt to say "new

mamma" parrotwise, without understanding what the words meant. And meanwhile, the fact that she was to

go with her aunt for a long, exciting coachride filled her childish cup with happiness. As Polly packed the

little clothes, she thought of the night, six years before, when the fat, sleeping babe had been laid in her arms.

"Of course it's only natural John should want his family round him again. But I shall miss the dear little soul,"

"Ah, don't I wish I had!" said Polly, and drew a sigh. "That would make up for everything. Still if it can't be,

A few days before the set time John received an urgent summons to Melbourne, and went on ahead, leaving

Mahony suspecting him of a dodge to avoid travelling en famille. In order that his brideelect should not be

put to inconvenience, John hired four seats for the three of them; but: "He might just as well have saved his

money," thought Polly, when she saw the coach. Despite their protests they were packed like herrings in a

barrel had hardly enough room to use their hands. Altogether it was a trying journey. Jinny, worked on by

excitement and fatigue, took a fit of hysterics; Trotty, frightened by the many rough strangers, cried and had

to be nursed; and the whole burden of the undertaking lay on Polly's shoulders. She had felt rather timid

about it, before starting; but was obliged to confess she got on better than she expected. A kind old man

sitting opposite, for instance a splitter he said he was actually undid Jinny's bonnetstrings, and

Polly had not been in Melbourne since the year after her marriage, and was looking forward intensely to the

visit. She went laden with commissions; her ladyfriends gave her a list as long as her arm. Richard, too, had

entrusted her to get him secondhand editions of various medical works, as well as a new stethoscope.

Thirdly, she had promised old Mr. Ocock to go to William's Town to meet Miss Amelia, who even now was

tossing somewhere on the Indian Ocean, and to escort the poor young lady up to Ballarat.

Having seen them start, Mahony went home to drink his coffee and read his paper in a quiet that was new to

him. John's departure had already eased the strain. Then Tilly had been boarded out at the Methodist

minister's. Now, with the exit of Polly and her charges, a great peace descended on the little house. The

rooms lay white and still in the sun, and though all doors stood open, there was not a sound to be heard but

the buzzing of the blowflies round the sweets of the flytraps. He was free to look as glum as he chose of a

morning if he had neuralgia; or to be silent when worried over a troublesome case. No longer would Miss

Tilly's bulky presence and loudvoiced reiterations of her prospects grate his nerves; or John's fullblooded

absorption in himself, and poor foolish Jinny's quavering doubts whether she would ever be able to live up to

Another reason he was glad to see the last of them was that, in the long run, he had rebelled at the barefaced

way they made use of Polly, and took advantage of her good nature. She had not only cooked for them and

waited on them; he had even caught her stitching garments for the helpless Jinny. This was too much: such

extreme obligingness on his wife's part seemed to detract from her personal dignity. He could never though

have got Polly to see it. Undignified to do a kindness? What a funny, selfish idea! The fact was, there was a

certain streak in Polly's nature that made her more akin to all these good people than to him him with his

unsociable leanings towards a hermit's cell; his genuine need of an occasional hour's privacy and silence, in

On coming in from his rounds he turned out an old linen jacket that belonged to his bachelor days, and raked

up some books he had not opened for an almost equally long time. He also steered clear of friends and

acquaintances, went nowhere, saw no one but his patients. And Ellen, to whose cookery Polly had left him

with many misgivings, took things easy. "He's so busy reading, he never knows what he puts in his mouth. I

believe he'd eat his bootsoles, if I fried 'em up neat wid a bit of parsley," she reported over the back fence on

During the winter months the practice had as usual fallen off. By now it was generally beginning to look up

again; but this year, for some reason, the slackness persisted. He saw how lean his purse was, whenever he

had to take a banknote from it to enclose to Polly; there was literally nothing doing, no money coming in.

Then, he would restlessly lay his book aside, and drawing a slip of paper to him set to reckoning and

dividing. Not for the first time he found himself in the doctor's awkward quandary: how to be decently and

He had often regretted having held to the halfhundred shares he had bought at Henry Ocock's suggestion;

had often spent in fancy the sum they would have brought in, had he sold when they touched their highest

figure. Such a chance would hardly come his way again. After the one fictitious flareup, "Porepunkahs" had

fallen heavily the first main prospectdrive, at a depth of three hundred and fifty feet, had failed to strike

the gutter and nowadays they were not even quoted. Thus had ended his single attempt to take a hand in

One morning he sat at breakfast, and thought over his weekly epistle to Polly. In general, this chronicled

items of merely personal interest. The house had not yet been burnt down her constant fear, when absent;

another doctor had got the Asylum; he himself stood a chance of being elected to the Committee of the

District Hospital. Today, however, there was more to tell. The English mail had come in, and the table was

strewn with foreign envelopes and journals. Besides the usual letters from relatives, one in a queer, illiterate

hand had reached him, the address scrawled in purple ink on the cheapest notepaper. Opening it with some

The old man wrote in a dismal strain. Everything had gone against him. His wife had died, he was out of

work and penniless, and racked with rheumatism oh, it was "a crewl climat"! Did he stop in England, only

"the house" remained to him; he'd end in a pauper's grave. But he believed if he could get back to a scrap of

warmth and the sun, he'd be good for some years yet. Now he'd always known Dr. Mahony for the kindest,

most liberal of gentlemen; the happiest days of his life had been spent under him, on the Flat; and if he'd only

give him a lift now, there was nothing he wouldn't do to show his gratitude. Doctor knew a bit about him, too.

Here, he couldn't seem to get on with folk at all. They looked crooked at him, and just because he'd once been

spunky enough to try his luck overseas. Mahony pshawed and smiled; then wondered what Polly would say

to this letter. She it was who had been responsible for packing the old man off.

Unfolding the Star, he ran his eye over its columns. He had garnered the chief local news and was skimming

the mining intelligence, when he suddenly stopped short with an exclamation of surprise; and his grip on the

paper tightened. There it stood, black on white. "Porepunkahs" had jumped to three pounds per share! What

the dickens did that mean? He turned back to the front sheet, to find if any clue to the claim's renewed

activity had escaped him; but sought in vain. So bolting the rest of his breakfast, he hurried down to the town,

to see if, on the spot, he could pick up information with regard to the mysterious rise.

The next few days kept him in a twitter of excitement. "Porepunkahs" went on advancing not by leaps and

bounds as before, but slowly and steadily and threw off a dividend. He got into bed at night with a hot

head, from wondering whether he ought to hold on or sell out; and inside a week he was off to consult the one

person who was in a position to advise him. Henry Ocock's greeting resembled an embrace "It evidently

means a fortune for him" and all trifling personal differences were forgotten in the wider common bond.

The lawyer virtually ordered Mahony to "sit in", till he gave the word. By this time "Porepunkahs" had

passed their previous limit, and even paid a bonus: it was now an open secret that a drive undertaken in an

opposite direction to the first had proved successful; the lead was scored and seamed with gold. Ocock spoke

of the stone, specimens of which he had held in his hand declared he had never seen its equal.

But when the shares stood at fiftythree pounds each, Mahony could restrain himself no longer; and, in spite

of Ocock's belief that another ten days would see a coup, he parted with fortyfive of the half hundred he

held. Leaving the odd money with the lawyer for reinvestment, he walked out of the office the possessor of

It was only a very ordinary late spring day; the season brought its like by the score: a pale azure sky, against

which the distant hills looked purple; above these a narrow belt of cloud, touched, in its curves, to the same

hue. But to Mahony it seemed as if such a perfect day had never dawned since he first set foot in Australia.

His back was eased of its burden; and, like Christian on having passed the wall known as Salvation, he could

have wept tears of joy. After all these years of pinching and sparing he was out of poverty's grip. The

suddenness of the thing was what staggered him. He might have drudged till his hair was grey; it was

unlikely he would ever, at one stroke, have come into possession of a sum like this. And that whole day he

went about feeling a little more than human, and seeing people, places, things, through a kind of beatific mist.

Now, thank God, he could stand on his own legs again; could relieve John of his bond, pay off the mortgage

on the house, insure his life before it was too late. And, everything done, he would still have over a thousand

pounds to his credit. A thousand pounds! No longer need he thankfully accept any and every call; or reckon

sourly that, if the leakage on the roof was to be mended, he must go without a new surtout. Best of all, he

First, though, he allowed himself two very special pleasures. He sent Polly a message on the electric

telegraph to say that he would come down himself to fetch her home. In secret he planned a little trip to

Schnapper Point. At the time of John's wedding he had been unable to get free; this would be the first holiday

The second thing he did was: to indulge the love of giving that was innate in him; and of giving in a

somewhat lordly way. He enjoyed the broad grin that illumined Ellen's face at his unlookedfor generosity;

Jerry's red stammered thanks for the gift of the cob the boy had long coveted. It did him good to put two

tenpound notes in an envelope and inscribe Ned's name on it; he had never yet been able to do anything for

these poor lads. He also, without waiting to consult Polly fearing, indeed, that she might advise against it

sent off the money to Long Jim for the outward voyage, and a few pounds over. For there were

superstitious depths in him; and, at this turn in his fortunes, it would surely be of ill omen to refuse the first

Polly was so much a part of himself that he thought of her last of all. But then it was with moist eyes. She,

who had never complained, should of a surety not come short! And he dropped asleep that night to the happy

refrain: "Now she shall have her piano, God bless her! . . . the best that money can buy."

THE new house stood in Webster Street. It was twice as large as the old one, had a garden back and front, a

verandah round three sides. When Mahony bought it, and the piece of ground it stood on, it was an

unpretentious weatherboard in a rather dilapidated condition. The situation was good though without

being too far from his former address and there was stabling for a pair of horses. And by the time he had

finished with it, it was one of those characteristically Australian houses which, added to wherever feasible,

without a thought for symmetry or design a room built on here, a covered passage there, a bathroom

thrown out in an unexpected corner, with odd steps up and down have yet a spacious, straggling comfort

How glad he was to leave the tiny, sunbaked box that till now had been his home. It had had neither blind nor

shutter; and, on his entering it of a summer midday, it had sometimes struck hotter than outside. The

windows of his new room were fitted with green venetians; round the verandahposts twined respectively a

banksia and a Japanese honeysuckle, which further damped the glare; while on the patch of buffalograss in

front stood a spreading figtree, that leafed well and threw a fine shade. He had also added a sofa to his

equipment. Now, when he came in tired or with a headache, he could stretch himself at full length. He was

Polly, too, had reason to feel satisfied with the change. A handsome little Broadwood, with a rubysilk and

carvedwood front, stood against the wall of her drawingroom; gilt cornices surmounted the windows; and

from the centre of the ceiling hung a lustrechandelier that was the envy of every one who saw it: Mrs. Henry

Ocock's was not a patch on it, and yet had cost more. This time Mahony had virtually been able to give his

wife a free hand in her furnishing. And in her new spare room she could put up no less than three guests!

Of course, these luxuries had not all rained on them at once. Several months passed before Polly, on the

threshold of her parlour, could exclaim, with an artlessness that touched her husband deeply: "Never in my

life did I think I should have such a beautiful room!" Still, as regarded money, the whole year had been a

steady ascent. The nestegg he had left with the lawyer had served its purpose of chaining that old hen,

Fortune, to the spot. Ocock had invested and reinvested on his behalf now it was twenty "Kohinoors,"

now thirty "Consolidated Beehives" and Mahony was continually being agreeably surprised by the

margins it threw off in its metamorphoses. That came of his having placed the matter in such competent

hands. The lawyer had, for instance, got him finally out of "Porepunkahs" in the nick of time the reef had

not proved as open to the day as was expected and pulled him off, in the process, another three hundred

odd. Compared with Ocock's own takings, of course, his was a modest spoil; the lawyer had made a fortune,

and was now one of the wealthiest men in Ballarat. He had built not only new and handsome offices on the

crest of the hill, but also, prior to his marriage, a fine dwellinghouse standing in extensive grounds on the

farther side of Yuille's Swamp. Altogether it had been a year of great and sweeping changes. People had gone

up, gone down had changed places like children at a game of General Post. More than one of Mahony's

acquaintances had burnt his fingers. On the other hand, old Devine, Polly's onetime marketgardener, had

made his thousands. There was actually talk of his standing for Parliament, in which case his wife bid fair to

be received at Government House. And the pair of them with hardly an "h" between them!

From the sofa where he lay, Mahony could hear the murmur of his wife's even voice. Polly sat the further end

of the verandah talking to Jinny, who dandled her babe in a rockingchair that made a light tiptap as it went

to and fro. Jinny said nothing: she was no doubt sunk in adoration of her or rather John's infant; and

In his case the saying had once more been verified: to him that hath shall be given. Whether it was due to the

better position of the new house; or to the fact that easier circumstances gave people more leisure to think of

their ailments; or merely that money attracted money: whatever the cause, his practice had of late made giant

strides. He was in demand for consultations; sat on several committees; while a couple of lodges had come

Against this he had one piece of illluck to set. At the close of the summer, when the hot winds were in blast,

he had gone down under the worst attack of dysentery he had had since the early days. He really thought this

time all was over with him. For six weeks, in spite of the tenderest nursing, he had lain prostrate, and as soon

as he could bear the journey had to prescribe himself a change to the seaside. The bracing air of Queenscliff

soon picked him up; he had, thank God, a marvellous faculty of recuperation: while others were still not done

pitying him, he was himself again, and well enough to take the daily plunge in the Sea that was one of his

dearest pleasures. To feel the warm, stinging fluid lap him round, after all these drewthy years of dust and

heat! He could not have enough of it, and stayed so long in the water that his wife, sitting at a decent distance

from the Bathing Enclosure, grew anxious, and agitated her little white parasol.

"There's nothing to equal it, Mary, this side Heaven!" he declared as he rejoined her, his towel about his neck.

But Mary preferred to sit quietly on the beach. "The dressing and undressing is such a trouble," said she. As it

Yes, Polly was Mary now, and had been, since the day Ned turned up again on Ballarat, accompanied by a

wife and child. Mary was in Melbourne at the time, at John's nuptials; Mahony had opened the door himself

to Ned's knock; and there, in a springcart, sat the frowsy, redhaired woman who was come to steal his

wife's name from her. This invasion was the direct result of his impulsive generosity. Had he only kept his

He had been forced to take the trio in and give them houseroom. But he bore the storming of his hardwon

She had been greatly distressed by her favourite brother's illconsidered marriage. For, if they had not held

Jinny to be John's equal, what was to be said of Ned's choice? Mrs. Ned had lived among the mining

population of Castlemaine, where her father kept a publichouse; and, said Richard, her manners were

accordingly: loud, slapdash, familiar before she had been twentyfour hours under his roof she was

bluntly addressing him as "Mahony." There was also a peculiar streak of touchiness in her nature ("Goes with

hair of that colour, my dear!") which rendered her extremely hard to deal with. She had, it seemed, opposed

the idea of moving to Ballarat that was all in her favour, said Mary and came primed to detect a snub

or a slight at every turn. This morbid suspiciousness it was that led Mary to yield her rights in the matter of

the name: the confusion between them was neverending; and, at the first hint that the change would come

"It's all the same to me, Richard, what I'm called," Mary soothed him. "And don't you think Polly was

But: "Oh, what could Ned have seen in her?" she sighed to herself dismayed. For Mrs. Ned was at least ten

years older than her husband; and whatever affection might originally have existed between them was now a

thing of the past She tyrannised mercilessly over him, nagging at him till Ned, who was nothing if not

"We must just make the best of it, Richard," said Mary. "After all, she's really fond of the baby. And when

the second comes. . . you'll attend her yourself, won't you, dear? I think somehow her temper may improve

For this was another thing: Mrs. Ned had arrived there in a condition that raised distressing doubts in Mary as

to the dates of Ned's marriage and the birth of his first child. She did not breathe them to Richard; for it

seemed to her only to make matters of this kind worse, openly to speak of them. She devoted herself to

getting the little family under a roof of its own. Through Richard's influence Ned obtained a clerkship in a

carryingagency, which would just keep his head above water; and she found a tiny, threeroomed house that

was near enough to let her be daily with her sisterinlaw when the latter's time came. Meanwhile, she cut

out and helped to sew a complete little outfit ("What she had before was no better than rags!"); and Mrs. Ned

soon learned to know on whom she could lean and to whom she might turn, not only for practical aid, but

"I vow your Mary's the kindesthearted little soul it's ever been me luck to run across," she averred one day

to Mahony, who was visiting her professionally. "So commonsense, too no nonsense about her! I

shouldn't have thought a gaby like Ned could have sported such trump of a sister."

"Another pensioner for your caritas, dear," said Mahony, in passing on the verdict. What he did not grieve his

wife by repeating were certain bad reports of Ned lately brought him by Jerry. According to Jerry and the

boy's word was to be relied on Ned had kept loose company in Castlemaine, and had acquired the habit of

taking more than was good for him. Did he not speedily amend his ways, there would be small chance of him

Here, Mahony was effectually roused by a stir on the verandah. Jinny had entered the house to lay down her

sleeping babe, and a third voice, Purdy's, became audible. The wife had evidently brought out a bottle of her

famous homebrewed gingerbeer: he heard the cork pop, the drip of the overflow on the boards, the clink of

Then there was silence. Rising from the sofa, Mahony inserted himself between blind and window, and

His first thought was: what a picture! Mary wore a pale pink cotton gown which, over the light swellings of

her crinoline, bulged and billowed round her, and generously swept the ground. Collar and cuffs of spotless

lawn outlined neck and wrists. She bent low over her stitching, and the straight white parting of her hair

intensified the ebony of the glossy bands. Her broad pure forehead had neither line nor stain. On the trellis

Purdy sat on the edge of the verandah, with his back to Mahony. Between thumb and forefinger he idly

Urged by some occult sympathy, Mary at once glanced up and discovered her husband. Her face was lightly

flushed from stooping and the least touch of colour was enough to give its delicate ivory an appearance of

vivid health. She had grown fuller of late quite fat, said Richard, when he wished to tease her: a luxuriant

young womanliness lay over and about her. Now, above the pale wildrose of her cheeks her black eyes

danced with a mischievous glee; for she believed her husband intended swinging his leg noiselessly over the

sill and creeping up to startle Purdy and this appealed to her sense of humour. But, as he remained

standing at the window, she just smiled slyly, satisfied to be in communion with him over their unsuspecting

Here, however, Purdy brought his eyes back from the garden, and she abruptly dropped hers to her

The scissors were shut with a snap, and thrown, rather than laid, to the other implements in the workbox.

"One 'ud think you were paid to finish that wretched sewing in a fixed time, Polly," said Purdy

"Oh, damn Dorcases! You're always slaving for somebody. You'll ruin your eyes. I wonder Dick allows it. I

The peal of laughter that greeted these words came equally from husband and wife. Then: "What the dickens

does it matter to you, sir, how much sewing my wife chooses to do?" cried Mahony, and, still laughing,

"Hello! you there?" said Purdy and rose to his feet. "What a beastly fright to give one!" He looked red and

"I scored that time, my boy!" and linking his arm in Mary's, Mahony confronted his friend. "Afraid I'm

neglecting my duties, are you? Letting this young woman spoil her eyes ? Turn 'em on him, my love, in

"Nonsense, Richard," said Mary softly, but with an affectionate squeeze of his arm.

"Well, tata, I'm off!" said Purdy. And as Mahony still continued to quiz him, he added in a downright surly

tone: "Just the same old Dick as ever! Blinder than any bat to all that doesn't concern yourself! I'll eat my hat

if it's ever entered your noddle that Polly's quite the prettiest woman on Ballarat."

"Don't listen to him, Richard, please!" and: "Don't let your head be turned by such fulsome flattery, my dear!"

"I shouldn't think so," said Mary sturdily, and would have added more, but just at this minute Jinny came out

of the house, with the peculiar noiseless tread she had acquired in moving round an infant's crib; and Purdy

Jinny gazed at her sisterinlaw with such meaning that Mary could not but respond.

"Perfectly, Mary! Without even the quiver of an eyelash. You recollect, I told you yesterday when her little

head touched the pillow, she opened her eyes and looked at me. Today there was nothing of that sort. It was

quite perfect"; and Jinny's voice thrilled at the remembrance: it was as if, in continuing to sleep during the

transit, her or rather John's tiny daughter had proved herself a marvellous sagacity.

Mahony gave an impatient shrug in Jinny's direction. But he, too, had to stand fire: she had been waiting all

day for a word with him. The babe, who was teething, was plagued by various disorders; and Jinny knew

Mahony made light of her fears; then turning to his wife asked her to hurry on the sixo'clock dinner: he had

to see a patient between that meal and tea. Mary went to make arrangements Richard always forgot to

mention such things till the last moment and also to please Jinny by paying a visit to the baby.

"The angels can't look very different when they sleep, I think," murmured its mother, hanging over the couch.

When Mary returned, she found her husband picking caterpillars off the vine: Long Jim, odd man now about

house and garden, was not industrious enough to keep the pests under. In this brief spell of leisure such

moments grew ever rarer in Richard's life husband and wife locked their arms and paced slowly up and

down the verandah. It was late afternoon on a breathless, paleskied February day; and the boards of the

"He was grumpy this afternoon, wasn't he?" said Mary, without preamble. "But I've noticed once or twice

lately that he can't take a joke any more. He's grown queer altogether. Do you know he's the only person who

still persists in calling me by my old name? He was quite rude about it when I asked him why. Perhaps he's

liverish, from the heat. It might be a good thing, dear, if you went round and overhauled him. Somehow, it

"It's true he may be a bit out of sorts. But I fear the evil's deeperseated. It's my opinion the boy is tiring of

regular work. Now that he hasn't even the excitement of the goldescort to look forward to. . . . And he's been

"If only he would marry and settle down! I do wish I could find a wife for him. The right woman could make

anything of Purdy"; and yet once more Mary fruitlessly scanned, in thought, the lists of her acquaintance.

"What if it's a case of sour grapes, love? Since the prettiest woman on Ballarat is no longer free. . . ."

"But is it? . . . let me look at her. Well, if not the prettiest, at least a very pretty person indeed. It certainly

But Mary had not an atom of vanity in her. "Speaking of prettiness reminds me of something that happened at

the Races last week I forgot to tell you, at the time. There were two gentlemen there from Melbourne; and

as Agnes Ocock went past, one of them said out loud: 'Gad! That's a lovely woman.' Agnes heard it herself,

and was most distressed. And the whole day, wherever she went, they kept their fieldglasses on her. Mr.

"If you'll allow me to say so, my dear, Mrs. Henry cannot hold a candle to some one I know to my mind,

"Well, to come back to what we were saying. My advice is, give Master Purdy a taste of the cold shoulder the

next time he comes hanging about the house. Let him see his illtemper didn't pass unnoticed. There's no

excuse for it. God bless me! doesn't he sleep the whole night through in his bed?" and Mahony's tone took

on an edge. The broken nights that were nowadays the rule with himself were the main drawbacks to his

prosperity. He had never been a really good sleeper; and, in consequence, was one of those people who feel

an intense need for sleep, and suffer under its curtailment. As things stood at present his rest was wholly at

the mercy of the nightbell a remorseless instrument, given chiefly to pealing just as he had managed to

drop off. Its gentlest tinkle was enough to rouse him long before it had succeeded in penetrating the ears

of the groom, who was supposed to open. And when it remained silent for a night, some trifling noise in the

road would simulate its jangle in his dreams. "It's a wonder I have any nerves left," he grumbled, as the hot,

red dawns crept in at the sides of the bedroomwindow. For the shortening of his sleep at one end did not

mean that he could make it up at the other. All that summer he had fallen into the habit of waking at five

o'clock, and not being able to doze off again. The narrowest bar of light on the ceiling, the earliest twitter of

the sparrows was enough to strike him into full consciousness; and Mary was hard put to it to darken the

room and ensure silence; and would be till the day came when he could knock off work and take a thorough

MARY sat with pencil and paper and wrinkled her brows. She was composing a list, and every now and then,

after an inward calculation, she lowered the pencil to note such items as: three tipsycakes, four trifles, eight

jamsandwiches. John Turnham had run up from Melbourne to fetch home wife and child; and his relatives

were giving a musical cardparty in his honour. By the window Jinny sat on a low ottoman suckling her

babe, and paying but scant heed to her sisterinlaw's deliberations: to her it seemed a much more important

matter that the milk should flow smoothly down the precious little throat, than that Mary's supper should be a

complete success. With her free hand she imprisoned the two little feet, working one against the other in slow

enjoyment; or followed the warm little limbs up inside the swaddling, after the fashion of nursing mothers.

The two women were in the spare bedroom, which was dusk and cool and dimitywhite; and they exchanged

remarks in a whisper; for the lids had come down more than once on the big black eyes, and now only lifted

automatically from time to time, to send a last look of utter satiation at the motherface. Mary always said:

"She'll drop off sooner indoors, dear." But this was not the whole truth. Richard had hinted that he considered

the seclusion of the house better suited to the business of nursing than the comparative publicity of the

verandah; for Jinny was too absorbed in her task to take thought for the proprieties. Here now she sat she

had grown very big and full since her marriage in the generous, widelapped pose of some old Madonna.

Mary, thrown entirely on her own judgment, was just saying with decision: "Well, better to err on the right

side and have too much than too little," and altering a four into a five, when steps came down the passage and

John entered the room. Jinny made him a sign, and John, now Commissioner of Trade and Customs,

His eyes had flown to the child; only in the second place did they rest on his wife. At the sight of her free and

easy bearing his face changed, and he said stiffly: "I think, Jane, a little less exposure of your person, my

Flushing to her hairroots, Jinny began as hastily as she dared to rearrange her dress.

Mary broke a lance on her behalf. "We were quite alone, John," she reminded her brother. "Not expecting a

visit from you." And added: "Richard says it is high time Baby was weaned. Jinny is feeling the strain."

"As long as this rash continues I shall not permit it," answered John, riding roughshod over even Richard's

opinion. ("I shouldn't agree to it either, John dear," murmured Jinny.) "And now, Mary, a word with you

about the elder children. I understand that you are prepared to take Emma back is that so?"

Yes, Mary was pleased to say Richard had consented to Trotty's return; but he would not hear of her

undertaking Johnny. At eleven years of age the proper place for a boy, he said, was a Grammar School. With

Trotty, of course, it was different. "I always found her easy to manage, and should be more than glad to have

her"; and Mary meant what she said. Her heart ached for John's motherless children. Jinny's interest in them

had lasted only so long as she had none of her own; and Mary, who being childless had kept a large heart for

all little ones, marvelled at the firm determination to get rid of her stepchildren which her sisterinlaw,

Brother and sister talked things over, intuitively meeting halfway, understanding each other with a word, as

only blood relations can. Jinny, the chief person concerned, sat meekly by, or chimed in merely to echo her

"By the way, I ran into Richard on Specimen Hill," said John as he turned to leave the room. "And he asked

"There. . . if that isn't always the way!" exclaimed Mary. "As sure as I cook something he specially likes, he

doesn't come in. Tilly sent me over the loveliest little suckingpig this morning. Richard would have enjoyed

"I am, John no one could be prouder. But all the same I wish he could manage to be a little more regular

with his meals. It makes cooking so difficult. Tomorrow, because I shan't have a minute to spare, he'll be

home punctually, demanding something nice. But I warn you, tomorrow you'll all have to picnic!"

However, when the day came, she was better than her word, and looked to it that neither guests nor husband

went short. Since a couple of tables on trestles took up the diningroom, John and Mahony lunched together

in the surgery; while Jinny's meal was spread on a tray and sent to her in the bedroom. Mary herself had time

only to snatch a bite standing. From early morning on, tied up in a voluminous apron, she was cooking in the

kitchen, very hot and floury and preoccupied, drawing grating shelves out of the oven, greasing tins and

pattypans, dredging flour. The clickclack of eggbeating resounded continuously; and mountains of

spongecakes of all shapes and sizes rose under her hands. This would be the largest, most ambitious party

she had ever given the guests expected numbered between twenty and thirty, and had, besides, carte

blanche to bring with them anyone who happened to be staying with them and it would be a disgrace

under which Mary, reared in Mrs. Beamish's school, could never again have held up her head, had a single

In all this she had only such help as her one maidservant could give her John had expressly forbidden

Jinny the kitchen. True, during the morning Miss Amelia Ocock, a gentle little elderly body with a harmless

smile and a prominent jaw, who was now an inmate of her father's house, together with Zara, returned from

England and a visitor at the Ocock's these two walked over to offer their aid in setting the tables. But Miss

Amelia, fluttery and undecided as a bird, was far too timid to do herself justice; and Zara spent so long

arranging the flowers in the central epergnes that before she had finished with one of them it was lunch time.

"I could have done it myself while she was cutting the stalks," Mary told her husband. "But Zara hasn't really

been any good at flowers since her 'mixed bouquet' took first prize at the Flower Show. Of course, though, it

Purdy dropped in during the afternoon and was more useful; he sliced the crusts off loafhigh mounds of

sandwiches, and tested the strength and flavour of the claretcup. Mary could not make up her mind, when it

came to the point, to follow Richard's advice and treat him coldly. She did, however, tell him that his help

would be worth a great deal more to her if he talked less and did not always look for an answer to what he

said. But Purdy was not to be quashed. He had taken it into his head that she was badly treated, in being left

"to slave" alone, within the oven's radius; and he was very hard on Jinny, whom he had espied comfortably

dandling her child on the front verandah. "I'd like to wring the bloomin' kid's neck!"

"Purdy, for shame!" cried Mary outraged. "It's easy to see you're still a bachelor. Just wait, sir, till you have

Under her guidance he bore stacks of plates across the yard to the diningroom where the blinds were

lowered to keep the room cool and strewed these, and corresponding knives and forks, up and down the

tables. He also carried over the heavy souptureen in which was the claretcup. But he had a man's slippery

fingers, and, between these and his limp, Mary trembled for the fate of her crockery. He made her laugh, too,

and distracted her attention; and she was glad when it was time for him to return to barracks.

"Now come early tonight," she admonished him. "And mind you bring your music. Miss Amelia's been

practising up that duet all the week. She'll be most disappointed if you don't ask her to sing with you."

On the threshold of the kitchen Purdy set his fingers to his nose in the probable direction of Miss Amelia;

then performed some skittish female twists and turns about the yard. "So hoarse, love . . . a bad cold . . . not

But when he had gone she looked grave, and out of an oddly disquieting feeling said to herself: "I do hope

As it was, she had to inform her husband of something that she knew would displease him. John had come

back in the course of the afternoon and announced, without ceremony, that he had extended an invitation to

"It's quite true what's being said, dear," Mary strove to soothe Richard, as she helped him make a hasty toilet

in the bathroom. "Mr. Devine is going to stand for Parliament; and he has promised his support, if he gets in,

to some measure John has at heart. John wants to have a long talk with him tonight."

But Richard was exceedingly put out. "Well, I hope, my dear, that as it's your brother who has taken such a

liberty, you'll explain the situation to your guests. I certainly shall not. But I do know there was no need to

exclude Ned and Polly from such an omniumgatherum as this party of yours will be."

Even while he spoke there came a ratatat at the front door, and Mary had to hurry off. And now knock

succeeded knock with the briefest of intervals, the noise carrying far in the quiet street. Mysteriously

bunchedup figures, their heads veiled in the fleeciest of clouds, were piloted along the passage; and: "I hope

we are not the first!" was murmured by each newcomer in turn. The gentlemen went to change their boots

on the back verandah; the ladies to lay off their wraps in Mary's bedroom. And soon this room was filled to

overflowing with the large soft abundance of crinoline; hoops swaying from this side to that, as the guests

gave place to one another before the lookingglass, where bands of hair were smoothed and the catches of

bracelets snapped. Musiccases lay strewn over the counterpane; the husbands who lined up in the passage,

to wait for their wives, also bearing rolls of music. Mary, in black silk with a large cameo brooch at her

throat, and only a delicate pink on her cheeks to tell of all her labours, moved helpfully to and fro, offering a

shoehorn, a handmirror, pins and hairpins. She was caught, as she passed Mrs. Henry Ocock, a modishly

late arrival, by that lady's plump white hand, and a whispered request to be allowed to retain her mantle.

"Henry was really against my coming, dearest. So anxious . . . so absurdly anxious!"

"And pray where's the Honourable Mrs. T. tonight?" inquired "old Mrs. Ocock," rustling up to them: Tilly

was the biggest and most handsomely dressed woman in the room. "On her knees worshipping, I bet you, up

to the last minute! Or else not allowed to show her nose till the Honourable John's got his studs in. Now

The "girls" were Zara, at this present a trifle passee, and Miss Amelia, who was still further from her prime;

and gathering the two into her train, as a hen does its chickens, Tilly swept them off to face the ordeal of the

Mary and Agnes brought up the rear. Mr. Henry was on the watch, and directly his wife appeared wheeled

forward the best armchair and placed her in it, with a footstool under her feet. Mary planted Jinny next her

and left them to their talk of nurseries: for Richard's sake she wished to screen Agnes from the vulgarities of

Mrs. Devine. Herself she saw with dismay, on entering, that Richard had already been pounced on by the

husband: there he stood, listening to his exgreengrocer's words they were interlarded with many an

awkward and familiar gesture on his face an expression his wife knew well, while one small, impatient

But "old Mrs. Ocock" came to his rescue, bearing down upon him with an outstretched hand, and a

howdeedo that could be heard all over the room: Tilly had long forgotten that she had ever borne him a

grudge; she it was who could now afford to patronise. "I hope I see you well, doctor? Oh, not a bit of it. . .

. I left him at 'ome. Mr. O. has something wrong, if you please, with his leg or his big toe gout or

rheumatiz or something of that sort and 'e's been so crabby with it for the last day or so that tonight I said

to 'im: 'No, my dear, you'll just take a glass of hot toddy, and go early and comfortable to your bed.' Musical

A lively clatter of tongues filled the room, the space of which was taxed to its utmost: there were present,

besides the friends and intimates of the house, several of Mahony's colleagues, a couple of Bank Managers,

the Police Magistrate, the Postmaster, the Town Clerk, all with their ladies. Before long, however, ominous

pauses began to break up the conversation, and Mary was accomplished hostess enough to know what these

meant. At a sign from her, Jerry lighted the candles on the piano, and thereupon a fuguelike chorus went up:

"Mrs. Mahony, won't you play something? Oh, do! Yes, please, do. . . . I should enjoy it so much."

Mary did not wait to be pressed; it was her business to set the ball rolling; and she stood up and went to the

Placing a piece of music on the rack, she turned down the corners of the leaves. But here Archdeacon Long's

handsome, weatherbeaten face looked over her shoulder. "I hope you're going to give us the cannons, Mrs.

Mahony?" he said genially. And so Mary obliged him by laying aside the morceau she had chosen, and

"Aha! that's the ticket," said Henry Ocock, and rubbed his hands as Mary struck up, pianissimo, the march

And: "Boompityboompboompboomp!" Archdeacon Long could not refrain from underlining each fresh

salvo of artillery; while: "That's a breach in their walls for 'em!" was Chinnery of the London Chartered's

Mahony stood on the hearthrug and surveyed the assembly. His eyes fled Mrs. Devine, most unfortunately

perched on an ottoman in the middle of the room, where she sat, purple, shiny and beaming, two hot, fat, red

hands clasped over her stomach ("Like a heathen idol! Confound the woman! I shall have to go and do the

polite to her"), and sought Mary at the piano, hanging with pleasure on the slim form in the rich silk dress.

This caught numberless lights from the candles, as did also the wings of her glossy hair. He watched, with a

kind of amused tenderness, how at each forte passage head and shoulders took their share of lending force to

the tones. He never greatly enjoyed Mary's playing. She did well enough at it, God bless her! it would not

have been Mary if she hadn't but he came of a musical family; his mother had sung Handel faultlessly in

her day, besides having a mastery of several instruments: and he was apt to be critical. Mary's firm, capable

hands looked out of place on a piano; seemed to stand in a sheerly business relation to the keys. Nor was it

otherwise with her singing: she had a fair contralto, but her ear was at fault; and he sometimes found himself

"Oh, doctor! your wife do play the pianner lovely," said Mrs. Devine, and her fat front rose and fell in an

"Richard dear, will you come?" Mary laid her hands on his shoulder: their guests were clamouring for a duo.

Her touch was a caress: here he was, making himself as pleasant as he knew how, to this old woman. When it

came to doing a kindness, you could rely on Richard; he was all bark and no bite.

Husband and wife blended their voices Mary had been at considerable pains to get up her part and then

Richard went on to a solo. He had a clear, true tenor that was very agreeable to hear; and Mary felt quite

proud of his attainments. Later in the evening he might be persuaded to give them a reading from Boz, or a

But first there was a cry for his flute; and in vain did Mahony protest that weeks had elapsed since he last

screwed the instrument together. He got no quarter, even from Mary but then Mary was one of those

inconvenient people to whom it mattered not a jot what a fool you made of yourself, as long as you did what

was asked of you. And so, from memory and unaccompanied, he played them the old familiar air of The

Minstrel Boy. The theme, in his rendering, was overlaid by florid variations and cumbered with senseless

repetitions; but, none the less, the wild, wistful melody went home, touching even those who were not

musical to thoughtfulness and retrospect. The most obstinate chatterers, whom neither sham battles nor Balfe

and Blockley had silenced, held their tongues; and Mrs. Devine openly wiped her eyes.

O, the minstrel boy to the wars has gone! In the ranks of death you'll find him.

While it was proceeding, Mary found herself seated next John. John tapped his foot in time to the tune; and

under cover of the applause at its close remarked abruptly: "You should fatten Richard up a bit, Mary. He

From where they sat they had Richard in profile, and Mary studied her husband critically, her head a little on

one side. "Yes, he is rather thin. But I don't think he was ever meant to be fat."

"Ah well! we are none of us as young as we used to be," was John's tribute to the power of music. And

throwing out his stomach, he leaned back in his chair and plugged the armholes of his vest with his thumbs.

And now, after due pressing on the part of host and hostess, the other members of the company advanced

upon the piano, either singly or in couples, to bear a hand in the burden of entertainment. Their seeming

reluctance had no basis in fact; for it was an unwritten law that every one who could must add his mite; and

only those who literally had "not a note of music in them" were exempt. Tilly took a mischievous pleasure in

announcing bluntly: "So sorry, my dear, not to be able to do you a toolderool! But when the Honourable

Mrs. T. and I were nippers we'd no time to loll round pianos, nor any pianos to loll round!" this, just to see

her brotherinlaw's dark scowl; for no love not even a liking was lost between her and John. But with

this handful of exceptions all nobly toed the line. Ladies with the tiniest reeds of voices, which shook like

reeds, warbled of Last Roses and Prairie Flowers; others, with more force but due decorum, cried to Willie

that they had Missed Him, or coyly confessed to the presence of Silver Threads Among the Gold; and Mrs.

Chinnery, an oldyoung woman with a long, lean neck, which she twisted this way and that in the exertion of

producing her notes, declared her love for an Old Armchair. The gentlemen, in baritones and profundos, told

the amorous adventures of Ben Bolt; or desired to know what Home would be Without a Mother. Purdy

spiced the hour with a comic song, and in the character of an outraged wife tickled the risibility of the ladies.

Well, well, sir, so you've come at last! I thought you'd come no more. I've waited, with my bonnet on, From

Zara and Mrs. Long both produced Home They brought her Warrior Dead! from their portfolios; so Zara

goodnaturedly gave way and struck up Robert, toi que j'aime! which she had added to her repertory while in

England. No one could understand a word of what she sang; but the mere fitting of the foreign syllables to the

appropriate notes was considered a feat in itself, and corroborative of the high gifts Zara possessed.

Strenuous efforts were needed to get Miss Amelia to her feet. She was dying, as Mary knew, to perform her

duet with Purdy; but when the moment came she put forward so many reasons for not complying that most

people retired in despair. It took Mary to persevere. And finally the little woman was persuaded to the piano,

where, red with gratification, she sat down, spread her skirts and unclasped her bracelets.

"Poor little Amelia!" said Mary to herself, as she listened to a romantic ballad in which Purdy, in the

character of a highminded nobleman, sought the hand of a virtuous gipsymaid. "And he doesn't give her a

Not only had Purdy never once looked near Amelia for the most part he had sat rather mumchance,

halfway in and out of a French window, even Zara's attempts to enliven him falling flat but, during an

extra loud performance, Tilly had confided to Mary the family's plans for their spinster relative. And: "The

poor little woman!" thought Mary again as she listened. For, after having been tied for years to the sick bed of

a querulous mother; after braving the long seavoyage, which for such a timid soul was full of ambushes and

terrors, Miss Amelia had reached her journey's end only to find both father and brother comfortably wived,

and with no use for her. Neither of them wanted her. She had been given houseroom first by her father, then

"It was nothing for Mossieu Henry in the long run," was his stepmother's comment. But she laughed

goodhumouredly as she said it; for, his first wrath at her intrusion over, Henry had more or less become her

friend; and now maintained that it was not a bad thing for his old father to have a sensible, managing woman

behind him. Tilly had developed in many ways since her marriage; and Henry and she mutually respected

The upshot of the affair was, she now told Mary, that Miss Amelia's male relatives had subscribed a dowry

for her. "It was me that insisted Henry should pay his share him getting all the money 'e did with Agnes."

And Amelia was to be married off to "Well, if you turn your head, my dear, you'll see who. Back there,

Under cover of Zara's roulades Mary cautiously looked round. It was Henry's partner young Grindle, now

on the threshold of the thirties. His sidewhiskers a shade less flamboyant than of old, a heavy watchchain

draped across his front, Grindle stood and lounged with his hands in his pockets.

Mary made round eyes. "Oh, but Tilly!. . . isn't it very risky? He's so much younger than she is. Suppose she

"That'll be all right, Mary, trust me. Only give 'er a handle to 'er name, and Amelia 'ud be happy with any

one. She hasn't that much backbone in 'er. Besides, my dear, you think, she's over forty! Let her take 'er

Tilly half closed her right eye and protruded the tip of her tongue. "You could stake your last fiver on it, he

But now that portion of the entertainment devoted to art was at an end, and the serious business of the

evening began. Cardtables had been set out for loo, as for less hazardous games. In principle, Mahony

objected to the high play that was the order of the day; but if you invited people to your house you could not

ask them to screw their points down from crowns to halfpence. They would have thanked you kindly and

have stayed at home. Here, at the lootable places were eagerly snapped up, Henry Ocock and his stepmother

being among the first to secure seats: both were keen, hard players, who invariably relined their wellfilled

It would not have been the thing for either Mahony or his wife to take a hand; several of the guests held aloof.

John had buttonholed old Devine; Jinny and Agnes were still lost in domesticities. Dear little Agnes had

grown so retiring of late, thought Mary; she quite avoided the society of gentlemen, in which she had

formerly taken such pleasure. Richard and Archdeacon Long sat on the verandah, and in moving to and fro,

Mary caught a fragment of their talk: they were at the debatable question of tableturning, and her mental

comment was a motherly and amused: "That Richard, who is so clever, can interest himself in such

nonsense!" Further on, Zara was giving Grindle an account of her voyage "home," and ticking off the reasons

that had led to her return. She sat across a hammock, and daintily exposed a very neat ankle. "It was much too

sleepy and dull for me! No, I've quite decided to spend the rest of my days in the colony."

Mrs. Devine was still perched on her ottoman. She beamed at her hostess. "No, I dunno one card from

another, dearie, and don' want to. Oh, my dear, what a lovely party it 'as been, and 'ow well you've carried it

Mary nodded and smiled; but with an air of abstraction. The climax of her evening was fast approaching.

Excusing herself, she slipped away and went to cast a last eye over her suppertables, up and down which

benches were ranged, borrowed from the Sunday School. To her surprise she found herself followed by Mrs.

"Do let me 'elp you, my dear, do, now! I feel that stiff and silly sittin' stuck up there with me 'ands before me.

So Purdy and his offers of assistance were returned with thanks to the cardroom, and Mrs. Devine pinned up

her black silk front. But not till she had freely vented her astonishment at the profusion of Mary's good

things. "'Ow do you git 'em to rise so? No, I never did! Fit for Buckin'am Palace and Queen Victoria! And

Hence, when at twelve o'clock the company began to stream in, they found Mrs. Devine installed behind the

barricade of cups, saucers and glasses; and she it was who dispensed tea and coffee and ladled out the

claretcup; thus leaving Mary free to keep an argus eye on her visitors' plates. At his entry Richard had raised

expostulating eyebrows; but his tongue of course was tied. And Mary made a lifelong friend.

And now for the best part of an hour Mary's sandwiches, sausagerolls and meatpies; her jamrolls, pastries

and lemonsponges; her jellies, custards and creams; her blanc and jaunemanges and whipped syllabubs; her

trifles, tipsycakes and charlotterusses formed the theme of talk and objects of attention. And though the

ladies picked with becoming daintiness, the gentlemen made up for their partners' deficiencies; and there was

none present who did not, in the shape of a hearty and wellturned compliment, add yet another laurel to

IT had struck two before the party began to break up. The first move made, however, the guests left in

batches, escorting one another to their respective housedoors. The Henry Ococks' buggy had been in waiting

for some time, and Mrs. Henry's pretty head was drooping with fatigue before Henry, who was in the vein,

could tear himself from the cardtable. Mahony went to the front gate with them; then strolled with the

He was in no hurry to retrace his steps. The air was balmy, after that of the overcrowded rooms, and it was a

fabulously beautiful night. The earth lay steeped in moonshine, as in the light of a silver sun. Trees and

shrubs were patterned to their last leaf on the ground before them. What odd mental twist made mortals

choose rather to huddle indoors, by puny candlelight, than to be abroad laving themselves in a splendour

Leaning his arms on the top rail of a fence, he looked across the slope at the Flat, now hushed and still as the

encampment of a sleeping army. Beyond, the bush shimmered palely grey in his younger years he had

been used, on a night like this when the moon sailed full and free, to take his gun and go opossuming. Those

two old woody gods, Warrenheip and Buninyong, stood out more imposingly than by day; but the ranges

seemed to have retreated. The light lay upon them like a visible burden, flattening their contours, filling up

Spoken in his very ear, the words made him jump. He had been lost in contemplation; and the address had a

ghostly suddenness. But it was no ghost that stood beside him nor indeed was it a night for those

Illpleased at the intrusion, he returned but a stiff nod: then, since he could not in decency greet and

leavetake in a breath, feigned to go on for a minute with his study of the landscape. After which he said:

"So you're off your sleep, too, are you?" As often happens, the impulse to speak was a joint one. The words

Instinctively Mahony shrank into himself; this familiar bracketing of his person with another's was distasteful

to him. Besides, the man who had sprung up at his elbow bore a reputation that was none of the best. The

owner of a small chemist's shop on the Flat, he contrived to give offence in sundry ways: he was irreligious

an infidel, his neighbours had it and of a Sabbath would scour his premises or hoe potatoes rather than

attend church or chapel. Though not a confirmed drunkard, he had been seen to stagger in the street, and be

unable to answer when spoken to. Also, the woman with whom he lived was not generally believed to be his

lawful wife. Hence the public fought shy of his nostrums; and it was a standing riddle how he managed to

avoid putting up his shutters. More nefarious practices no doubt, said the relentless vox populi. Seen near

at hand, he was a tall, haggardlooking fellow of some forty years of age, the muscles on his neck standing

Here, his gratuitous assumption of a common bond drew a cold: "Pray, what reason have you to think that?"

from Mahony. And without waiting for a reply he again said good night and turned to go.

The man accepted the rebuff with a meekness that was painful to see. "Thought, comin' on you like this, you

were a case like my own. No offence, I'm sure," he said humbly. It was evident he was well used to getting

the cold shoulder. Mahony stayed his steps. "What's the matter with you?" he asked. "Aren't you well?

"Not for mine! The doctor isn't born or the drug discovered that could cure me."

The tone of bragging bitterness grated anew. Himself given to the vice of overstatement, Mahony had small

There was a brief silence before the speaker went on more quietly: "You're a young man, doctor, I'm an old

one." And he looked old as he spoke; Mahony saw that he had erred in putting him down as merely elderly.

He was old and grey and downatheel fifty, if a day and his clothes hung loose on his bony frame.

"You'll excuse me if I say I know better'n you. When a man's done, he's done. And that's me. Yes," he

grew inflated again in reciting his woes "I'm one o' your hopeless cases, just as surely as if I was being

eaten up by a cancer or a consumption. To mend me, you doctors 'ud need to start me afresh from the

"It's that knowin' one's played out, with by rights still a good third of one's life to run that's what puts

the sleep away. In the daylight it's none so hard to keep the black thoughts under; themselves they're not so

daresome; and there's one's pipe, and the haver o' the young fry. But night's the time! Then they come

tramplin' along, a whole army of 'em, carryin' banners with letters a dozen feet high, so's you shan't miss

rememberin' what you'd give your soul to forget. And so it'll go on, et cetera and ad lib., till it pleases the old

Joker who sits grinnin' up aloft to put His heel down as you or me would squash a bullant or a scorpion."

"You speak bitterly, Mr. Tangye. Does a night like this not bring you calmer, clearer thoughts?" and Mahony

His words passed unheeded. The man he addressed spun round and faced him, with a rusty laugh. "Hark at

that!" he cried. "Just hark at it! Why, in all the years I've been in this Godforsaken place long as I've

been here I've never yet heard my own name properly spoken. You're the first, doctor. You shall have the

"But, man alive, you surely don't let that worry you? Why, I've the same thing to put up with every day of my

life. I smile at it." And Mahony believed what he said, forgetting, in the antagonism such spleen roused in

him, the annoyance the false stressing of his own name could sometimes cause him.

"So did I, once," said Tangye, and wagged his head. "But the day came when it seemed the last straw; a bit o'

"I can be fair to it, I hope, and appreciate its good sides." As always, the mere hint of an injustice made

"Came 'ere of your own free will, did you? Weren't crowded out at home? Or bamboozled by a pack o' lying

"Well, I say to you, think twice of it! If you have the chance of gettin' away, take it. It's no place this, doctor,

for the likes of you and me. Haven't you never turned and asked yourself what the devil you were doin' here?

And that reminds me. . . . There was a line we used to have drummed into us at school it's often come

back to me since. Coelum, non animum, mutant, qui trans mare currunt. In our green days we gabbled that off

by rote; then, it seemed just one more o' the eelsleek phrases the classics are full of. Now, I take off my hat

to the man who wrote it. He knew what he was talkin' about by the Lord Harry, he did!"

The Latin had come out tentatively, with an odd, unused intonation. Mahony's retort: "How on earth do you

know what suits me and what doesn't?" died on his lips. He was surprised into silence. There had been

nothing in the other's speech to show that he was a man of any education rather the reverse.

Meanwhile Tangye went on: "I grant you it's an antiquated point o' view; but doesn't that go to prove what

I've been sayin'; that you and me are oldfashioned, too outo'place here, outo'date? The modern sort,

the sort that gets on in this country, is a prime hand at cuttin' his coat to suit his cloth; for all that the

stopathomes, like the writer o' that line and other ancients, prate about the Ethiopian's hide or the leopard

and his spots. They didn't buy their experience dear, like we did; didn't guess that if a man don't learn to fit

himself in, when he gets set down in such a land as this, he's a goner; any more'n they knew that most o' those

who hold out here all of 'em at any rate who've climbed the ladder, nabbed the plunder have found no

more difficulty in changin' their spots than they have their trousers. Yes, doctor, there's only one breed that

flourishes, and you don't need me to tell you which it is. Here they lie" and he nodded to right and left of

him "dreamin' o' their moneybags, and their dividends, and their profits, and how they'll diddle and

swindle one another afresh, soon as the sun gets up tomorrow. Harder 'n nails they are, and sharp as needles.

You ask me why I do my walkin' out in the nighttime? It's so's to avoid the sight o' their mean little eyes,

Mahony's murmured disclaimer fell on deaf ears. Like one who had been bottled up for months, Tangye

flowed on. "What a life! What a set! What a place to end one's days in! Remember, if you can, the yarns that

were spun round it for our benefit, from twenty thousand safe miles away. It was the Land o' Promise and

Plenty, topful o' gold, strewn over with nuggets that only waited for hands to pick 'em up. Lies! lies

from beginnin' to end! I say to you this is the hardest and cruellest country ever created, and a man like me's

no more good here than the muck the parin's and stale fishguts and other leavin's that knocks about a

harbour and washes against the walls. I'll tell you the only use I'll have been here, doctor, when my end

comes: I'll dung some bit o' land for 'em with my moulder and rot. That's all. They'd do better with my sort if

they knocked us on the head betimes, and boiled us down for our fat and marrow."

Not much in that line to be got from your carcase, my friend, thought Mahony, with an inward smile.

But Tangye had paused merely to draw breath. "What I say is, instead o' layin' snares for us, it ought to be

forbid by law to give men o' my make ship room. At home in the old country we'd find our little nook, and

jog along decently to the end of our days. But just the staid, respectable, orderly sort I belonged to's neither

needed nor wanted here. I fall to thinkin' sometimes on the fates of the hundreds of honest, steadygoin' lads,

who at one time or another have chucked up their jobs over there for this. The drink no doubt's took most:

they never knew before that one could sweat as you sweat here. And the rest? Well, just accident . . . or the

sun . . . or dysentery. . . or the bloody toil that goes by the name o' work in these parts you know the list,

doctor, better'n me. They say the waste o' life in a new country can't be helped; doesn't matter; has to be. But

that's cold comfort to the wasted. No! I say to you, there ought to be an Act of Parliament to prevent young

fellows squanderin' themselves, throwin' away their lives as I did mine. For when we're young, we're not

sane. Youth's a fever o' the brain. And I was young once, though you mightn't believe it; I had straight joints,

and no pouch under my chin, and my full share o' windy hopes. Senseless truck these! To be spilled

overboard bit by bit like on a hundredmile tramp a newchum finishes by pitchin' from his swag all the

needless rubbish he's started with. What's wanted to get on here's somethin' quite else. Horny palms and

costive bowels; more'n a dash o' the sharper; and no sickly squeamishness about knockin' out other men and

steppin' into their shoes. And I was only an ordinary young chap; not overstrong nor overshrewd, but

honest honest, by God I was! That didn't count. It even stood in my way. For I was too good for this and

too mealymouthed for that; and while I stuck, considerin' the fairness of a job, some one who didn't care a

damn whether it was fair or not, walked in over my head and took it from me. There isn't anything I haven't

tried my luck at, and with everything it's been the same. Nothin's prospered; the money wouldn't come or

stick if it did. And so here I am all that's left of me. It isn't much; and by and by a few rank weeds 'ull

spring from it, and old Joey there, who's paid to grub round the graves, old Joey 'ull curse and say: a weedy

fellow that, a rotten, weedy blackguard; and spit on his hands and hoe, till the weeds lie bleedin' their juices

He had listened to Tangye's diatribe in a white heat of impatience. But when he spoke he struck an easy tone

nor was he in any hesitation how to reply: for that, he had played devil's advocate all too often with

himself in private. An unlovely country, yes, as Englishmen understood beauty; and yet not without a charm

of its own. An arduous life, certainly, and one full of pitfalls for the weak or the unwary; yet he believed it

was no more impossible to win through here, and with clean hands, than anywhere else. To generalise as his

companion had done was absurd. Preposterous, too, the notion that those of their fellowtownsmen who had

carried off the prizes owed their success to some superiority in bodily strength . . . or sharp dealing . . . or

thickness of skin. With Mr. Tangye's permission he would cite himself as an example. He was neither a very

robust man, nor, he ventured to say, one of any marked ability in the other two directions. Yet he had

managed to succeed without, in the process, sacrificing jot or tittle of his principles; and today he held a

"Yes, but till you got there!" cried Tangye. "Hasn't every superfluous bit of you every thought of interest

"If," said Mahony stiffening, "if what you mean by that is, have I allowed my mind to grow narrow and

In his heart he denied the charge even more warmly; for, as he spoke, he saw the great corkslabs on which

hundreds of moths and butterflies made dazzling spots of colour; saw the sheets of pink blottingpaper

between which his collection of native plants lay pressed; the glass case filled with geological specimens; his

Bible, the margins of which round Genesis were black with his handwriting; a pile of books on the new

marvel Spiritualism; Colenso's Pentateuch; the big black volumes of the Arcana Coelestia; Locke on

Miracles: he saw all these things and more. "No, I'm glad to say I have retained many interests outside my

Tangye had taken off his spectacles and was polishing them on a crumpled handkerchief. He seemed about to

reply, even made a quick halfturn towards Mahony; then thought better of it, and went on rubbing. A smile

"And in conclusion let me say this," went on Mahony, not unnettled by his companion's expression. "It's

sheer folly to talk about what life makes of us. Life is not an active force. It's we who make what we will, of

life. And in order to shape it to the best of our powers, Mr. Tangye, to put our brief span to the best possible

use, we must never lose faith in God or our fellowmen; never forget that, whatever happens, there is a sky,

"Ah, there's a lot of bunkum talked about life," returned Tangye dryly, and settled his glasses on his nose.

"And as man gets near the end of it, he sees just what bunkum it is. Life's only got one meanin', doctor; seen

plain, there's only one object in everything we do; and that's to keep a sound roof over our heads and a bite in

our mouths and in those of the helpless creatures who depend on us. The rest has no more sense or

significance than a nigger's hammerin' on the tamtam. The lucky one o' this world don't grasp it; but we

others do; and after all p'raps, it's worth while havin' gone through it to have got at one bit of the truth,

He turned on his heel, and before his words were cold on the air had vanished, leaving Mahony blankly

The moonshine still bathed the earth, gloriously untroubled by the bitterness of human words and thoughts.

But the night seemed to have grown chilly; and Mahony gave an involuntary shiver. "Some one walking over

my . . . now what would that specimen have called it? Over the four by eight my remains will one day

"An odd, abusive, wrongheaded fellow," he mused, as he made his way home. "Who would ever have

thought, though, that the queer little chemist had so much in him? A failure? . . . yes, he was right there; and

as unlovely as failures always are at close quarters." But as he laid his hands on the gate, he jerked up his

head and exclaimed half aloud: "God bless my soul! What he wanted was not argument or reason but a little

human sympathy." As usual, however, the flash of intuition came too late. "For such a touchy nature I'm

certainly extraordinarily obtuse where the feelings of others are concerned," he told himself as he hooked in

"Why, Richard, where have you been?" came Mary's clear voice muted so as not to disturb John and

Jinny, who had retired to rest. Purdy and she sat waiting on the verandah. "Were you called out? We've had

time to clear everything away. Here, dear, I saved you some sandwiches and a glass of claret. I'm sure you

Long after Mary had fallen asleep he lay wakeful. His foolish blunder in response to Tangye's appeal rankled

in his mind. He could not get over his insensitiveness. How he had boasted of his prosperity, his moral nicety,

his saving pursuits he to boast! when all that was asked of him was a kindly: "My poor fellow soul,

you have indeed fought a hard fight; but there is a God above us who will recompense you at His own time,

take the word for it of one who has also been through the Slough of Despond." And then just these . . . these

hobbies of his, of which he had made so much. Now that he was alone with himself he saw them in a very

different light. Lepidoptera collected years since were still unregistered, plants and stones unclassified; his

poor efforts at elucidating the Bible waited to be brought into line with the Higher Criticism; Home's

levitations and firetests called for investigation; while the leaves of some of the books he had cited had

never even been cut. The mere thought of these things was provocative, restdestroying. To induce

drowsiness he went methodically through the list of his acquaintances, and sought to range them under one or

other of Tangye's headings. And over this there came moments when he lapsed into depths . . . fetched

But he seemed barely to have closed his eyes when the nightbell rang. In an instant he was on his feet in the

"Not as I know of," said the man dryly. "But her and the boss had a bit of a tiff on the way home, and

Mary shook her head. "You can't afford to offend the Henrys. And you know what he is so hasty. He'd call in

some one else on the spot, and you'd never get back. If only you hadn't stayed out so long, dear, looking at the

"Good God! Mary, is one never to have a moment to oneself? Never a particle of pleasure or relaxation?"

"Why, Richard!" expostulated his wife, and even felt a trifle ashamed of his petulance. "What would you call

And Mahony, struggling into shirt and trousers, had to admit that he would be hard put to it to give it another

Trotty sat on a hassock and rocked a china babe, with all the appurtenant motherfuss she had picked up from

the tending of her tiny stepsister. The present Trotty was a demure little maid of some seven summers, who

gave the impression of having been rather rudely elongated. Her flaxen hair was stiffly imprisoned behind a

round black comb; and her big blue eyes alone remained to her from a lovely infancy. ("Poor Emma's eyes,"

Imitative as a monkey she went on with a child's perfect knowledge that it is all makebelieve, yet with an

entire credence in the power of makebelieve: "Naughty child will you be quiet? There! You've frown

your counterpane off now. Wonder what next you'll do. I declare I'll slap you soon you make me so

Through the surgerywindow the words floated out: "For goodness' sake, don't bother me now with such

trifles, Mary! It's not the moment with a whole string of people waiting in the other room."

"Well, if only you'll be satisfied with what I do, dear, and not blame me afterwards."

"Get Purdy to give you a hand with Ned's affair. He has time and to spare." And wetting his fingertip

Mahony nervously flipped over a dozen pages of the book that lay open before him.

"I do. And now go, wife, and remember to shut the door after you. Oh, and tell that woman in the kitchen to

stop singing. Her false notes drive me crazy. How many are there, this morning?"

"Eight no, nine, if that's another," replied Mary, with an ear to the front door.

"Tch! I'll have to stop then," and Mahony clapped to the work he had been consulting. "Never a minute to

keep abreast of the times." But: "That's a good, helpful wife," as Mary stooped to kiss him. "Do the best you

"Take me with you, Auntie!" Trotty sprang up from her stool, overturning babe and cradle.

"Not today, darling. Besides, why are you here? You know I've forbidden you to be on the front verandah

Mary donned hat and shawl, opened her parasol and went out into the sun. With the years she had developed

into rather a stately young woman: she held her head high and walked with a firm, free step.

Her first visit was to the stable to find Long Jim or Old Jim as they now called him; for he was nearing the

sixties. The notice to leave, which he had given the day before, was one of the "trifles" it fell to her to

consider. Personally Mary thought his going would be no great loss: he knew nothing about a garden, yet

resented instruction; and it had always been necessary to get outside help in for the horses. If he went they

could engage some one who would combine the posts. But Richard had taken umbrage at the old man's tone;

had even been nervously upset over it. It behoved her to find out what the matter was.

"I want a change," said Old Jim dourly in response to her inquiry; and went on polishing wheelspokes, and

making the wheel fly. "I've bin 'ere too long. An' now I've got a bit o' brass together, an' am thinkin' I'd like to

"But at your age, Jim, is it wise? to throw up a comfortable home, just because you've laid a little past?"

"It's enough to keep me. I turned over between four and five 'undred last week in 'Piecrusts.' "

"Oh!" said Mary, taken by surprise. "Then that that's your only reason for wishing to leave?" And as he

did not reply, but went on swishing: "Come, Jim, if you've anything on your mind, say it out. The doctor

At this the old man straightened his back, took a straw from between his teeth, spat and said: "Well, if you

must know, Mrs. Mahony, the doctor's not the boss it pleases me to be h'under any more and that's the

trewth. I'm tired of it dogtired. You can slave yer 'ead off for 'im, and 'e never notices a thing you do,

h'or if 'e does, it's on'y to find fault. It h'ain't 'uman, I say, and I'll be danged if I stand it h'any longer."

But people who came to Mary with criticism of Richard got no mercy. "You're far too touchy, Jim. You

know, if any one does, how rushed and busy the doctor is, and you ought to be the first to make allowance for

him after all he's done for you. You wouldn't be here now, if it hadn't been for him. And then to expect

But Jim was stubborn. 'E didn't want to deny anything. But 'e'd rather go. An' this day a week if it suited her.

" It's really dreadful how uppish the lower classes get as soon as they have a little money in their pocket," she

said to herself, as she walked the shadeless, sandy road. But this thought was like a shadow cast by her

husband's mind on hers, and was ousted by the more indigenous: "But after all who can blame him, poor old

fellow, for wanting to take life easy if he has the chance." She even added: "He might have gone off, as most

Then her mind reverted to what he had said of Richard, and she pondered the antagonism that had shown

through his words. It was not the first time she had run up against this spirit, but, as usual, she was at a loss to

explain it. Why should people of Old Jim's class dislike Richard as they did? find him so hard to get on

with? He was invariably considerate of them, and treated them very generously with regard to money. And

yet . . . for some reason or other they felt injured by him; and thought and spoke of him with a kind of

churlish resentment. She was not clever enough to find the key to the riddle it was no such simple

explanation as that he felt himself too good for them. That was not the case: he was proud, certainly, but she

had never known any one who under, it was true, a rather sarcastic manner was more broadly tolerant

of his fellowmen. And she wound up her soliloquy with the lame admission: "Yes, in spite of all his

kindness, I suppose he is queer . . . decidedly queer," and then she heaved a sigh. What a pity it was! When

A short walk brought her to the fourroomed cottage where Ned lived with wife and children. Or had lived,

till lately. He had been missing from his home now for over a week. On the last occasion of his being in

Melbourne with the carryingvan, he had decamped, leaving the boy who was with him to make the return

journey alone. Since then, nothing could be heard of him; and his billet in the Agency had been snapped up.

"Or so they say!" said his wife, with an angry sniff. "I don't believe a word of it, Mary. Since the railway's

come, biz has gone to the dogs; and they're only too glad to get the chance of sacking another man."

Polly looked untidier than ever; she wore a slatternly wrapper, and her hair was thrust unbrushed into its net.

But she suffered, no doubt, in her own way; she was redeyed, and very hastyhanded with her nestful of

babes. Sitting in the cheerless parlour, Ned's darkeyed eldest on her knee, Mary strove to soothe and

encourage. But: it has never been much of a home for the poor boy was her private opinion; and she pressed

her cheek affectionately against the little black curly head that was a replica of Ned's own.

"What's goin' to become of us all, the Lord only knows," said Polly, after having had the good cry the

sympathetic presence of her sisterinlaw justified. "I'm not a brown cent troubled about Ned only

boiling with 'im. 'E's off on the booze, sure enough and 'e'll turn up again, safe and sound, like loose fish

"We never ought to have come here," she went on drying her eyes. "Drat the place and all that's in it, that's

what I say! He did better'n this in Castlemaine; and I'd pa behind me there. But once Richard had sent 'im that

twenty quid, he'd no rest till he got away. And I thought, when he was so set on it, may be it'd have a good

effect on 'im, to be near you both. But that was just another shoot into the brown. You've been A1, Mary;

you've done your level best. But Richard's never treated Ned fair. I don't want to take Ned's part; he's nothing

in the world but a prettyfaced noodle. But Richard's treated 'im as if he was the dirt under 'is feet. And Ned's

felt it. Oh, I know whose doing it was, we were never asked up to the house when you'd company. It wasn't

yours, my dear! But we can't all have hyphens to our names, and go driving round with kid gloves on our

Mary felt quite depressed by this fresh attack on her husband. Reminding herself, however, that Polly was

excited and overwrought, she did not speak out the defence that leapt to her tongue. She said staunchly: "As

you put it, Polly, it does seem as if we haven't acted rightly towards Ned. But it wasn't Richard's doing alone.

She sat on, petting the fractious children and giving kindly assurances: as long as she and Richard had

anything themselves, Ned's wife and Ned's children should not want: and as she spoke, she slipped a

substantial proof of her words into Polly's unproud hand. Besides, she believed there was every chance now

of Ned soon being restored to them; and she told how they were going, that very morning, to invoke Mr.

Smith's aid. Mr. Smith was in the Police, as Polly knew, and had influential friends among the Force in

Almost an hour had passed when she rose to leave. Mrs. Ned was so grateful for the visit and the help that,

out in the narrow little passage, she threw her arms round Mary's neck and drew her to her bosom. Holding

her thus, after several hearty kisses, she said in a mysterious whisper, with her lips close to Mary's ear:

"Mary, love, may I say something to you?" and the permission granted, went on: "That is, give you a bit of a

"Quite sure. What is it?" and Mary disengaged herself, that she might look the speaker in the face.

"Well, it's just this you mentioned the name yourself, or I wouldn't have dared. It's young Mr. Smith,

Mary. My dear, in future don't you have 'im quite so much about the house as you do at present. It ain't the

thing. People will talk, you know, if you give 'em a handle."("Oh, but Polly!" in a blank voice from Mary.)

"Now, now, I'm not blaming you not the least tiddlywink. But there's no harm in being careful, is there,

love, if you don't want your name in people's mouths? I'm that fond of you, Mary you don't mind me

"No, Polly, I don't. But it's the greatest nonsense I never heard such a thing!" said Mary hotly. "Why,

"May be they were. But I hear 'e's mostly up at your place when Richard's out. And you're a young and pretty

woman, my dear; it's Richard who ought to think of it, and he so much older than you. Well, just take the

But Mary left the house in a sad flurry; and even forgot for a street length to open her parasol.

Her first impulse was to go straight to Richard. But she had not covered half a dozen yards before she saw

that this would never do. At the best of times Richard abominated gossip; and the fact of it having, in the

present case, dared to fasten its fangs in some one belonging to him would make him doubly wroth. He might

even try to find out who had started the talk; and get himself into hot water over it. Or he might want to lay

all the blame on his own shoulders make himself the reproaches Ned's Polly had not spared him. Worse

still, he would perhaps accuse Purdy of inconsiderateness towards her, and fly into a rage with him; and then

the two of them would quarrel, which would be a thousand pities. For though he often railed at Purdy, yet

that was only Richard's way: he was genuinely fond of him, and unbent to him as to nobody else.

But these were just so many pretexts put forward to herself by Mary for keeping silence; the real reason lay

deeper. Eight years of married life had left her, where certain subjects were concerned, with all the modesty

of her girlhood intact. There were things, indelicate things, which could not be spoken out, even between

husband and wife. For her to have to step before Richard and say: some one else feels for me in the same way

as you, my husband, do, would make her ever after unable frankly to meet his eyes. Besides giving the vague,

But yet again this was not the whole truth: she had another, more uncomfortable side of it to face; and the

flies buzzed unheeded round her head. The astonishment she had shown at her sisterinlaw's warning had

not been altogether sincere. Far down in her heart Mary found a faint, faint trace of complicity. For months

past she could admit it now she had not felt easy about Purdy. Something disagreeable, disturbing, had

crept into their relations. The jolly, brotherly manner she liked so well had deserted him; besides

shorttempered he had grown deadly serious, and not the stupidest woman could fail altogether to see what

the matter was. But she had wilfully bandaged her eyes. And if, now and then, some word or look had pierced

her guard and disquieted her in spite of herself, she had left it at an incredulous: "Oh, but then. . . . But even

if. . . In that case. . . ." She now saw her fervent hope had been that the affair would blow over without

coming to anything; prove to be just another passing fancy on the part of the unstable Purdy. How many had

she not assisted at! This very summer, for instance, a charming young lady from Sydney had stayed with the

Urquharts; and, as long as her visit lasted, they had seen little or nothing of Purdy. Whenever he got off duty

he was at Yarangobilly. As it happened, however, Mr. Urquhart himself had been so assiduous in taking his

guest about that Purdy had had small chance of making an impression. And, in looking back on the incident,

what now rose most clearly before Mary's mind was the way in which Mrs. Urquhart poor thing, she was

never able to go anywhere with her husband: either she had a child in arms or another coming; the row of

toddlers mounted up in steps the way in which she had said, with her pathetic smile: "Ah, my dear! Willie

needs some one gayer and stronger than I am, for company." Mary's heart had been full of pity at the time,

But oh dear! this was straying from the point. Impatiently she jerked her thoughts back to herself and her own

dilemma. What ought she to do? She was not a person who could sit still with folded hands and await events.

How would it be if she spoke to Purdy herself? . . . talked seriously to him about his work? . . . tried to

persuade him to leave Ballarat. Did he mean to hang on here for ever, she would say never intend to seek

promotion? But then again, the mere questioning would cause a certain awkwardness. While, at the slightest

trip or blunder on her part, what was unsaid might suddenly find itself said; and the whole thing cease to be

the vague, cloudy affair it was at present. And though she would actually rather this happened with regard to

Worried and perplexed, unable to see before her the straight plain path she loved, Mary once more sighed

Left to himself Mahony put away his books, washed his hands and summoned one by one to his presence the

people who waited in the adjoining room. He drew a tooth, dressed a wounded wrist, prescribed for divers

When the last patient had gone he propped open the door, wiped his forehead and read the thermometer that

hung on the wall: it marked 102�. Dejectedly he drove, in fancy, along the glaring, treeless roads, inches deep

in cinnamoncoloured dust. How one learnt to hate the sun out here. What wouldn't he give for a cool,

greygreen Irish day, with a wet wind blowing in from the sea? a day such as he had heedlessly

squandered hundreds of, in his youth. Now it made his mouth water only to think of them.

It still wanted ten minutes to ten o'clock and the buggy had not yet come round. He would lie down and have

five minutes' rest before starting: he had been up most of the night, and on getting home had been kept awake

When an hour later Mary reached home, she was amazed to find groom and buggy still drawn up in front of

"I'm sure I don't know, Mrs. Mahony. I've hollered to Biddy half a dozen times, but she doesn't take any

notice. And the mare's that restless. . . . There, there, steady old girl, steady now! It's these damn flies."

"Sure and it's yourself," said the big Irishwoman who now filled the kitchenbillet. "Faith and though you

scold me, Mrs. Mahony, I couldn't bring it over me heart to wake him. The pore man's sleeping like a saint."

"Rubbish. It's only the reflection of the green blind. Richard! Do you know what the time is?"

But the first syllable of his name was enough. "Good Lord, Mary, I must have dropped off. What the dickens.

Mary held his drivingcoat, fetched hat and gloves, while he flung the necessaries into his bag. "Have you

"Yes; and a consultation with Munce at eleven I'll just manage it and no more," muttered Mahony with an

eye on his watch. "I can't let the mare take it easy this morning. Yes, a full day. And Henry Ocock's fidgeting

for a second opinion; thinks his wife's not making enough progress. Well, tata, sweetheart! Don't expect me

back to lunch." And taking a short cut across the lawn, he jumped into the buggy and off they flew.

Mary's thoughts were all for him in this moment. "How proud we ought to feel!" she said to herself. "That

makes the second time in a week old Munce has sent for him. But how like Henry Ocock," she went on with

puckered brow. "It's quite insulting after the trouble Richard has put himself to. If Agnes's case puzzles

him, I should like to know who will understand it better. I think I'll go and see her myself this afternoon. It

Not till some time after did she remember her own private embarrassment. And, by then, the incident had

taken its proper place in her mind had sunk to the level of insignificance to which it belonged.

"Such a piece of nonsense!" was her final verdict. "As if I could worry Richard with it, when he has so many

YES, those were palmy days; the rate at which the practice spread astonished even himself. No slack seasons

for him now; winter saw him as busy as summer; and his chief ground for complaint was that he was unable

to devote the meticulous attention he would have wished to each individual case. "It would need the strength

of an elephant to do that." But it was impossible not to feel gratified by the many marks of confidence he

received. And if his work had but left him some leisure for study and an occasional holiday, he would have

been content. But in these years he was never able to get his neck out of the yoke; and Mary took her annual

In a long talk they had with each other, it was agreed that, except in an emergency, he was to be chary of

entering into fresh engagements this referred in the first place to confinements, of which his book was

always full; and secondly, to outlying bushcases, the journey to and from which wasted many a precious

hour. And where it would have been impolitic to refuse a new and influential patient, some one on his list

a doubtful payer or a valetudinarian was gently to be let drop. And it was Mary who arranged who this

should be. Some umbrage was bound to be given in the process; but with her help it was reduced to a

minimum. For Mary knew by heart all the links and ramifications of the houses at which he visited; knew

precisely who was related to whom, by blood or marriage or business; knew where offence might with safety

be risked, and where it would do him harm. She had also a woman's tact in smoothing things over. A born

doctor's wife, declared Mahony in grateful acknowledgment. For himself he could not keep such fiddling

But though he thus succeeded in setting bounds to his activity, he still had a great deal too much to do; and, in

tired moments, or when tic plagued him, thought the sole way out of the impasse would be to associate some

one with him as partner or assistant. And once he was within an ace of doing so, chance throwing what he

considered a likely person across his path. In attending a coroner's inquest, he made the acquaintance of a

member of the profession who was on his way from the Ovens district a coach journey of well over two

hundred miles to a place called Walwala, a day's ride to the west of Ballarat. And since this was a

pleasantspoken man and intelligent though with a somewhat downatheel look besides being a

stranger to the town, Mahony impulsively took him home to dinner. In the evening they sat and talked. The

visitor, whose name was Wakefield, was considerably Mahony's senior. By his own account he had had but a

rough time of it for the past couple of years. A good practice which he had worked up in the seaport of

Warrnambool had come to an untimely end. He did not enter into the reasons for this. "I was unfortunate . . .

had a piece of illluck," was how he referred to it. And knowing how fatally easy was a trip in diagnosis, a

slip of the scalpel, Mahony tactfully helped him over the allusion. From Warrnambool Wakefield had gone to

the extreme north of the colony; but the eighteen months spent there had nearly been his undoing. Money had

not come in badly; but his wife and family had suffered from the great heat, and the scattered nature of the

work had worn him to skin and bone. He was now casting about him for a more suitable place. He could not

afford to buy a practice, must just creep in where he found a vacancy. And Walwala, where he understood

Mahony felt genuinely sorry for the man; and after he had gone sat and revolved the idea, in the event of

Walwala proving unsuitable, of taking Wakefield on as his assistant. He went to bed full of the scheme and

broached it to Mary before they slept. Mary made big eyes to herself as she listened. Like a wise wife,

however, she did not press her own views that night, while the idea bubbled hot in him; for, at such times,

when some new project seemed to promise the millennium, he stood opposition badly. But she lay awake

telling off the reasons she would put before him in the morning; and in the dark allowed herself a tender,

"What a man he is for loading himself up with the wrong sort of people!" she reflected. "And then afterwards,

At breakfast she came back on the subject herself. In her opinion, he ought to think the matter over very

carefully. Not another doctor on Ballarat had an assistant; and his patients would be sure to resent the

novelty. Those who sent for Dr. Mahony would not thank you to be handed over to "goodness knows who."

"Besides, Richard, as things are now, the money wouldn't really be enough, would it? And just as we have

begun to be a little easy ourselves I'm afraid you'd miss many comforts you have got used to again, dear,"

she wound up, with a mental glance at the fine linen and smooth service Richard loved.

Yes, that was true, admitted Mahony with a sigh; and being this morning in a stale mood, he forthwith

knocked flat the cardhouse it had amused him to build. Himself he had only half believed in it; or believed

so long as he refrained from going into prosaic details. There was work for two and money for one that

was the crux of the matter. Successful as the practice was, it still did not throw off a thousand a year. Bad

debts ran to a couple of hundred annually; and their improved style of living the expenses of house and

garden, of horses and vehicles, the menservants, the open house they had to keep swallowed every penny

of the rest. Saving was actually harder than when his income had been but a third of what it was at present.

New obligations beset him. For one thing, he had to keep pace with his colleagues; make a show of being just

as welltodo as they. Retrenching was out of the question. His patients would at once imagine that

something was wrong the practice on the downgrade, his skill deserting him and take their ailments

and their fees elsewhere. No, the more one had, the more one was forced to spend; and the few odd hundreds

for which Henry Ocock could yearly be counted on came in very handy. As a rule he laid these by for Mary's

benefit; for her visits to Melbourne, her bonnets and gowns. It also let her satisfy the needs of her generous

little heart in matters of hospitality well, it was perhaps not fair to lay the whole blame of their incessant

and lavish entertaining at her door. He himself knew that it would not do for them to lag a foot behind other

Hence the day on which he would be free to dismiss the subject of money from his mind seemed as far off as

ever. He might indulge wild schemes of taking assistant or partner; the plain truth was, he could not afford

even the sum needed to settle in a locum tenens for three months, while he recuperated. Another and

equally valid reason was that the right man for a locum was far to seek. As time went on, he found himself

pushed more and more into a single branch of medicine one, too, he had never meant to let grow over his

head in this fashion. For it was common medical knowledge out here that, given the distances and the general

lack of conveniences, thirty to forty maternity cases per year were as much as a practitioner could with

comfort take in hand. His books for the past year stood at over a hundred! The nightwork this meant was

unbearable, infants showing a perverse disinclination to enter the world except under cover of the dark.

His popularity if such it could be called with the other sex was something of a mystery to him. For he

had not one manner for the bedside and another for daily life. He never sought to ingratiate himself with

people, or to wheedle them; still less would he stoop to bully or intimidate; was always by preference the

adviser rather than the dictator. And men did not greatly care for this arm'slength attitude; they wrote him

down haughty and indifferent, and pinned their faith to a blunter, homelier manner. But with women it was

otherwise; and these also appreciated the fact that, no matter what their rank in life, their age or their looks,

he met them with the deference he believed due to their sex. Exceptions there were, of course. Affectation or

insincerity angered him with the "Zaras" of this world he had scant patience while among the women

themselves, some few Ned's wife, for example felt resentment at his very appearance, his gestures, his

tricks of speech. But the majority were his staunch partisans; and it was becoming more and more the custom

to engage Dr. Mahony months ahead, thus binding him fast. And though he would sometimes give Mary a

fright by vowing that he was going to "throw up mid. and be done with it," yet her ambition and what an

ambitious wife she was, no one but himself knew that he should some day become one of the leading

specialists on Ballarat, seemed not unlikely of fulfilment. If his health kept good. And . . . and if he could

For there still came times when he believed that to turn his back for ever, on place and people, would make

him the happiest of mortals. For a time this idea had left him in peace. Now it haunted him again. Perhaps,

because he had at last grasped the unpalatable truth that it would never be his luck to save: if saving were the

only key to freedom, he would still be there, still chained fast, and though he lived to be a hundred. Certain it

was, he did not become a better colonist as the years went on. He had learnt to hate the famous climate the

dust and drought and brazen skies; the drenching rains and bottomless mud to rebel against the

interminable hours he was doomed to spend in his buggy. By nature he was a recluse not an outdoorman

at all. He was tired, too, of the general rampage, the promiscuous connexions and slapdash familiarity of

colonial life; sick to death of the allabsorbing struggle to grow richer than his neighbours. He didn't give a

straw for money in itself only for what it brought him. And what was the good of that, if he had no leisure

to enjoy it? Or was it the truth that he feared being dragged into the vortex? . . . of learning to care, he, too,

whether or no his name topped subscriptionlists; whether his entertainments were the most sumptuous, his

He did not disquiet Mary by speaking of these things. Still less did he try to explain to her another, more

elusive side of the matter. It was this. Did he dig into himself, he saw that his uncongenial surroundings were

not alone to blame for his restless state of mind. There was in him a gnawing desire for change as change; a

distinct fear of being pinned for too long to the same spot; or, to put it another way, a conviction that to live

on without change meant decay. For him, at least. Of course, it was absurd to yield to feelings of this kind; at

his age, in his position, with a wife dependent on him. And so he fought them even while he indulged

them. For this was the year in which, casting the question of expense to the winds, he pulled down and rebuilt

his house. It came over him one morning on waking that he could not go on in the old one for another day, so

cramped was he, so tortured by its lathandplaster thinness. He had difficulty in winning Mary over; she

was against the outlay, the trouble and confusion involved; and was only reconciled by the more solid

comforts and greater conveniences offered her. For the new house was of brick, the first brick house to be

built on Ballarat (and oh the joy! said Richard, of walls so thick that you could not hear through them), had

an extrawide verandah which might be curtained in for parties and dances, and a sideentrance for patients,

As a result of the new grandeur, more and more flocked to his door. The present promised to be a record year

even in the annals of the Golden City. The completion of the railwayline to Melbourne was the outstanding

event. Virtually halving the distance to the metropolis in count of time, it brought a host of fresh people

capitalists, speculators, politicians about the town, and money grew perceptibly easier. Letters came more

quickly, too; Melbourne newspapers could be handled almost moist from the press. One no longer had the

sense of lying shut off from the world, behind the wall of a tedious coach journey. And the merry

Ballaratians, who had never feared or shrunk from the discomforts of this journey, now travelled constantly

up and down: attending the Melbourne racemeetings; the Government House balls and lawnparties;

bringing back the gossip of Melbourne, together with its fashions in dress, music and social life.

Mary, in particular, profited by the change; for in one of those "general posts" so frequently played by the

colonial cabinet, John Turnham had come out Minister of Railways; and she could have a "free pass" for the

asking. John paid numerous visits to his constituency; but he was now such an important personage that his

relatives hardly saw him. As likely as not he was the guest of the Henry Ococks in their new mansion, or of

the mayor of the borough. In the past two years Mahony had only twice exchanged a word with his

In Melbourne, at six o'clock one January morning, the Honourable John, about to enter a

salooncompartment of the Ballarat train, paused, with one foot on the step, and disregarding the polite

remarks of the stationmaster at his heels, screwed up his prominent black eyes against the sun. At the farther

end of the train, a tall, thin, fairwhiskered man was peering disconsolately along a row of crowded

carriages. "God bless me! isn't that . . . Why, so it is!" And leaving the official standing, John walked smartly

"Why not have let me know you proposed coming?" he inquired as they made their way, the train meanwhile

("What he means is, why I didn't beg a pass of him.") And Mahony, who detested asking favours, laid

exaggerated emphasis on his want of knowledge. He had not contemplated the journey till an hour

beforehand. Then, the proposed delegate having been suddenly taken ill, he had been urgently requested to

represent the Masonic Lodge to which he belonged, at the Installation of a new Grand Master.

"Ah, so you found it possible to get out of harness for once?" said John affably, as they took their seats.

"Yes, by a lucky chance I had no case on hand that could not do without me for twentyfour hours. And my

"Mary is no doubt a very capable woman; I noticed that afresh, when last she was with us," returned John;

and went on to tick off Mary's qualities like a connoisseur appraising the points of a horse. "A misfortune that

Mahony stiffened; and responded dryly: "I'm not sure that I agree with you. With all her energy and spirit

"Well, well! these things are in the hands of Providence; we must take what is sent us." And caressing his

The words flicked Mahony's memory: John had had an addition to his family that winter, in the shape to

the disappointment of all concerned of a second daughter. He offered belated congratulations. "A regular

Turnham this time, according to Mary. But I am sorry to hear Jane has not recovered her strength."

"Oh, Jane is doing very well. But it has been a real disadvantage that she could not nurse. The infant is . . .

The talk then passed to John's son, now a schoolboy in Geelong; and John admitted that the reports he

received of the lad continued as unsatisfactory as ever. "The young rascal has ability, they tell me, but no

application." John propounded various theories to account for the boy having turned out poorly, chief among

which was that he had been left too long in the hands of women. They had overindulged him. "Mary no more

than the rest, my dear fellow," he hastened to smooth Mahony's rising plumes. "It began with his mother in

Here, with a disconcerting abruptness, he drew to him a blue linen bag that lay on the seat, and loosening its

string took out a sheaf of official papers, in which he was soon engrossed. He had had enough of Mahony's

conversation in the meantime, or so it seemed; had thought of something better to do, and did it.

His brotherinlaw eyed him as he read. "He's a bad colour. Been living too high, no doubt."

A couple of new books were on the seat by Mahony; but he did not open them. He had a tiring day behind

him, and the briefest of nights. Besides attending the masonic ceremony, which had lasted into the small

hours, he had undertaken to make various purchases, not the least difficult of which was the buying of a

present for Mary all the little fallals that went to finish a lady's balldress. Railwaytravelling was, too,

something of a novelty to him nowadays; and he sat idly watching the landscape unroll, and thinking of

nothing in particular. The train was running through mile after mile of flat, treeless country, liberally

sprinkled with trapstones and clumps of tussock grass, which at a distance could be mistaken for couched

sheep. Here and there stood a solitary sheoak, most doleful of trees, its scraggy, pineneedle foliage

bleached to grey. From the several little stations along the line: mere threesided sheds, which bore a printed

invitation to intending passengers to wave a flag or light a lamp, did they wish to board the train: from these

shelters long, bare, red roads, straight as ruled lines, ran back into the heart of the burntup, faded country.

Now and then a moving ruddy cloud on one of them told of some vehicle crawling its laborious way.

When John, his memoranda digested, looked up ready to resume their talk, he found that Mahony was fast

asleep; and, since his first words, loudly uttered, did not rouse him, he took out his case, chose a cigar,

While he smoked, he studied his insensible relative. Mahony was sitting uncomfortably hunched up; his head

had fallen forward and to the side, his mouth was open, his gloved hands lay limp on his knee.

"H'm!" said John to himself as he gazed. And: "H'm," he repeated after an interval. Then pulling down his

waistcoat and generally giving himself a shake to rights, he reflected that, for his own twoandforty years,

"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

"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.

"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

"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

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 shoppeople'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 balldress; 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

"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 aglow 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 teenyweeny 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

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

Not even the kindly drapery of a morningwrapper could conceal the fact that Agnes was growing stout

quite losing her fine figure. That came of her having given up ridingexercise. 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 forgetmenots before her candlelit mirror, when the

dreaded summons came. Mahony had to change and hurry off, without a moment's delay.

But Mary despatched the gardener at a run with a note to Tilly Ocock, who, she knew, would make room for

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

"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

fowlhouse 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 underpocket 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 cardtable. "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

"You know, Matilda, I do not intend to dance tonight," said Mrs Amelia in her sedate fashion: it was as if

"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

"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,

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

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

Among the last to arrive was Purdy, red with haste, and making a great thump with his lame leg as he crossed

"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

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 tonight, 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

The ball was at its height. He skirted the rotating couples, seeking Mary. Friends hailed him.

"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

"Does fortune smile?" asked Mahony of Henry Ocock as he passed the cardplayers: he had cut Urquhart

"Sent a telegraphic communication at the last moment. No, I haven't seen her. But stay, there's Matilda

"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

"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

"Why, what's wrong, my dear? . . . feeling faint?" asked Mahony incredulously. "If so, you had better wait for

"No, no, I'm not ill, I'd rather walk," said Mary breathlessly. "Only please let us get away. And without

"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,

They stepped into the street; it was a hot night and very dark. In her thin satin dancingboots, Mary leaned

heavily on Richard's arm, as they turned off the streetpavements 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

"Yes, dear, I will," answered Mary obediently. But her voice trembled; and Mahony was sharp of hearing.

"Yes, it is. I've had a very unpleasant experience this evening, Richard very unpleasant indeed. I hardly

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

"And I didn't like to object. We were conspicuous enough as it was, his foot made such a bumping noise; it

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

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

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 pockethandkerchief 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

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

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

Richard was stamping about the room, aimlessly moving things from their places. "God Almighty! he shall

"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

"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

"Unfortunately we live among human beings, my dear, not in a community of saints! But what does a good

"But if I have a perfectly clear conscience?" Mary's tone was incredulous, even a trifle aggrieved.

"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

"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

"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

"I mean what I say," said Mary staunchly, though she turned a still deeper red. "Oh, you might just as well be

"Do you mean to tell me you were aware of something?" Mahony stopped short in his perambulations and

"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

"So it comes to this, does it?" said Mahony with biting emphasis. "My wife consents to another man paying

"Oh, no, no, no! But I knew how fond you were of Purdy. And I always hoped it would blow over without . .

"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

"Will you assure me, madam, that till tonight nothing I could have objected to has ever passed between

"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 tonight 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

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

Some half hour later, leaving Mary still on the edge of the bed, still crying, Mahony stalked grimly into the

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

But stay! . . . was that not a movement in the patch of blackness under the figtree? 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

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

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. . . dimeyed 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

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 opossumrug, which had grown unbearably heavy, he sprang to his feet; was

wide awake and at the window, staring sleepcharged into the dawn, before a human hand had found the

THE hot airless night had become the hot airless day: in the garden the leaves on trees and shrubs drooped as

under an invisible weight. All the stale smells of the day before persisted that of the medicaments on the

shelves, of the unwetted dust on the roads, the sickly odour of malt from a neighbouring brewery. The

blowflies buzzed about the ceiling; on the table under the lamp a dozen or more moths lay singed and dead.

Now it was nearing six o'clock; clad in his thinnest drivingcoat, Mahony sat and watched the man who had

He had stood out for some time against obeying the summons, which meant, at lowest, a tenmile drive. Not

if he were offered a hundred pounds down, was his first impetuous refusal; for he had not seen the inside of a

bed that night. But at this he trapped an odd look in the other's eyes, and suddenly became aware that he was

still dressed as for the ball. Besides, an equally impetuous answer was flung back at him: he promised no

hundred pounds, said the man hadn't got it to offer. He appealed solely to the doctor's humanity: it was a

"We doctors have no business with troubles of our own," thought Mahony, as he listened to the detailed

account of an ugly accident. On the roof of a shed the boy had missed his footing, slipped and fallen some

twenty feet, landing astride a piece of quartering. Picking himself up, he had managed to crawl home, and at

first they thought he would be able to get through the night without medical aid. But towards two o'clock his

sufferings had grown unbearable. God only knew if, by this time, he had not succumbed to them.

They followed a flat, treeless road, the grass on either side of which was burnt to hay. Buggy and harness

the latter eked out with bits of string and an old bootlace were coated with the dust of months; and the

gaunt, longbacked horse shuffled through a reddish flour, which accompanied them as a choking cloud. A

swarm of small black flies kept pace with the vehicle, settling on nose, eyes, neck and hands of its occupants,

crawling over the horse's belly and in and out of its nostrils. The animal made no effort to shake itself free,

seemed indifferent to the pests: they were only to be disturbed by the hail of blows which the driver

occasionally stood up to deliver. At such moments Mahony, too, started out of the light doze he was

Arrived at their destination a miserable wooden shanty on a sheeprun at the foot of the ranges he

found his patient tossing on a dirty bed, with a small pulse of 120, while the right thigh was darkly bruised

and swollen. The symptoms pointed to serious internal injuries. He performed the necessary operation.

There was evidently no woman about the place; the coffee the father brought him was thick as mud. On

leaving, he promised to return next day and to bring some one with him to attend to the lad.

For the homejourney, he got a mount on a young and fidgety mare, whom he suspected of not long having

worn the saddle. In the beginning he had his hands full with her. Then, however, she ceased her antics and

How tired he felt! He would have liked to go to bed and sleep for a week on end. As it was, he could not

reckon on even an hour's rest. By the time he reached home the usual string of patients would await him; and

these disposed of, and a bite of breakfast snatched, out he must set anew on his morning round. He did not

feel well either: the coffee seemed to have disagreed with him. He had a slight sense of nausea and was

giddy; the road swam before his eyes. Possibly the weather had something to do with it; though a dull,

sunless morning it was hot as he had never known it. He took out a stud, letting the ends of his collar fly.

Poor little Mary, he thought inconsequently: he had hurt and frightened her by his violence. He felt ashamed

of himself now. By daylight he could see her point of view. Mary was so tactful and resourceful that she

might safely be trusted to hush up the affair, to explain away the equivocal position in which she had been

found. After all, both of them were known to be decent, Godfearing people. And one had only to look at

Mary to see that here was no light woman. Nobody in his senses not even Grindle could think evil of

No, this morning his hurt was a purely personal one. That it should just be Purdy who did him this wrong!

Purdy, playmate and henchman, ally in how many a boyish enterprise, in the hardships and adventures of

later life. "Mine own familiar friend, in whom I trusted, which did eat of my bread!" Never had he turned a

deaf ear to Purdy's needs; he had fed him and clothed him, caring for him as for a wellloved brother. Surely

few things were harder to bear than a blow in the dark from one who stood thus deeply in your debt, on

whose gratitude you would have staked your head. It was, of course, conceivable that he had been swept off

his feet by Mary's vivid young beauty, by overindulgence, by the glamour of the moment. But if a man

could not restrain his impulses where the wife of his most intimate friend was concerned . . . Another thing:

as long as Mary had remained an immature slip of a girl, Purdy had not given her a thought. When, however,

under her husband's wing she had blossomed out into a lovely womanhood, of which any man might be

proud, then she had found favour in his eyes. And the slight this put on Mary's sterling moral qualities, on all

Then, not content with trying to steal her love, Purdy had also sought to poison her mind against him. How

that rankled! For until now he had hugged the belief that Purdy's opinion of him was coloured by affection

and respect, by the tradition of years. Whereas, from what Mary had let fall, he saw that the boy must have

been sitting in judgment on him, regarding his peculiarities with an unloving eye, picking his motives to

pieces: it was like seeing the child of your loins, of your hopes, your unsleeping care, turn and rend you with

black ingratitude. Yes, everything went to prove Purdy's unworthiness. Only he had not seen it, only he had

been blind to the truth. And wrapped in this smug blindness he had given his false friend the run of his home,

setting, after the custom of the country, no veto on his eternal presence. Disloyalty was certainly abetted by

just the extravagant, exaggerated hospitality of colonial life. Never must the doors of your house be shut; all

you had you were expected to share with any sundowner of fortune who chanced to stop at your gate.

The mare shied with a suddenness that almost unseated him: the next moment she had the bit between her

teeth and was galloping down the road. Clompclompclomp went her hoofs on the baked clay; the dust

smothered and stung, and he was holding for all he was worth to reins spanned stiff as iron. On they flew; his

body hammered the saddle; his breath came sobbingly. But he kept his seat; and a couple of miles farther on

he was down, soothing the wildeyed, quivering, sweating beast, whose nostrils worked like a pair of

bellows. There he stood, glancing now back along the road, now up at the sky. His hat had gone flying at the

first unexpected plunge; he ought to return and look for it. But he shrank from the additional fatigue, the

delay in reaching home this would mean. The sky was still overcast: he decided to risk it. Knotting his

Mine own familiar friend! And more than that: he could add to David's plaint and say, my only friend. In

Purdy the one person he had been intimate with passed out of his life. There was nobody to take the vacant

place. He had been far too busy of late years to form new friendships: what was left of him after the day's

work was done was but a kind of shell: the work was the meaty contents. As you neared the forties, too, it

grew ever harder to fit yourself to other people: your outlook had become too set, your ideas too unfluid.

Hence you clung the faster to ties formed in the old, golden days, worn though these might be to the thinness

of a hair. And then, there was one's wife, of course one's dear, good wife. But just her very dearness and

goodness served to hold possible intimates at arm's length. The knowledge that you had such a confidante,

that all your thoughts were shared with her, struck disastrously at a free exchange of privacies. No, he was

alone. He had not so much as a dog now, to follow at heel and look up at him with the melancholy eyes of its

race. Old Pompey had come at poison, and Mary had not wished to have a strange dog in the new house. She

did not care for animals, and the main charge of it would have fallen on her. He had no time no time even

Better it would assuredly be to have some one to fall back on: it was not good for a man to stand so alone.

Did troubles come, they would strike doubly hard because of it; then was the time to rejoice in a warm,

human handclasp. And moodily pondering the reasons for his solitariness, he was once more inclined to lay a

share of the blame on the conditions of the life. The population of the place was still in a state of flux: he and

a mere handful of others would soon, he believed, be the oldest residents in Ballarat. People came and went,

tried their luck, failed, and flitted off again, much as in the early days. What was the use of troubling to

become better acquainted with a person, when, just as you began really to know him, he was up and away? At

home, in the old country, a man as often as not died in the place where he was born; and the slow, eventless

years, spent shoulder to shoulder, automatically brought about a kind of intimacy. But this was only a surface

reason: there was another that went deeper. He had no talent for friendship, and he knew it; indeed, he would

even invert the thing, and say bluntly that his nature had a twist in it which directly hindered friendship; and

this, though there came moments when he longed, as your popular mortal never did, for close companionship.

Sometimes he felt like a hungry man looking on at a banquet, of which no one invited him to partake,

because he had already given it to be understood that he would decline. But such lapses were few. On nine

days out of ten, he did not feel the need of either making or receiving confidences; he shrank rather, with a

peculiar shy dread, from personal unbosomings. Some imp housed in him some wayward, wilful,

mocking Irish devil bidding him hold back, remain cool, dryeyed, in face of others' joys and pains.

Hence the break with Purdy was a real calamity. The associations of some fiveandtwenty years were

bound up in it; measured by it, one's marriage seemed a thing of yesterday. And even more than the friend, he

would miss the friendship and all it stood for: this solid base of joint experience; this past of common

memories into which one could dip as into a well; this handle of "Do you remember?" which opened the door

to such a wealth of anecdote. From now on, the better part of his life would be a closed book to any but

himself; there were allusions, jests without number, homely turns of speech, which not a soul but himself

would understand. The thought of it made him feel old and empty; affected him like the news of a death.

But must it be? Was there no other way out? Slow to take hold, he was a hundred times slower to let go.

Before now he had seen himself sticking by a person through misunderstandings, ingratitude, deception, to

the blank wonder of the onlookers. Would he not be ready here, too, to forgive . . . to forget?

But he felt hot, hot to suffocation, and his heart was pounding in uncomfortable fashion. The idea of stripping

and plunging into icecold water began to make a delicious appeal to him. Nothing surpassed such a plunge

after a broken night. But of late he had had to be wary of indulging: a bath of this kind, taken when he was

overtired, was apt to set the accursed tic agoing; and then he could pace the floor in agony. And yet. . .

Good God, how hot it was! His head ached distractedly; an iron band of pain seemed to encircle it. With a

sudden start of alarm he noticed that he had ceased to perspire now he came to think of it, not even the

wild gallop had induced perspiration. Pulling up short, he fingered his pulse. It was abnormal, even for him . .

. and feeble. Was it fancy, or did he really find a difficulty in breathing? He tore off his collar, threw open the

neck of his shirt. He had a sensation as if all the blood in his body was flying to his head: his face must

certainly be crimson. He put both hands to this topheavy head, to support it; and in a blind fit of vertigo all

but lost his balance in the saddle: the trees spun round, the distance went black. For a second still he kept

upright; then he flopped to the ground, falling face downwards, his arms huddled under him.

The mare, all her spirit gone, stood lamblike and waited. As he did not stir she turned and sniffed at him,

curiously. Still he lay prone, and, having stretched her tired jaws, she raised her head and uttered a whinny

an almost human cry of distress. This, too, failing in its effect, she nosed the ground for a few yards, then set

Found, a dark conspicuous heap on the long bare road, and carted back to town by a passing

bullockwaggon, Mahony lay, once the deathlike coma had yielded, and tossed in fever and delirium. By

piecing his broken utterances together Mary learned all she needed to know about the case he had gone out to

attend, and his desperate ride home. But it was Purdy's name that was oftenest on his lips; it was Purdy he

reviled and implored; and when he sprang up with the idea of calling his false friend to account, it was as

She had the best of advice. Old Dr. Munce himself came two and three times a day. Mary had always thought

him a dear old man; and she felt surer than ever of it when he stood patting her hand and bidding her keep a

"There aren't so many of his kind here, Mrs. Mahony, that we can afford to lose him."

But altogether she had never known till now how many and how faithful their friends were. Hardly, for

instance, had Richard been carried in, stiff as a log and grey as death, when good Mrs. Devine was fumbling

with the latch of the gate, an old sunbonnet perched crooked on her head: she had run down just as she was,

in the midst of shelling peas for dinner. She begged to be allowed to help with the nursing. But Mary felt

bound to refuse. She knew how the thought of what he might have said in his delirium would worry Richard,

when he recovered his senses: few men laid such weight as he on keeping their private thoughts private.

Not to be done, Mrs. Devine installed herself in the kitchen to superintend the cooking. Less for the patient,

into whom at first only liquid nourishment could be injected, than: "To see as your own strength is kep' up,

dearie." Tilly swooped down and bore off Trotty. Delicate fruits, newlaid eggs, jellies and wines came from

Agnes Ocock; while Amelia Grindle, who had no such dainties to offer arrived every day at three o'clock, to

mind the house while Mary slept. Archdeacon Long was also a frequent visitor, bringing not so much

spiritual as physical aid; for, as the frenzy reached its height and Richard was maddened by the idea that a

plot was brewing against his life, a pair of strong arms were needed to hold him down. Over and above this,

letters of sympathy flowed in; grateful patients called to ask with tears in their eyes how the doctor did;

virtual strangers stopped the servant in the street with the same query. Mary was sometimes quite

The days that preceded the crisis were days of keenest anxiety. But Mary never allowed her heart to fail her.

For if, in the small things of life, she was given to building on a mortal's good sense, how much more could

she rely at such a pass on the sense of the One above all others. What she said to herself as she moved

tirelessly about the sick room, damping cloths, filling the icebag, infiltering drops of nourishment, was:

"God is good!" and these words, far from breathing a pious resignation, voiced a confidence so bold that it

bordered on irreverence. Their real meaning was: Richard has still ever so much work to do in the world,

curing sick people and saving their lives. God must know this, and cannot now mean to be so foolish as to

And her reliance on the Almighty's farsighted wisdom was justified. Richard weathered the crisis, slowly

revived to life and health; and the day came when, laying a thin white hand on hers, he could whisper: "My

poor little wife, what a fright I must have given you!" And added: "I think an illness of some kind was due

When he was well enough to bear the journey they left home for a wateringplace on the Bay. There, on an

open beach facing the Heads, Mahony lay with his hat pulled forward to shade his eyes, and with nothing to

do but to scoop up handfuls of the fine coral sand and let it flow again, like liquid silk, through his fingers.

From beneath the brim he watched the water churn and froth on the brown reefs; followed the sailingships

which, beginning as mere dots on the horizon, swelled to stately white waterbirds, and shrivelled again to

dots; drank in, with greedy nostrils, the mixed spice of warm sea, hot seaweed and aromatic teascrub.

And his strength came back as rapidly as usual. He soon felt well enough, leaning on Mary's arm, to stroll up

and down the sandy roads of the township; to open book and newspaper; and finally to descend the cliffs for

a dip in the transparent, turquoise sea. At the end of a month he was at home again, sunburnt and hearty,

eager to pick up the threads he had let fall. And soon Mary was able to make the comfortable reflection that

In this, however, she was wrong; never, in their united lives, would things be quite the same again.

Outwardly, the changes might pass unnoticed though even here, it was true, a certain name had now to be

avoided, with which they had formerly made free. But this was not exactly hard to do, Purdy having promptly

disappeared: they heard at secondhand that he had at last accepted promotion and gone to Melbourne. And

since Mary had suffered no inconvenience from his thoughtless conduct, they tacitly agreed to let the matter

rest. That was on the surface. Inwardly, the differences were more marked. Even in the mental attitude they

adopted towards what had happened, husband and wife were thoroughly dissimilar. Mary did not refer to it

because she thought it would be foolish to reopen so disagreeable a subject. In her own mind, however, she

faced it frankly, dating back to it as the night when Purdy had been so odious and Richard so angry. Mahony,

on the other hand, gave the affair a wide berth even in thought. For him it was a kind of Pandora's box, of

which, having once caught a glimpse of the contents, he did not again dare to raise the lid. Things might

escape from it that would alter his whole life. But he, too, dated from it in the sense of suddenly becoming

aware, with a throb of regret, that he had left his youth behind him. And such phrases as: "When I was

Nor was this all. Deep down in Mary's soul there slumbered a slight embarrassment; one she could not get the

better of: it spread and grew. This was a faint, ever so faint a doubt of Richard's wisdom. Odd she had long

known him to be, different in many small and some great ways from those they lived amongst; but hitherto

this very oddness of his had seemed to her an outgrowth on the side of superiority fairer judgment, higher

motives. Just as she had always looked up to him as rectitude in person, so she had thought him the

embodiment of a fine, though somewhat unworldly wisdom. Now her faith in his discernment was shaken.

His treatment of her on the night of the ball had shocked, confused her. She was ready to make allowance for

him: she had told her story clumsily, and had afterwards been both cross and obstinate; while part of his

violence was certainly to be ascribed to his coming breakdown. But this did not cover everything; and the

ungenerous spirit in which he had met her frankness, his doubt of her word, of her good faith his utter

unreasonableness in short had left a cold patch of astonishment in her, which would not yield. She lit on it

at unexpected moments. Meanwhile, she groped for an epithet that would fit his behaviour. Beginning with

some rather vague and highflown terms she gradually came down, until with the sense of having found the

right thing at last, she fixed on the adjective "silly" a word which, for the rest, was in common use with

Mary, had she to describe anything that struck her as queer or extravagant. And sitting over her fancywork,

into which, being what Richard called "safe as the grave," she sewed more thoughts than most women: sitting

thus, she would say to herself with a half smile and an incredulous shake of the head: "So silly!"

But hers was one of those inconvenient natures which trust blindly or not at all: once worked on by a doubt or

a suspicion, they are never able to shake themselves free of it again. As time went on, she suffered strange

uncertainties where some of Richard's decisions were concerned. In his good intentions she retained an

implicit belief; but she was not always satisfied that he acted in the wisest way. Occasionally it struck her that

he did not see as clearly as she did; at other times, that he let a passing whim run away with him and override

his common sense. And, her eyes thus opened, it was not in Mary to stand dumbly by and watch him make

what she held to be mistakes. Openly to interfere, however, would also have gone against the grain in her; she

had bowed for too long to his greater age and experience. So, seeing no other way out, she fell back on

indirect methods. To her regret. For, in watching other women "manage" their husbands, she had felt proud to

think that nothing of this kind was necessary between Richard and her. Now she, too, began to lay little

schemes by which, without his being aware of it, she might influence his judgment, divert or modify his

Her enforced use of such tactics did not lessen the admiring affection she bore him: that was framed to

withstand harder tests. Indeed, she was even aware of an added tenderness towards him, now she saw that it

behoved her to have forethought for them both. But into the wife's love for her husband there crept something

of a mother's love for her child; for a wayward and impulsive, yet gifted creature, whose welfare and

happiness depended on her alone. And it is open to question whether the mother dormant in Mary did not fall

with a kind of hungry joy on this latefound task. The work of her hands done, she had known empty hours.

That was over now. With quickened faculties, all her senses on the alert, she watched, guided, hindered,

OLD Ocock failed in health that winter. He was really old now, was two or three and sixty; and, with the

oncoming of the rains and cold, gusty winds, various infirmities began to plague him.

"He's done himself rather too well since his marriage," said Mahony in private. "After being a worker for the

greater part of his life, it would have been better for him to work on to the end."

Yes, that, Mary could understand and agree with. But Richard continued: "All it means, of course, is that the

poor fellow is beginning to prepare for his last long journey. These aches and pains of his represent the

packing and the strapping without which not even a short earthly journey can be undertaken. And his is into

Mary, making lace over a pillow, looked up at this, a trifle apprehensively. "What things you do say! If any

one heard you, they'd think you weren't very. . . very religious." Her fear lest Richard's outspokenness should

Tilly was plain and to the point. "Like a bear with a sore back that's what 'e is, since 'e can't get down among

his blessed birds. He leads Tom the life of the condemned, over the feeding of those bantams. As if the boy

At thirtysix Tilly was the image of her mother. Entirely gone was the slight crust of acerbity that had

threatened her in her maiden days, when, thanks to her misplaced affections, it had seemed for a time as if the

purple prizes of life love, offers of marriage, a home of her own were going to pass her by. She was

now a stout, highcoloured woman with a roar of a laugh, full, yet firm lips, and the whitest of teeth. Mary

thought her decidedly toned down and improved since her marriage; but Mahony put it that the means Tilly

now had at her disposal were such as to make people shut an eye to her want of refinement. However that

might be, "old Mrs. Ocock" was welcomed everywhere even by those on whom her bouncing manners

grated. She was invariably clad in a thick and handsome black silk gown, over which she wore all the

jewellery she could crowd on her person huge cameo brooches, eardrops, rings and bracelets, lockets

and chains. Her name topped subscriptionlists, and, having early weaned her old husband of his dissenting

habits, she was a real prop to Archdeacon Long and his church, taking the chief and most expensive table at

teameetings, the most thankless stall at bazaars. She kept open house, too, and gave delightful parties,

where, while some sat at loo, others were free to turn the rooms upsidedown for a dance, or to ransack

wardrobes and presses for costumes for charades. She drove herself and her friends about in various vehicles,

briskly and well, and indulged besides in many secret charities. Her husband thought no such woman had

ever trodden the earth, and publicly blessed the day on which he first set eyes on her.

"After the dose I'd 'ad with me first, 'twas a bit of a risk, that I knew. And it put me off me sleep for a night or

two before'and. But my Tilly's the queen o' women I say the queen, sir! I've never 'ad a wrong word from

'er, an' when I go she gits every penny I've got. Why, I'm jiggered if she didn't stop at 'ome from the Races

"Now then, pa, drop it. Or the doctor'll think you've been mixing your liquors. Give your old pin here and let

He had another sound reason for gratitude. Somewhere in the background of his house dwelt his two

ne'erdowell sons; Tilly had accepted their presence uncomplainingly. Indeed she sometimes stood up for

Tom, against his father. "Now, pa, stop nagging at the boy, will you? You'll never get anything out of 'im that

way. Tom's right enough if you know how to take him. He'll never set the Thames on fire, if that's what you

mean. But I'm thankful, I can tell you, to have a handy chap like him at my back. If I 'ad to depend on your

And so Tom, a flaxenhaired, sheepishlooking man of something over thirty, led a kind of

goasyouplease existence about the place, a jackofalltrades in turn carpenter, whitewasher,

paperhanger an expert fetcher and carrier, bullied by his father, sheltered under his stepmother's

capacious wing. "It isn't his fault 'e's never come to anything. 'E hadn't half a chance. The truth is, Mary, for

all they say to the opposite, men are harder than women so unforgivinglike. Just because Tom made a

slip once, they've never let 'im forget it, but tied it to 'is coattails for 'im to drag with 'im through life.

Littleminded I call it. Besides, if you ask me, my dear, it must have been a case of six of one and half a

dozen of the other. Tom as sedoocer! can you picture it, Mary? It's enough to make one split." And with a

As for Johnny well . . . and she shrugged her shoulders. "A bad egg's bad, Mary, and no amount o'

cooking and doctoring 'll sweeten it. But he didn't make 'imself, did 'e? and my opinion is, parents should

As she spoke, she threw open the door of the little room where Johnny housed. It was an odd place. The walls

were plastered over with newspapercuttings, with old prints from illustrated journals, with snippets torn off

valentines and keepsakes. Stuck one on another, these formed a kind of loose wallpaper, which stirred in the

draught. Tilly went on: "I see myself to it being kept cleanish; 'e hates the girl to come bothering round. Oh,

just Johnny's rubbish!" For Mary had stooped curiously to the table which was littered with a queer collection

of objects: matchboxes on wheels; empty reels of cotton threaded on strings; bits of wood shaped in rounds

and squares; boxes made of paper; dried seaweed glued in patterns on strips of cardboard. "He's for ever

pottering about with 'em. What amusement 'e gets out of it, only the Lord can tell."

She did not mention the fact, known to Mary, that when Johnny had a drinkingbout it was she who looked

after him, got him comfortably to bed, and made shift to keep the noise from his father's ears. Yes, Tilly's

For in this particular winter Tilly had exchanged her black silk for a stuff gown, heavily trimmed with crepe.

She was in mourning for poor Jinny, who had died not long after giving birth to a third daughter.

John had certainly been extremely put out at the advent of yet another girl; and the probability was that Jinny

had taken his reproaches too much to heart. However it was, she could not rally; and one day Mary received a

telegram saying that if she wished to see Jinny alive, she must come at once. No mention was made of Tilly,

but Mary ran to her with the news, and Tilly declared her intention of going, too. "I suppose I may be allowed

"Not that Jinn and I ever really drew together," she continued as the train bore them over the ranges. "She'd

too much of poor pa in 'er. And I was all ma. Hard luck that it must just be her who managed to get such a

domineering brute for a husband. You'll excuse me, Mary, won't you? a domineering brute!"

"And to think I once envied her the match!" she went on meditatively, removing her bonnet and substituting a

kind of nightcap intended to keep her hair free from dust. "Lauks, Mary, it's a good thing fate doesn't always

take us at our word. We don't know which side our bread's buttered on, and that's the truth. Why, my dear, I

They were in time to take leave of Jinny lying white as her pillows behind the red rep hangings of the bed.

The bony parts of her face had sprung into prominence, her large soft eyes fallen in. John, stalking solemnly

and noiselessly in a long black coat, himself led the two women to the bedroom, where he left them; they sat

down one on each side of the great fourposter. Jinny hardly glanced at her sister: it was Mary she wanted,

Mary's hand she fumbled for while she told her trouble. "It's the children, Mary," she whispered. "I can't die

happy because of the children. John doesn't understand them." Jinny's whole existence was bound up in the

"Dearest Jinny, don't fret. I'll look after them for you, and take care of them," promised Mary wiping away

"I thought so," said the dying woman, relieved, but without gratitude: it seemed but natural to her, who was

called upon to give up everything, that those remaining should make sacrifices. Her fingers plucked at the

sheet. "John's been good to me," she went on, with closed eyes. "But. . . if it 'adn't been for the children . . .

yes, the children.... I think I'd 'a' done better " her speech lapsed oddly, after her years of patient practice

Tilly raised astonished eyebrows at Mary. "Wandering!" she telegraphed in liplanguage, forming the word

very largely and distinctly; for neither knew of Jinny having had any but her one glorious chance.

Tilly's big heart yearned over her sister's forlorn little ones; they could be heard bleating like lambs for the

mother to whom till now they had never cried in vain. Her instant idea was to gather all three up in her arms

and carry them off to her own roomy, childless home, where she would have given them a delightful, though

not maybe a particularly discriminating upbringing. But the funeral over, the blinds raised, the two ladies and

the elder babes clad in the stiff, expensive mourning that befitted the widower's social position, John put his

foot down: and to Mary was extremely explicit: "Under no circumstances will I permit Matilda to have

anything to do with the rearing of my children excellent creature though she be!"

On the other hand, he would not have been unwilling for Mary to mother them. This, of course, was out of

the question: Richard had accustomed himself to Trotty, but would thank you, she knew, for any fresh

encroachment on his privacy. Before leaving, however, she promised to sound him on the plan of placing

Trotty as a weekly boarder at a Young Ladies' Seminary, and taking the infant in her place. For it came out

that John intended to set Zara Zara, but newly returned from a second voyage to England and still sipping

like a bee at the sweets of various situations at the head of his house once more. And Mary could not

Equally hard was it to understand John not having learnt wisdom from his two previous failures to live with

his sister. But, in seeking tactfully to revive his memory, she ran up against such an ingrained belief in the

superiority of his own kith and kin that she was baffled, and could only fold her hands and hope for the best.

"Besides, Jane's children are infinitely more tractable than poor Emma's," was John's parting shot.

He had still another request to make of her. The reports he received of the boy Johnny, now a pupil at the

Geelong Grammar School, grew worse from term to term. It had become clear to him that he was unfortunate

enough to possess an outandout dullard for a son. Regretfully giving up, therefore, the design he had

cherished of educating Johnny for the law, he had resolved to waste no more good money on the boy, but to

take him, once he was turned fifteen, into his own business. Young John, however, had proved refractory,

expressing a violent antipathy to the idea of officelife. "It is here that I should be glad of another opinion

and I turn to you, Mary, my dear. Jane was of no use whatever in such matters, none whatever, being, and

very properly so, entirely wrapped up in her own children." So Mary arranged to break her homeward

Johnny he was Jack at school, but that, of course, his tomfools of relations couldn't be expected to

remember Johnny was waiting on the platform when the train steamed in. "Oh, what a bonny boy!" said

Johnny had been kicking his heels disconsolately: another of these wretched old women coming down to jaw

him! He wished every one of them at the bottom of the sea. However he pulled himself together and went

forward to greet his aunt: he was not in the least bashful. And as they left the station he took stock of her, out

of the tail of his eye. With a growing approval: this one at any rate he needn't feel ashamed of; and she was

not so dreadfully old after all. Perhaps she mightn't turn out quite such a wet blanket as the rest; though, from

experience, he couldn't connect any pleasure with relatives' visits: they were nasty pills that had to be

swallowed. He feared and disliked his father; Aunt Zara had been sheerly ridiculous, with her frills and

simpers the boys had imitated her for weeks after and once, most shameful of all, his stepmother had

come down and publicly wept over him. His cheeks still burnt at the remembrance; and he had been glad to

hear that she was dead: served her jolly well right! But this Aunt Mary seemed a horse of another colour; and

he did not sneak her into town by a back way, as he had planned to do before seeing her.

Greatly as Mary might admire the tall fair lad by her side, she found herself at a loss how to deal with him,

the mind of a schoolboy of thirteen being a closed book to her. Johnny looked demure and answered "Yes,

Aunt Mary," to everything she said; but this was of small assistance in getting at the real boy inside.

Johnny had no intention, in the beginning, of taking her into his oftenbetrayed and badly bruised

confidence. However a happy instinct led her to suggest a visit to a shop that sold brandysnaps and

gingerbeer; and this was too much for his strength of mind. Golly, didn't he have a tuckin! And a whole

It was over the snaps, with an earthbrown moustache drawn round his fresh young mouth, the underlip of

which swelled like a ripe cherry, that he blurted out: "I say, Aunt Mary, don't let the pater stick me in that

"I don't see why not," returned the boy in an aggrieved voice. "I hate figures and father knows it. I tell you I

mean to go to sea." And as he said it his lip shot out, and suddenly, for all his limpid blue eyes and flaxen

"He wouldn't think it respectable enough, dear. He wants you to rise higher in the world, and to make money.

"Bosh!" said Johnny. "Look at Uncle Ned . . . and Uncle Jerry . . . and the governor himself. He didn't have to

"That was quite different," said Mary weakly. "And as for your Uncle Jerry, Johnny why, afterwards he

"Well, I'd sooner be hanged!" retorted young John. But the next minute flinging away dull care, he inquired

briskly: "Can you play tipcat, Aunt Mary?" And vanquished by her air of kindly interest, he gave her his

supreme confidence. "I say, don't peach, will you, but I've got a white rat. I keep it in a locker under my bed."

A nice frank handsome boy, wrote Mary. Don't be too hard on him, John. His great wish is to travel and see

the world or as he puts it, to go to sea. Mightn't it be a good thing to humour him in this? A taste of the

"Stuff and nonsense!" said John the father, and threw the letter from him. "I didn't send Mary there to let the

young devil get round her like that." And thereupon he wrote to the Headmaster that the screw was to be

applied to Johnny as never before. This was his last chance. If it failed, and his next report showed no

improvement, he would be taken away without further ado and planked down under his father's nose. No son

of his should go to sea, he was damned if they should! For, like many another who has yielded to the

wandering passion in his youth, John had small mercy on it when it reared its head in his descendants.

HENRY OCOCK was pressing for a second opinion; his wife had been in poor health since the birth of her

last child. Mahony drove to Plevna House one morning between nine and ten o'clock.

A thankless task lay before him. Mrs. Henry's case had been a fruitful source of worry to him; and he now

He drove past what had once been the Great Swamp. From a bed of cattleploughed mud interspersed with

reedy waterholes; in summer a dry and dustswept hollow: from this, the vast natural depression had been

transformed into a graceful lake, some three hundred acres in extent. On its surface pleasure boats lay at their

moorings by jetties and boatsheds; groups of stiffnecked swans sailed or ducked and straddled; while shady

walks followed the banks, where the whiplike branches of the willows, showing shoots of tenderest green,

All the houses that had sprung up round Lake Wendouree had wellstocked spreading grounds; but Ocock's

outdid the rest. The groom opening a pair of decorative iron gates which were the showpiece of the

neighbourhood, Mahony turned in and drove past exotic firs, Moreton Bay figtrees and araucarias; past

cherished English hollies growing side by side with giant cacti. In one corner stood a rockery, where a

fountain played and goldfish swam in a basin. The house itself, of brick and twostoreyed, with massive

baywindows, had an ornamental verandah on one side. The drawingroom was a medley of gilt and lustres,

mirrors and glass shades; the finest objects from Dandaloo had been brought here, only to be outdone by

Henry's own additions. Yes, Ocock lived in grand style nowadays, as befitted one of the most important men

in the town. His old father once gone and Mahony alone knew why the latter's existence acted as a drag

Invited to walk into the breakfastroom, Mahony there found the family seated at table. It was a charming

scene. Behind the urn Mrs. Henry, in beribboned cap and morning wrapper, dandled her infant; while

Henry, in oriental gown and Turkish fez, had laid his newspaper by to ride his young son on his foot. Mahony

refused tea or coffee; but could not avoid drawing up a chair, touching the peachy cheeks of the children held

aloft for his inspection, and meeting a fire of playful sallies and kindly inquiries. As he did so, he was

sensitively aware that it fell to him to break up the peace of this household. Only he knew the canker that had

The children borne off, Mrs. Henry interrogated her husband's pleasure with a pretty: "May I?" or "Should I?"

lift of the brows; and gathering that he wished her to retire, laid her small, plump hand in Mahony's, sent a

graceful message to "dearest Mary," and swept the folds of her gown from the room. Henry followed her with

a wellpleased eye his opinion was no secret that, in figure and bearing, his wife bore a marked

resemblance to her Majesty the Queen and admonished her not to fail to partake of some light refreshment

during the morning, in the shape of a glass of sherry and a biscuit. "Unless, my love, you prefer me to order

cook to whip you up an eggnog. Mrs. Ocock is, I regret to say, entirely without appetite again," he went

on, as the door closed behind his wife. "What she eats is not enough to keep a sparrow going. You must prove

your skill, doctor, and oblige us by prescribing a still more powerful tonic or appetiser. The last had no effect

whatever." He spoke from the hearthrug, where he had gone to warm his skirts at the wood fire, audibly

When some twenty minutes later he emerged from the house, he was unaccompanied, and himself pulled the

front door to behind him. He stood frowning heavily as he snapped the catches of his gloves, and fell foul of

the groom over a buckle of the harness, in a fashion that left the man openmouthed. "Blow me, if I don't

The abrupt stoppage of Richard's visits to Plevna House staggered Mary. And since she could get nothing out

of her husband, she tied on her bonnet and went off hotfoot to question her friend. But Mrs. Henry tearfully

declared her ignorance she had listened in fear and trembling to the sound of the two angry voices and

Mary came home greatly distressed, and, Richard still wearing his obstinate front, she ended by losing her

temper. He knew well enough, said she, it was not her way to interfere or to be inquisitive about his patients;

but this was different; this had to do with one of her dearest friends; she must know. In her ears rang Agnes's

words: "Henry told me, love, he wouldn't insult me by repeating what your husband said of me. Oh, Mary,

isn't it dreadful? And when I liked him so as a doctor!" She now repeated them aloud.

This was too much for Mahony. He blazed up. "The confounded mischiefmonger the backbiter! Well, if

you will have it, wife, here you are . . . here's the truth. What I said to Ocock was: I said, my good man, if you

want your wife to get over her next confinement more quickly, keep the sherrydecanter out of her reach."

Mary gasped and sank on a chair, letting her arms flop to her side. "Richard!" she ejaculated. "Oh, Richard,

"I did indeed, my dear. Oh well, not in just those words, of course; we doctors must always wrap the truth

up in silver paper. And I should feel it my duty to do the same again tomorrow; though there are

pleasanter things in life, Mary, I can assure you, than informing a low mongrel like Ocock that his wife is

drinking on the sly. You can have no notion, my dear, of the compliments one calls down on one's head by so

doing. The case is beyond my grasp, of course, and I am cloaking my own shortcomings by making

scandalous insinuations against a delicate lady, who 'takes no more than her position entitles her to' his

very words, Mary! 'for the purpose of keeping up her strength.' " And Mahony laughed hotly.

"Yes, but was it I mean. . . was it really necessary to say it?" stammered Mary still at sea. And as her

husband only shrugged his shoulders: "Then I can't pretend to be surprised at what has happened, Richard.

Mr. Henry will never forgive you. He thinks so much of everything and every one belonging to him."

"Pray, can I help that? . . . help his infernal pride? And, good God, Mary, can't you see that, far more terrible

than my having had to tell him the truth, is the fact of there being such a truth to tell?"

"Oh yes, indeed I can," and the warm tears rushed to Mary's eyes. "Poor, poor little Agnes! Richard, it

comes of her having once been married to that dreadful man. And though she doesn't say so, yet I don't

believe she's really happy in her second marriage either. There are so many things she's not allowed to do

and she's afraid of Mr. Henry, I know she is. You see he's displeased when she's dull or unwell; she must

always be bright and look pretty; and I expect the truth is, since her illness she has taken to taking things, just

to keep her spirits up." Here Mary saw a ray of light, and snatched at it. "But in that case mightn't the need for

"For it does seem strange that I never noticed anything," went on Mary, more to herself than to him. "I've

seen Agnes at all hours of the day. . . when she wasn't in the least expecting visitors. Yes, Richard, I do

know people sometimes eat things to take the smell away. But the idea of Agnes doing anything so . . . so low

"Oh, well, if you're going to imitate Ocock and try to teach me my business!" gave back Mahony with an

angry gesture, and sitting down at the table, he pulled books and papers to him.

"As if such a thing would ever occur to me! It's only that . . . that somehow my brain won't take it in. Agnes

has always been such a dear good little soul, all kindness. She's never done anybody any harm or said a hard

word about any one, all the years I've known her. I simply can't believe it of her, and that's the truth. As for

what people will say when it gets about that you've been shown the door in a house like Mr. Henry's why,

I'm afraid even to think of it!" and powerless any longer to keep back her tears, Mary hastened from the

But she also thought it wiser to get away before Richard had time to frame the request that she should break

off all intercourse with Plevna House. This, she could never promise to do; and the result might be a quarrel.

Whereas if she avoided giving her word, she would be free to slip out now and then to see poor Agnes, when

Richard was on his rounds and Mr. Henry at business. But this was the only point clear to her. In standing up

for her friend she had been perfectly sincere: to think ill of a person she cared for, cost Mary an inward

struggle. Against this, however, she had an antipathy to set that was almost stronger than herself. Of all forms

of vice, intemperance was the one she hated most. She lived in a country where it was, alas! only too

common; but she had never learnt to tolerate it, or to look with a lenient eye on those who succumbed: and

whether these were but slaves of the nipping habit; or the eternal dramdrinkers who felt fit for nothing if

they had not a peg inside them; or those seasoned topers who drank their companions under the table without

themselves turning a hair; or yet again those who, sober for three parts of the year, spent the fourth in secret

debauches. Herself she had remained as rigidly abstemious as in the days of her girlhood. And she often

mused, with a glow at her heart, on her great good fortune in having found in Richard one whose views on

this subject were no less strict than her own. Hence her distress at his disclosure was caused not alone by the

threatened loss of a friendship: she wept for the horror with which the knowledge filled her.

Little by little, though, her mind worked round to what was, after all, the chief consideration: Richard's action

and its probable consequences. And here once more she was divided against herself. For a moment she had

hoped her husband would own the chance of him being in error. But she soon saw that this would never do. A

mistake on his part would be a blow to his reputation. Besides making enemies of people like the Henrys for

nothing. If he had to lose them as patients, it might as well be for a good solid reason, she told herself with a

dash of his own asperity. No, it was a case of either husband or friend. And though she pitied Agnes from the

bottom of her heart, yet there were literally no lengths she would have shrunk from going to, to spare Richard

pain or even anxiety. And this led her on to wonder whether, granted things were as he said, he had

approached Mr. Henry in the most discreet way. Could he not have avoided a complete break? She sat and

pondered this question till her head ached, finding herself up against the irreconcilability of the practical with

the ideal which complicates a man's working life. What she belatedly tried to think out for her husband was

some little commonsense stratagem by means of which he could have salved his conscience, without giving

offence. He might have said that the drugs he was prescribing would be nullified by the use of wine or spirits;

even better, have warned Agnes in private. Somehow, it might surely have been managed. Mr. Henry had no

doubt been extremely rude and overbearing; but in earlier years Richard had known how to behave towards

illbreeding. She couldn't tell why, but he was finding it more and more difficult to get on with people

nowadays. He certainly had a very great deal to do, and was often tired out. Again, he did not need to care so

much as formerly whether he offended people or not ordinary patients, that was; the Henrys, of course,

were of the utmost consequence. Still, once on a time he had been noted for his tact; it was sad to see it

leaving him in the lurch. Several times of late she had been forced to step in and smooth out awkwardnesses.

But a week ago he had had poor little Amelia Grindle up in arms, by telling her that her sickly firstborn

would mentally never be quite like other children. To every one else this had been plain from the outset; but

Amelia had suspected nothing, having, poor thing, no idea when a babe ought to begin to take notice or cut

its teeth. Richard said it was better for her to face the truth betimes than to spend her life vainly hoping and

fretting; indeed, it would not be right of him to allow it. Poor dear Richard! He set such store by truth and

principle and she, Mary, would not have had him otherwise. All the same, she thought that in both cases a

small compromise would not have hurt him. But compromise he would not . . . or could not. And as, recalled

to reality by the sight of the week's washing, which strained, ballooned, collapsed, on its lines in the yard

Biddy was again letting the clothes get much too dry! as Mary rose to her feet, she manfully squared her

With regard to Mahony, it might be supposed that having faithfully done what he believed to be his duty, he

would enjoy the fruits of a quiet mind. This was not so. Before many hours had passed he was wrestling with

the incident anew; and a true son of that nation which, for all its levelheadedness, spends its best strength in

fighting shadows, he felt a great deal angrier in retrospect than he had done at the moment. It was not alone

the fact of him having got his conge no medico was safe from that punch below the belt. His bitterness

was aimed at himself. Once more he had let himself be hoodwinked; had written down the smooth civility it

pleased Ocock to adopt towards him to respect and esteem. Now that the veil was torn, he saw how poor the

lawyer's opinion of him actually was. And always had been. For a memory was struggling to emerge in him,

setting strings in vibration. And suddenly there rose before him a picture of Ocock that time had dimmed. He

saw the latter standing in the dark, crowded lobby of the courthouse, cursing at him for letting their witness

escape. There it was! There, in these two scenes, far apart as they lay, you had the whole man. The unctuous

blandness, the sleek courtesy was but a mask, which he wore for you just so long as you did not hinder him

by getting in his way. That was the unpardonable sin. For Ocock was out to succeed to succeed at any

price and by any means. In tracing his course, no goal but this had ever stood before him. The obligations that

bore on your ordinary mortal a sense of honesty, of responsibility to one's fellows, the soft pull of

domestic ties did not trouble Ocock. He laughed them down, or wrung their necks like so many pullets.

And should the poor little woman who bore his name become a drag on him, she would be tossed on to the

rubbishheap with the rest. In a way, so complete a freedom from altruistic motives had something grandiose

about it. But those who ran up against it, and could not fight it with its own weapons, had not an earthly

Thus Mahony sat in judgment, giving rein for once to his ingrained dislike for the man of whom he had now

made an enemy. In whose debt, for the rest, he stood deep. And had done, ever since the day he had been fool

enough, like the fly in the nursery rhyme, to seek out Ocock and his familiars in their grimy little "parlour" in

But his first heat spent he soon cooled down, and was able to laugh at the stagy explosiveness of his attitude.

So much for the personal side of the matter. Looked at from a business angle it was more serious. The fact of

him having been shown the door by a patient of Ocock's standing was bound, as Mary saw, to react

unfavourably on the rest of the practice. The news would run like wildfire through the place; never were such

hotbeds of gossip as these colonial towns. Besides, the colleague who had been called in to Mrs. Agnes in his

His fears were justified. It quickly got about that he had made a blunder: all Mrs. Henry needed, said the

newcomer, was change of air and scene; and forthwith the lady was packed off on a trial trip to Sydney.

Mahony held his head high, and refused to notice looks and hints. But he knew all about what went on behind

his back: he was morbidly sensitive to atmosphere; could tell how a house was charged as soon as he crossed

the threshold. People were saying: a mistake there, why not here, too? Slow recoveries asked themselves if a

fresh treatment might not benefit them; lovers of blue pills hungered for more drastic remedies. The

disaffection would blow over, of course; but it was painful while it lasted; and things were not bettered by

one of his patients choosing just this inconvenient moment to die an elderly man, down with the Russian

influenza, who disobeyed orders, got up too early and was carried off by double pneumonia inside a week.

Worry over the mishap robbed his poor medical attendant of sleep for several nights on end.

Not that this was surprising; he found it much harder than of old to keep his mind from running on his

patients outside workinghours. In his younger days he had laid down fixed rules on this score. Every

brainworker, he held, must in his spare time be able to detach his thoughts from his chief business, pin them

to something of quite another kind, no matter how trivial: keep fowls or root round gardens, play the flute or

go in for carpentry. Now, he might have dug till his palms blistered, it would not help. Those he prescribed

for teased him like a pack of spiritpresences, which clamour to be heard. And if a serious case took a turn

for the worse, he would find himself rising in a sweat of uncertainty, and going lamp in hand into the surgery,

to con over a prescription he had written during the day. And one knew where that kind of thing led!

Now, as if all this were not enough, there was added to it the old, evergreen botheration about money.

THUS far, Ocock had nursed his mining investments for him with a fatherly care. He himself had been free

as a bird from responsibility. Every now and again he would drop in at the office, just to make sure the

lawyer was on the alert; and each time he came home cheerful with confidence. That was over now. As a first

result of the breach, he missed or so he believed clearing four hundred pounds. Among the shares he

held was one lot which till now had proved a sorry bargain. Soon after purchase something had gone wrong

with the management of the claim; there had been a lawsuit, followed by calls unending and never a

dividend. Now, when these shares unexpectedly swung up to a high level only to drop the week after to

their standing figure Ocock failed to sell out in the nick of time. Called to account, he replied that it was

customary in these matters for his clients to advise him; thus deepening Mahony's sense of obligation.

Stabbed in his touchiness, he wrote for all his scrip to be handed over to him; and thereafter loss and gain

depended on himself alone. It certainly brought a new element of variety into his life. The mischief was, he

could get to his study of the moneymarket only with a fagged brain. And the fear lest he should do

It was about this time that Mary, seated one evening in face of her husband, found herself reflecting: "When

For a wonder they were at a soiree together, at the house of one of Mahony's colleagues. The company

consisted of the inner circle of friends and acquaintances: "Always the same people the old job lot! One

knows before they open their mouths what they'll say and how they'll say it," Richard had grumbled as he

dressed. The Henry Ococks were not there though, it being common knowledge that the two men declined to

meet; and a dash of fresh blood was present in the shape of a lady and gentleman just "out from home."

Richard got into talk with this couple, and Mary, watching him fondly, could not but be struck by his

animation. His eyes lit up, he laughed and chatted, made merry repartee: she was carried back to the time

when she had known him first. In those days his natural gravity was often cut through by a mood of high

spirits, of boyish jollity, which, if only by way of contrast, rendered him a delightful companion. She grew a

little wistful, as she sat comparing present with past. And loath though she was to dig deep, for fear of stirring

up uncomfortable things, she could not escape the discovery that, in spite of all his success and his career

there had surpassed their dearest hopes in spite of the natural gifts fortune had showered on him, Richard

was not what you would call a happy man. No, nor even moderately happy. Why this should be, it went

beyond her to say. He had everything he could wish for: yes, everything, except perhaps a little more time to

himself, and better health. He was not as strong as she would have liked to see him. Nothing radically wrong,

of course, but enough to fidget him. Might not this . . . this he himself called it "want of tone" be a

reason for the scant pleasure he got out of life? And: "I think I'll pop down and see Dr. Munce about him one

morning, without a word to him," was how she eased her mind and wound up her reverie.

But daylight, and the most prosaic hours of the twentyfour, made the plan look absurd.

Once alive though to his condition, she felt deeply sorry for him in his patent inability ever to be content. It

was a thousand pities. Things might have run so smoothly for him, he have got so much satisfaction out of

them, if only he could have braced himself to regard life in cheerier fashion. But at this Mary stopped . . . and

wondered . . . and wondered. Was that really true? Positively her experiences of late led her to believe that

Richard would be less happy still if he had nothing to be unhappy about. But dear me! this was getting out

of her depth altogether. She shook her head and rebuked herself for growing fanciful.

All the same, her new glimpse of his inmost nature made her doubly tender of thwarting him; hence, she did

not set her face as firmly as she might otherwise have done, against a wild plan he now formed of again

altering, or indeed rebuilding the house; although she could scarcely think of it with patience. She liked her

house so well as it stood; and it was amply big enough: there was only the pair of them . . . and John's child.

It had the name, she knew, of being one of the most comfortable and bestkept in Ballarat. Brick for solidity,

where wood prevailed, with a wide snowy verandah up the posts of which rare creepers ran, twining their

tendrils one with another to form a screen against the sun. Now, what must Richard do but uproot the

creepers and pull down the verandah, thus baring the walls to the fierce summer heat; plaster over the brick;

and, more outlandish still, add a top storey. When she came back from Melbourne, where she had gone

avisiting to escape the upset Richard, ordinarily so sensitive, had managed to endure it quite well, thus

proving that he could put up with discomfort if he wanted to when she saw it again, Mary hardly

recognised her home. Personally she thought it ugly, for all its grandeur; changed wholly for the worse. Nor

did time ever reconcile her to the upper storey. Domestic worries bred from it: the servant went off in a huff

because of the stairs; they were at once obliged to double their staff. To cap it all, with its flat front unbroken

by bay or porch, the house looked like no other in the town. Now, instead of passing admiring remarks,

Yet, she would gladly have made the best of this, had Richard been the happier for it. He was not or only

There came days when nothing suited him; not his fine consulting room, or the improved furnishings of the

house, or even her cookery of which he had once been so fond. He grew dainty to a degree; she searched her

cookerybook for piquant recipes. Next he fell to imagining it was unhealthy to sleep on feathers, and went

to the expense of having a hard horsehair mattress made to fit the bed. Accustomed to the softest down, he

naturally tossed and turned all night long, and rose in the morning declaring he felt as though he had been

beaten with sticks. The mattress was stowed away in a leanto behind the kitchen, and there it remained. It

was not alone. Mary sometimes stood and considered, with a rueful eye, the many discarded objects that bore

it company. Richard oddly enough he was ever able to poke fun at himself had christened this

outhouse "the cemetery of dead fads." Here was a set of Indian clubs he had been going to harden his muscles

with every morning, and had used for a week; together with an indiarubber gymnastic apparatus bought for

the same purpose. Here stood a patent showerbath, that was to have dashed energy over him after a bad

night, and had only succeeded in giving him acute neuralgia; a standingdesk he had broken his back at for a

couple of days; a homoeopathic medicinechest and a phrenological head both subjects he had meant to

satisfy his curiosity by looking into, had time not failed him. Mary sighed, when she thought of the waste of

good money these and similar articles stood for. (Some day he would just have them privately carted away to

auction!) But if Richard set his heart on a thing he wanted it so badly, so much more than other people did,

Mahony read in his wife's eyes the disapproval she was too wise to utter. At any other time her silent

criticism would have galled him; in this case, he took shelter behind it. Let her only go on setting him down

for lax and spendthrift, incapable of knowing his own mind. He would be sorry, indeed, for her to guess how

matters really stood with him. The truth was, he had fallen a prey to utter despondency, was become so

spiritless that it puzzled even himself. He thought he could trace some of the mischief back to the

professional knocks and jars Ocock's action had brought down on him: to hear one's opinion doubted, one's

skill questioned, was the tyro's portion; he was too old to treat such insolence with the scorn it deserved. Of

course he had lived the affair down; but the result of it would seem to be a bottomless ennui, a tedium vitae

that had something pathological about it. Under its influence the homeliest trifles swelled to feats beyond his

strength. There was, for instance, the putting on and off one's clothing: this infinite boredom of straps and

buttons and all for what? For a day that would be an exact copy of the one that had gone before, a night as

unrefreshing as the last. Did any one suspect that there were moments when he quailed before this job,

suspect that more than once he had even reckoned the number of times he would be called on to perform it,

day in, day out, till that garment was put on him that came off no more; or that he could understand and feel

sympathy with those faint souls and there were such who laid hands on themselves rather than go on

Physician, heal thyself! He swallowed doses of a tonic preparation, and put himself on a fatty diet.

Thereafter he tried to take a philosophic view of his case. He had now, he told himself, reached an age when

such a state of mind gave cause neither for astonishment nor alarm. How often had it not fallen to him, in his

role of medical adviser, to reassure a patient on this score. The arrival of middle age brought about a certain

lowness of spirits in even the most robust: along with a more or less marked bodily languor went an uneasy

sense of coming loss: the time was at hand to bid farewell to much that had hitherto made life agreeable; and

for most this was a bitter pill. Meanwhile, one held a kind of mental stocktaking. As often as not by the light

of a complete disillusionment. Of the many glorious things one had hoped to do or to be nothing was

accomplished: the great realisation, in youth breathlessly chased but never grasped, was now seen to be a

mistwraith, which could wear a thousand forms, but invariably turned to air as one came up with it. In nine

instances out of ten there was nothing to put in its place; and you began to ask yourself in a kind of horrific

amaze: "Can this be all? . . . this? For this the pother of growth, the struggles, and the sufferings?" The soul's

climacteric, if you would, from which a mortal came forth dulled to resignation; or greedy for the few

physical pleasures left him; or prone to that tragic clinging to youth's skirts, which made the later years of

many women and not a few men ridiculous. In each case the motive power was the same: the haunting fear

that one had squeezed life dry; worse still, that it had not been worth the squeezing.

Thus his reason. But, like a tongue of flame, his instinct leapt up to give combat. By the gods, this cap did not

fit him! Squeezed life try? . . . found it not worth while? Why, he had never got within measurable distance of

what he called life, at all! There could be no question of him resigning himself: deep down in him, he knew,

was an enormous residue of vitality, of untouched mental energy that only waited to be drawn on. It was like

a buried treasure, jealously kept for the event of his one day catching up with life: not the bare scramble for a

living that here went by that name, but Life with a capital L, the existence he had once confidently counted

on as his a tourney of spiritual adventuring, of intellectual excitement, in which the prize striven for was

not money or anything to do with money. Far away, thousands of miles off, luckier men than he were in the

thick of it. He, of his own free will, had cut himself adrift, and now it was too late.

But was it? Had the time irretrievably gone by? The ancient idea of escape, long dormant, suddenly reawoke

in him with a new force. And, once stirring, it was not to be silenced, but went on sounding like a

groundtone through all he did. At first he shut his ears to it, to dally with side issues. For example, he

worried the question why the breakingpoint should only now have been reached and not six months, a year

ago. It was quibbling to lay the whole blame on Ocock's shoulders. The real cause went deeper, was of older

growth. And driving his mind back over the past, he believed he could pin his present loss of grip to that fatal

day on which he learnt that his best friend had betrayed him. Things like that gave you a crack that would not

mend. He had been rendered suspicious where he had once been credulous; prone to see evil where no evil

was. For, deceived by Purdy, in whom could he trust? Of a surety not in the pushful set of jobbers and

tricksters he was condemned to live amongst. No discoveries he might make about them would surprise him.

And once more the old impotent anger with himself broke forth, that he should ever have let himself take

Why not shake the dust of the country off his feet? From this direct attack he recoiled, casting up his

hands as if against the evil eye. What next? But exclaim as he might, now that the idea had put on words, it

was by no means so simple to fend it off as when it had been a mere vague humming at the back of his mind.

It seized him; swept his brain bare of other thoughts. He began to look worn. And never more so than when

he imagined himself taking the bull by the horns and asking Mary's approval of his wildgoose scheme. He

could picture her face, when she heard that he planned throwing up his fine position and decamping on

nothing a year. The vision was a cold douche to his folly. No, no! it would not do. You could not accustom a

woman to ease and luxury and then, when you felt you had had enough and would welcome a return to

Spartan simplicity, to an austere clarity of living, expect her to be prepared, at the word, to step back into

poverty. One was bound . . . bound . . . and by just those silken threads which, in premarital days, had seemed

sheerly desirable. He wondered now what it would be like to stand free as the wind, answerable only to

Once he had been within an ace of cutting and running. That was in the early days, soon after his marriage.

Trade had petered out; and there would have been as little to leave behind as to carry with him. But, even so,

circumstances had proved too strong for him: what with Mary's persuasions and John's intermeddling, his

scheme had come to nothing. And if, with so much in his favour, he had not managed to carry it out, how in

all the world could he hope to now, when every thing conspired against him. It was, besides, excusable in

Of his age! . . . the words gave him pause. By their light he saw why he had knuckled under so meekly, at the

time of his first attempt. It was because then a few years one way or another did not signify; he had them to

spare. Now, each individual year was precious to him; he parted with it lingeringly, unwillingly. Time had

taken to flashing past, too; Christmas was hardly celebrated before it was again at the door. Another ten years

or so and he would be an old man, and it would in very truth be too late. The tempter voice in this case

But when he came to look the facts in the face his heart failed him anew, so heavily did the arguments against

his taking such a step and, true to his race, it was these he began by marshalling weigh down the

scales. He should have done it, if done it was to be, five . . . three . . . even a couple of years ago. Each day

that dawned added to the tangle, made the idea seem more preposterous. Local dignities had been showered

on him: he sat on the Committees of the District Hospital and the Benevolent Asylum; was Honorary Medical

Officer to this Society and that; a trustee of the church; one of the original founders of the Mechanics'

Institute; vicepresident of the Botanical Society; and so on, ad infinitum. His practice was second to none;

his visitingbook rarely shewed a blank space; people drove in from miles round to consult him. In addition,

he had an extremely popular wife, a good house and garden, horses and traps, and a sure yearly income of

some twelve or thirteen hundred. Of what stuff was he made, that he could lightly contemplate turning his

Even as he told them off, however, the old sense of hollowness was upon him again. His life there reminded

him of a gaudy dropscene, let down before an empty stage; a painted sham, with darkness and vacuity

behind. At bottom, none of these distinctions and successes meant anything to him; not a scrap of mental

pabulum could be got from them: rather would he have chosen to be poor and a nobody among people whose

thoughts flew to meet his halfway. And there was also another side to it. Stingy though the years had been

of intellectual grist, they had not scrupled to rob him of many an essential by which he set store. His old

faculty for good or evil of swift decision, for instance. It was lost to him now; as witness his present

miserable vacillation. It had gone off arminarm with his health; physically he was but a ghost of the man

he had once been. But the bitterest grudge he bore the life was for the shipwreck it had made of his early

ideals. He remembered the pure joy, the lofty sentiments with which he had returned to medicine. Bah!

there had been no room for any sentimental nonsense of that kind here. He had long since ceased to follow

his profession disinterestedly; the years had made a hack of him a skilled hack, of course but just a

hack. He had had no time for study; all his strength had gone in keeping his income up to a certain figure; lest

the wife should be less well dressed and equipped than her neighbours; or patients fight shy of him; or his

confr res wag their tongues. Oh! he had adapted himself supremely well to the standards of this

Australia, socalled Felix. And he must not complain if, in so doing, he had been stripped, not only of his

rosy dreams, but also of that spiritual force on which he could once have drawn at will. Like a fool he had

believed it possible to serve mammon with impunity, and for as long as it suited him. He knew better now. At

this moment he was undergoing the sensations of one who, having taken shelter in what he thinks a light and

flimsy structure, finds that it is built of the solidest stone. Worse still: that he has been walled up inside.

And even suppose he could pull himself together for the effort required, how justify his action in the eyes of

the world? His motives would be doubledutch to the hardheaded crew around him; nor would any go to the

trouble of trying to understand. There was John. All John would see was an elderly and not overrobust man

deliberately throwing away the fruits of yearlong toil and for what? For the privilege of, in some remote

spot, as a stranger and unknown, having his way to make all over again; of being free to shoulder once more

the risks and hazards the undertaking involved. And little though he cared for John or any one else's opinion,

Mahony could not help feeling a trifle sore, in advance, at the ridicule of which he might be the object, at the

But a fig for what people thought of him! Once away from here he would, he thanked God, never see any of

them again. No, it was Mary who was the real stumblingblock, the opponent he most feared. Had he been

less attached to her, the thing would have been easier; as it was, he shrank from hurting her. And hurt and

confuse her he must. He knew Mary as well nay, better than he knew his own unreckonable self. For

Mary was not a creature of moods, did not change her mental envelope a dozen times a day. And just his

precise knowledge of her told him that he would never get her to see eye to eye with him. Her clear, serene

outlook was attuned to the plain and the practical; she would discover a thousand drawbacks to his scheme,

but nary a one of the incorporeal benefits he dreamed of reaping from it. There was his handling of money for

one thing: she had come, he was aware, to regard him as incurably extravagant; and it would be no easy task

to convince her that he could learn again to fit his expenses to a light purse. She had a woman's instinctive

distrust, too, of leaving the beaten track. Another point made him still more dubious. Mary's whole heart and

happiness were bound up in this place where she had spent the floweryears of her life: who knew if she

would thrive as well on other soil? He found it intolerable to think that she might have to pay for his want of

stability. Yes, reduced to its essentials, it came to mean the pitting of one soul's welfare against that of

another; was a tossup between his happiness and hers. One of them would have to yield. Who would suffer

more by doing so he or she? He believed that a sacrifice on his part would make the wreck of his life

complete. On hers well, thanks to her doughty habit of finding good everywhere, there was a chance of

Still he did not tackle Mary. For sometimes, after all, a disturbed doubt crept upon him whether it would not

be possible to go on as he was; instead of, as she would drastically word it, cutting his throat with his own

hand. And to be perfectly honest, he believed it would. He could now afford to pay for help in his work; to

buy what books he needed or fancied; to take holidays while putting in a locum; even to keep on the locum,

at a good salary, while he journeyed overseas to visit the land of his birth. But at this another side of him

what he thought of as spirit, in contradistinction to soul cried out in alarm, fearful lest it was again to be

betrayed. Thus far, though by rights coequal in the house of the body, it had been rigidly kept down.

Nevertheless it had persisted, like a bright cold little spark at dead of night: his restlessness, the spiritual

malaise that encumbered him had been its mute form of protest. Did he go on turning a deaf ear to its

warnings, he might do himself irreparable harm. For time was flying, the sum of his years mounting,

shrinking that roomy future to which he had thus far always postponed what seemed too difficult for the

moment. Now he saw that he dared delay no longer in setting free the imprisoned elements in him, was he

ever to grow to that complete whole which each mortal aspires to be. That a change of environment would

work this miracle he did not doubt; a congenial environment was meat and drink to him, was light and air.

Here in this country, he had remained as utterly alien as any Jew of old who wept by the rivers of Babylon.

And like a halfremembered tune there came floating into his mind words he had lit on somewhere, or learnt

on the schoolbench Horace, he thought, but, whatever their source, words that fitted his case to a nicety.

Coelum, non animum, mutant, qui trans mare currunt. "Non animum"? Ah! could he but have foreseen this

foreknown it. If not before he set sail on what was to have been but a swift adventure, then at least on that

fateful day long past when, foiled by Mary's pleadings and his own inertia, he had let himself be bound anew.

Thus the summer dragged by; a summer to try the toughest. Mahony thought he had never gone through its

like for heat and discomfort. The drought would not break, and on the great squattingstations round Ballarat

and to the north, the sheep dropped like flies at an early frost. The forest reservoirs dried up, displaying the

red mud of their bottoms, and a bath became a luxury or a penance the scanty water running thick and

red. Then the bush caught fire and burnt for three days, painting the sky a rusty brown, and making the air

hard to breathe. Of a morning his first act on going into his surgery was to pick up the thermometer that stood

on the table. Sure as fate, though the clock had not long struck nine, the mercury marked something between

a hundred and a hundred and five degrees. He let it fall with a nerveless gesture. Since his sunstroke he not

only hated, he feared the sun. But out into it he must, to drive through dustclouds so opaque that one could

only draw rein till they subsided, meanwhile holloaing off collisions. Under the close leather hood he sat and

stifled; or, removing his green goggles for the fiftieth time, climbed down to enter yet another baked wooden

house, where he handled prostrate bodies rank with sweat, or prescribed for pallid or feverspeckled children.

Then home, to toy with the food set before him, his mind already running on the discomforts of the afternoon.

Two bits of illluck came his way this summer. Old Ocock fell, in dismounting from a vehicle, and

sustained a compound fracture of the femur. Owing to his advanced age there was for a time fear of malunion

of the parts, and this kept Mahony on the rack. Secondly, a near neighbour, a common little fellow who kept

a jeweller's shop in Bridge Street, actually took the plunge: sold off one fine day and sailed for home. And

But the accident that gave the deathblow to his scruples was another. On the advice of a wealthy publican he

was treating, whose judgment he trusted, Mahony had invested heavily for him, selling off other stock to

do it in a company known as the Hodderburn Estate. This was a government affair and ought to have been

beyond reproach. One day, however, it was found that the official reports of the work done by the diamond

drillbore were cooked documents; and instantly every one connected with the mine directors, managers,

engineers lay under the suspicion of fraudulent dealings. Shares had risen as high as ten pounds odd; but

when the drive reached the bore and, in place of the deep gutterground the public had been led to expect,

hard rock was found overhead, there was a panic; shares dropped to twentyfive shillings and did not rally.

Mahony was a loser by six hundred pounds, and got, besides, a moral shaking from which he could not

recover. He sat and bit his littlefinger nail to the quick. Was he, he savagely asked himself, going to linger

He dashed off a letter to John, asking his brotherinlaw to recommend a reliable broker. And this done, he

HOW to begin, how reduce to a few plain words his subtle tangle of thought and feeling, was the problem.

He did not find his wife on her usual seat in the arbour. In searching for her, upstairs and down, he came to a

"But Richard dear!" ejaculated Mary, and paused in her sewing, her needle uplifted, a bead balanced on its

tip. Richard had run her to earth in the spare bedroom, to which at this time she often repaired. For he

objected to the piece of work she had on hand that of covering yards of black cashmere with minute jet

beads vowing that she would ruin her eyesight over it. So, having set her heart on a fashionable polonaise,

"Oh dear me! I do wonder why you have such a down on Ballarat. I'm sure there must be many worse places

in the world to live in", and lowering her needle, Mary brought the bead to its appointed spot. "Of course you

have a lot to do, I know, and being such a poor sleeper doesn't improve matters." But she was considering her

pattern sideways as she spoke, thinking more of it than of what she said. Every one had to work hard out

here; compared with some she could name, Richard's job of driving round in a springy buggy seemed ease

itself. "Besides I told you at the time you were wrong not to take a holiday in winter, when you had the

chance. You need a thorough change every year to set you up. You came back from the last as fresh as a

"The only change that will benefit me is one for good and all," said Mahony with extreme gloom. He had

thrown up the bedcurtain and stretched himself on the bed, where he lay with his hands clasped under his

"Richard! How you do run on!" and Mary, still gently incredulous but a thought wider awake, let her work

At her further exclamations of doubt and amazement, Mahony's patience slipped its leash. "Surely to

"Ssh! Baby's asleep. And don't get cross, Richard. You can hardly expect me not to be surprised when you

spring a thing of this sort on me. You've never even dropped a hint of it before."

"Oh, I know by heart everything you're going to say. It's nonsense . . . folly . . . madness . . . and so on: all the

phrases you women fish up from your vocabulary when you want to stave off a change hinder any

alteration of the status quo. But I'll tell you this, wife. You'll bury me here, if I don't get away soon. I'm not

much more than skin and bone as it is. And I confess, if I've got to be buried I'd rather lie elsewhere have

Had Mary been a man, she might have retorted that this was a very woman's way of shifting ground. She bit

her lip and did not answer immediately. Then: "You know I can't bear to hear you talk like that, even in fun.

"Do you mean to tell me, Richard, you're in earnest, when you talk of selling off your practice and going to

With these words he leapt to his feet, afire with animation. And while Mary, now thoroughly uneasy, was

folding up her work, he dilated upon the benefits that would accrue to them from the change. Goodbye to

dust, and sun, and drought, to blistering hot winds and papier mache walls! They would make their new home

in some substantial old stone house that had weathered half a century or more, tangled over with creepers,

folded away in its own privacy as only an English house could be. In the flowergarden roses would trail

over arch and pergola; there would be a lawn with shaped yews on it; while in the orchard old appletrees

He got a frog in his throat as he went on to paint in greater detail for her, who had left it so young, the

intimate charm of the home country the rich, green, dimpled countryside. And not till now did he grasp

how sorely he had missed it. "Oh, believe me, to talk of 'going home' is no mere figure of speech, Mary!" In

fancy he trod winding lanes that ran between giant hedges: hedges in tender bud, with dew on them; or

snowed over with white mayflowers; or behung with the fairy webs and gossamer of early autumn, thick as

twine beneath their load of moisture. He followed white roads that were banked with primroses and ran

headlong down to the sea; he climbed the shoulder of a down on a spring morning, when the air was alive

with larks carolling. But chiefly it was the greenness that called to him the greenness of the greenest

country in the world. Viewed from this distance, the homeland looked to him like one vast meadow. Oh, to

tread its grass again! not what one knew as grass here, a poor annual, that lasted for a few brief weeks; but

lush meadowgrass, a foot high; or shaven emerald lawns on which ancient trees spread their shade; or the

rank growth in old orchards, starry with wild flowers, on which fruitblossoms fluttered down. He longed,

too, for the exquisite finishedness of the mother country, the soft tints of cloudveiled northern skies. His

eyes ached, his brows had grown wrinkled from gazing on iron roofs set against the hard blue overhead; on

dirty weatherboards innocent of paint; on higgledypiggledy backyards and ramshackle fences; on the

straggling landscape with its untidy trees all the unrelieved ugliness, in short, of the colonial scene.

He stopped only for want of breath. Mary was silent. He waited. Still she did not speak.

He fell to earth with a bump, and was angry. "Come . . . out with it! I suppose all this seems to you just the

"Oh, Richard, no. But a little . . . well, a little unpractical. I never heard before of any one throwing up a good

income because he didn't like the scenery. It's a step that needs the greatest consideration."

"Good God! Do you think I haven't considered it? and from every angle? There isn't an argument for or

"And with never a word to me, Richard?" Mary was hurt; and showed it. "It really is hardly fair. For this is

my home as well as yours. But now listen. You're tired out, run down with the heat and that last attack of

dysentery. Take a good holiday stay away for three months if you like. Sail over to Hobart Town, or up to

Sydney, you who'er so fond of the water. And when you come back strong and well we'll talk about all this

"Aha! you'd agree to that now, would you? I remember how opposed you were once to the idea."

"Well, if I have to choose between it and you giving up altogether. . . .Now, for your own sake, Richard, don't

go and do anything rash. If once you sell off and leave Ballarat, you can never come back. And then, if you

regret it, where will you be? That's why I say don't hurry to decide. Sleep over it. Or let us consult somebody

"No you don't, madam, no you don't!" cried Richard with a grim dash of humour. "You had me once . . .

crippled me . . . handcuffed me you and your John between you! It shan't happen again."

"I crippled you? I, Richard! Why, never in my life have I done anything but what I thought was for your

"Yes, where it's a question of one's material welfare you haven't your equal I admit that. But the other side

of me needs coddling too yes, and sympathy. But it can whistle for such a thing as far as you're

Mary sighed. "I think you don't realise, dear, how difficult it sometimes is to understand you . . . or to make

Her tone struck at his heart. "Indeed and I do!" he cried contritely. "I'm a born old grumbler, mavourneen, I

know contrariness in person! But in this case . . . come, love, do try to grasp what I'm after; it means so

Unhesitatingly she laid hers in it. "I am trying, Richard, though you mayn't believe it. I always do. And even

if I sometimes can't manage it well, you know, dear, you generally get your own way in the end. Think of

the house. I'm still not clear why you altered it. I liked it much better as it was. But I didn't make any fuss, did

I? though I should have, if I'd thought we were only to occupy it for a single year after. Still, that was a

trifle compared with what you want to do now. Though I lived to a hundred I should never be able to approve

of this. And you don't know how hard it is to consent to a thing one disapproves of. You couldn't do it

yourself. Oh, what was the use, Richard, of toiling as you have, if now, just when you can afford to charge

Mahony let her hand drop, even giving it a slight push from him, and turned to pace the floor anew. "Oh,

money, money, money! I'm sick of the very sound of the word. But you talk as if nothing else mattered. Can't

you for once, wife, see through the letter of the thing to the spirit behind? I admit the practice has brought in a

tidy income of late; but as for the rest of the splendours, they exist, my dear, only in your imagination. If you

ask me, I say I lead a dog's life why, even a navvy works only for a fixed number of hours per diem! My

days have neither beginning nor end. Look at yesterday! Out in the blazing sun from morning till night I

didn't get back from the second round till nine. At ten a confinement that keeps me up till three. From three

till dawn I toss and turn, far too weary to sleep. By the time six o'clock struck you of course were

slumbering sweetly I was in hell with tic. At seven I could stand it no longer and got up for the

chloroform bottle: an hour's rest at any price else how face the crowd in the waitingroom? And you call

that splendour? luxurious ease? If so, my dear, words have not the same meaning any more for you and

Mary did not point out that she had said nothing of the kind, or that he had set up an extreme case as typical.

"And it's not the work alone," Richard was declaring, "it's the place, wife the people. I'm done with 'em,

Mary utterly done! Upon my word, if I thought I had to go on living among them even for another

"But people are the same all the world over!" The protest broke from her in spite of herself.

"No, by God, they're not!" And here Richard launched out into a diatribe against his fellowcolonists: "This

sordid riffraff! These hard, mean, grasping moneygrubbers!" that made Mary stand aghast. What could be

the matter with him? What was he thinking of, he who was ordinarily so generous? Had he forgotten the

many kindnesses shown him, the warm gratitude of his patients, people's sympathy, at the time of his illness?

But he went on: "My demands are most modest. All I ask is to live among human beings with whom I have

half an idea in common men who sometimes raise their noses from the ground, instead of eternally

scheming how to line their pockets, reckoning human progress solely in terms of � .s.d. No, I've sacrificed

enough of my life to this country. I mean to have the rest for myself. And there's another thing, my dear

another bad habit this precious place breeds in us. It begins by making us indifferent to those who belong to

us but are out of our sight, and ends by cutting our closest ties. I don't mean by distance alone. I have an old

mother still living, Mary, whose chief prayer is that she may see me once again before she dies. I was her

lastborn the child her arms kept the shape of. What am I to her now? . . . what does she know of me, of

the hard, tired, middleaged man I have become? And you are in much the same box, my dear; unless you've

Mary was scandalised. "Forget one's mother? . . . Richard! I think you're trying what dreadful things you can

find to say . . . when I write home every three months!" And provoked by this fresh piece of unreason she

opened fire in earnest, in defence of what she believed to be their true welfare. Richard listened to her without

interrupting; even seemed to grant the truth of what she said. But none the less, even as she pleaded with him,

a numbing sense of futility crept over her. She stuttered, halted, and finally fell silent. Her words were like so

many lassos thrown after his vagrant soul; and this was out of reach. It had sniffed freedom it was free;

After he had gone from the room she sat with idle hands. She was all in a daze. Richard was about to commit

an outandout folly, and she was powerless to hinder it. If only she had had some one she could have talked

things over with, taken advice of! But no it went against the grain in her to discuss her husband's actions

with a third person. Purdy had been the sole exception, and Purdy had become impossible.

Looking back, she marvelled at her own dullness in not foreseeing that something like this might happen.

What more natural than that the multitude of little whims and fads Richard had indulged should culminate in

a big whim of this kind? But the acknowledgment caused her fresh anxiety. She had watched him tire, like a

fickle child, of first one thing, then another; was it likely that he would now suddenly prove more stable? She

did not think so. For she attributed his present mood of pettish aversion wholly to the fact of his being run

down in health. It was quite true: he had not been himself of late. But, here again, he was so fanciful that you

never knew how literally to take his ailments:half the time she believed he just imagined their existence; and

the long holiday she had urged on him would have been enough to sweep the cobwebs from his brain. Oh, if

only he could have held on in patience! Four or five years hence, at most, he might have considered retiring

from general practice. She almost wept as she remembered how they had once planned to live for that day.

Then her mind reverted to herself and to what the break would mean to her; and her little world rocked to its

foundations. For no clear call went out to Mary from her native land. She docilely said "home" with the rest,

and kept her family ties intact; but she had never expected to go back, except on a flying visit. She thought of

England rather vaguely as a country where it was always raining, and where according to John an

assemblage of old fogies, known as the House of Commons, persistently intermeddled in the affairs of the

colony. For more than half her life and the half that truly counted Australia had been her home.

Her home! In fancy she made a round of the house, viewing each cosy room, lingering fondly over the

contents of cupboards and presses, recollecting how she had added this piece of furniture for convenience'

sake, that for ornament, till the whole was as perfect as she knew how to make it. Now, everything she loved

and valued the piano, the waxcandle chandelier, the gilt cornices, the diningroom horsehair would

fall under the auctioneer's hammer, go to deck out the houses of other people. Richard said she could buy

better and handsomer things in England; but Mary allowed herself no illusions on this score. Where was the

money to come from? She had learnt by personal experience what slow work building up a practice was. It

would be years and years before they could hope for another such home. And sore and sorry as she might feel

at having to relinquish her pretty things, in Richard's case it would mean a good deal more than that. To him

the loss of them would be a real misfortune, so used had he grown to luxury and comfort, so strongly did the

Worse still was the prospect of parting from relatives and friends. The tears came at this, freely. John's

children! who would watch over them when she was gone? How could she, from so far away, keep the

promise she had made to poor Jinny on her deathbed? She would have to give up the baby of which she had

grown so fond give it back into Zara's unmotherly hands. And never again of a Saturday would she fetch

poor little longlegged Trotty from school. She must say goodbye to one and to all to John, and Zara,

and Jerry and would know no more, at close quarters, how they fared. When Jerry married there would be

no one to see to it that he chose the right girl. Then Ned and Polly poor souls, poor souls! What with the

rapid increase of their family and Ned's unsteadiness he could not keep any job long because of it they

only just contrived to make ends meet. How they would do it when she was not there to lend a helping hand,

she could not imagine. And outside her brothers and sisters there was good Mrs. Devine. Mary had engaged

to guide her friend's tottery steps on the slippery path of Melbourne society, did Mr. Devine enter the

ministry. And poor little Agnes with her terrible weakness. . . and Amelia and her sickly babes . . . and Tilly,

dear, good, warmhearted Tilly! Never again would the pair of them enjoy one of their jolly laughs; or cook

for a picnic; or drive out to a mushroom hunt. No, the children would grow up anyhow; her brothers forget

For some time, however, she kept her own counsel. But when she had tried by hook and by crook to bring

Richard to reason, and failed; when she saw that he was actually beginning, on the quiet, to make ready for

departure, and that the day was coming on which every one would have to know: then she threw off her

reserve. She was spending the afternoon with Tilly. They sat on the verandah together, John's child,

blackeyed, fat, selfwilled, playing, after the manner of two short years, at their feet. At the news that was

broken to her Tilly began by laughing immoderately, believing that Mary was "taking a rise out of her." But

having studied her friend's face she let her work fall, slowly opened mouth and eyes, and was at first unequal

"Wants to leave Ballarat? To go home to England?" she echoed, with an emphasis such as Tilly alone could

lay. "Well! of all the . . . What for? What on earth for? 'As somebody gone and left 'im a fortune? Or 'as 'e

been appointed pillmongerinordinary to the Queen 'erself? What is it, Mary? What's up?"

What indeed! This was the question Mary dreaded, and one that would leap to every tongue: why was he

going? She sat on the horns of a dilemma. It was not in her to wound people's feelings by blurting out the

truth this would also put Richard in a bad light and, did she give no reason at all, many would think he

had taken leave of his senses. Weakly, in a very unMaryish fashion, she mumbled that his health was not

what it should be, and he had got it into his head that for this the climate of the colony was to blame. Nothing

"I never! No, never in my born days did I hear tell of such a thing!" and Tilly, exploding, brought her closed

fist heavily down on her knee. "Mary! . . . for a mere maggot like that, to chuck up a practice such as 'e's got.

Upon my word, my dear, it looks as if 'e was touched 'ere," and she significantly tapped her forehead.

"Ha! Now I understand. You know I've seen quite well, love, you've been looking a bit down in the mouth of

late. And so 'as pa noticed it, too. After you'd gone the other day, 'e said to me: 'Looks reflexivelike does the

little lady nowadays; as if she'd got something on 'er mind.' And I to him: 'Pooh! Isn't it enough that she's got

to put up with the cranks and crotchets of one o' your sect?' Oh Mary, my dear, there's many a true word

said in jest. Though little did I think what the crotchet would be." And slowly the rims of Tilly's eyes and the

"No, I can't picture it, Mary what it'ull be like 'ere without you," she said; and pulling out her handkerchief

blew snort after snort, which was Tilly's way nowadays of having a good cry. "There, there, Baby, Auntie's

only got the sniffles. For just think of it, Mary: except that first year or so after you were married, we've

been together, you and me, pretty much ever since you came to us that time at the 'otel a little black

midget of a thing in short frocks. I can still remember 'ow Jinn and I laughed at the idea of you teaching us;

and 'ow poor ma said to wait and make sure we weren't laughing on the wrong side of our mouths. And ma

was right as usual. For if ever a clever little kid trod the earth, it was you."

Mary poohpoohed the cleverness. "I knew very little more than you yourselves. No, it was you who were all

so kind to me. I had been feeling so lonely as if nobody wanted me and I shall never forget how

mother put her arms round me and cuddled me, and how safe and comfortable I felt. It was always just like

"And why not, I'd like to know! Look 'ere, Mary, I'm going to ask you something, plump and plain. 'Ave

you really been happy in your marriage, my dear, or 'ave you not? You're such a loyal little soul, I know

you'd never show it if you weren't; and sometimes I've 'ad my doubts about you, Mary. For you and the

"Of course I have as happy as the day's long!" cried Mary, sensitive as ever to a reflection on her husband.

"You mustn't think anything like that, Tilly. I couldn't imagine myself married to anyone but Richard."

"Then that only makes it harder for you now, poor thing, pulled two ways like, as you are," said Tilly, and

trumpeted afresh. "All the same, there isn't anything I'd stick at, Mary, to keep you here. Don't be offended,

my dear, but it doesn't matter half so much about the doctor going as you. There's none cleverer than 'im, of

course, in 'is own line. But 'e's never fitted in properly here I don't want to exactly say 'e thinks 'imself too

good for us; but there is something, Mary love, and I'm not the only one who's felt it. I've known people go

on like anything about 'im behind 'is back: nothing would induce them to have 'im and 'is haughty airs inside

Mary flushed. "Yes, I know, people do sometimes judge Richard very unkindly. For at heart he's the most

"There are those who say a doctor ought to be able to, my dear. But never mind him. Oh, it's you I feel

for, Mary, being dragged off like this. Can't you do anything, dear? Put your foot down?"

Mary shook her head. "It's no use. Richard is so . . . well, so queer in some ways, Tilly. Besides, you know, I

"Poor little you! Oh! men are queer fish, Mary, aren't they? Not that I can complain; I drew a prize in the

luckybag when I took that old Jawkins in there. But when I look round me, or think back, and see what we

women put up with! There was poor old ma; she 'ad to be man for both. And Jinn, Mary, who didn't dare to

call 'er soul 'er own. And milady Agnes is travelling the selfsame road why, she 'as to cock 'er eye at

Henry nowadays before she trusts 'erself to say whether it's beef or mutton she's eating! And now 'ere's you,

love, carted off with never a withyourleave or byyourleave, just because the doctor's tired of it and

thinks 'e'd like a change. There's no question of whether you're tired or not oh, my, no!"

"But he has to earn the money, Tilly. It isn't quite fair to put it that way," protested her friend.

"Well! I don't know, Mary, I'm sure," and Tilly's plump person rose and sank in a prodigious sigh. "But if I

Mary answered with a rueful smile. She could never be angry with Richard in cold blood, or for long

As time went on, though, and the breakup of her home began by the auctioneer's man appearing to paw

over and appraise the furniture a certain dull resentment did sometimes come uppermost. Under its sway

she had forcibly to remind herself what a good husband Richard had always been; had to tell off his qualities

one by one, instead of taking them as hitherto for granted. No, her quarrel, she began to see, was not so much

with him as with the Powers above. Why should her husband alone not be as robust and hardy as all the other

husbands in the place? None of their healths threatened to fail, nor did any of them find the conditions of the

life intolerable. That was another shabby trick Fate had played Richard in not endowing him with worldly

wisdom, and a healthy itch to succeed. Instead of that, he had been blessed with ideas and impulses that stood

directly in his way. And it was here that Mary bore more than one of her private ambitions for him to its

grave. A new expression came into her eyes, too an unsure, baffled look. Life was not, after all, going to

be the simple, straightforward affair she had believed. Thus far, save for the one unhappy business with

Purdy, wrongs and complications had passed her by. Now she saw that no more than anyone else could she

Out of this frame of mind she wrote a long, confidential letter to John: John must not be left in ignorance of

what hung over her; it was also a relief to unbosom herself to one of her own family. And John was good

enough to travel up expressly to talk things over with her, and, as he put it, to "call Richard to order." Like

every one else he showed the whites of his eyes at the latter's flimsy reasons for seeking a change. But when,

in spite of her warning, he bearded his brotherinlaw with a jocose and hearty: "Come, come, my dear

Mahony! what's all this? You're actually thinking of giving us the slip?" Richard took his interference so

badly, became so agitated over the head of the harmless question that John's airy remonstrance died in his

"Mad as a March hare!" was his private verdict, as he shook down his ruffled plumes. To Mary he said

ponderously: "Well, upon my soul, my dear girl, I don't know I am frankly at a loss what to say. Measured

by every practical standard, the step he contemplates is little short of suicidal. I fear he will live to regret it."

And Mary, who had not expected anything from John's intervention, and also knew the grounds for Richard's

heat Mary now resigned herself, with the best grace she could muster, to the inevitable.

HOUSE and practice sold for a good round sum; the brass plates were removed from gate and door, leaving

dirty squares flanked by screwholes; carpets came up and curtains down; and, like rats from a doomed ship,

men and women servants fled to other situations. One fine day the auctioneer's bell was rung through the

main streets of the town; and both on this and the next, when the red flag flew in front of the house, a troop of

intending purchasers, together with an even larger number of the merely curious, streamed in at the gate and

overran the premises. At noon the auctioneer mounted his perch, gathered the crowd round him, and soon had

the sale in full swing, catching headbobs, or wheedling and insisting with, when persuasion could do no

It would have been in bad taste for either husband or wife to be visible while the auction was in progress;

and, the night before, Mary and the child had moved to Tilly's, where they would stay for the rest of the time.

But Mahony was still hard at work. The job of winding up and getting in the money owed him was no light

one. For the report had somehow got abroad that he was retiring from practice because he had made his

fortune; and only too many people took this as a tacit permission to leave their bills unpaid.

He had locked himself and his accountbooks into a small back room, where stood the few articles they had

picked out to carry with them: Mary's sewingtable, his first gift to her after marriage; their modest stock of

silver; his medical library. But he had been forced to lower the blind, to hinder impertinent noses flattening

themselves against the window, and thus could scarcely see to put pen to paper; while the auctioneer's grating

voice was a constant source of distraction not to mention the rude comments made by the crowd on house

When it came to the point, this tearing up of one's roots was a murderous business nothing for a man of

his temperament. Mary was a good deal better able to stand it than he. Violently as she had opposed the move

in the beginning, she was now, dear soul, putting a cheery face on it. But then Mary belonged to that happy

class of mortals who could set up their Lares and Penates inside any four walls. Whereas he was a very slave

to associations. Did she regret parting with a pretty table and a comfortable chair, it was soley because of the

prettiness and convenience: as long as she could replace them by other articles of the same kind, she was

content. But to him each familiar object was bound by a thousand memories. And it was the loss of these

"'Ere now, ladies and gents, we 'ave a very fine pier glass a very chaste and tasty pier glass indeed a

red addition to any lady's drawin'room. Mrs. Rupp? Do I understand you aright, Mrs. Rupp? Mrs. Rupp

offers twelve bob for this very 'andsome article. Twelve bob ... going twelve.... Fifteen? Thank you, Mrs.

Bromby! Going fifteen . . . going going Eighteen? Right you are, my dear!" and so on.

It had a history had that pier glass; its purchase dated from a time in their lives when they had been forced to

turn each shilling in the palm. Mary had espied it one day in Plaistows' Stores, and had set her heart on

buying it. How she had schemed to scrape the money together! saving so much on a new gown, so much

on bonnet and mantle. He remembered, as if it were yesterday, the morning on which she had burst in, eyes

and cheeks aglow, to tell him that she had managed it at last, and how they had gone off arm in arm to secure

the prize. Yes, for all their poverty, those had been happy days. Little extravagances such as this, or the

trifling gifts they had contrived to make each other had given far more pleasure than the costlier presents of

"The next article I draw your attention to is a sofer," went on the voice, sounding suddenly closer; and with a

great trampling and shuffling the crowd trooped after it to the adjoining room. "And a very easy and

comfortable piece o' furniture it is, too. A bit shabby and worn 'ere and there, but not any the worse of that.

You don't need to worry if the kids play puffpuffs on it; and it fits the shape o' the body all the better.

Any one like to try it? Jest the very thing for a tired gent 'ome from biz, or 'andy to pop your lady on when

she faints as the best of ladies will! Any h'offers? Mr. de la Plastrier" he said "Deelay plastreer" "a

guinea? Thank you, mister. One guinea! Going a guinea! Now, come on, ladies and gen'elmen! D'ye think

I've got a notion to make you a present of it? What's that? Twoandtwenty? Gawd! Is this a tiddlin' match?"

How proud he had been of that sofa! In his first surgery he had had nowhere to lay an aching head. Well

worn? Small wonder! He would like to know how many hundreds of times he had flung himself down on it,

utterly played out. He had been used to lie there of an evening, too, when Mary came in to chat about

household affairs, or report on her day's doings. And he remembered another time, when he had spent the last

hours of a distracted night on it . . . and how, between sleeping and waking, he had strained his ears for

The sofa was knocked down to his butcher for a couple of pounds, and the crying or decrying of his

bookcases began. He could stand no more of it. Sweeping his papers into a bag, he guiltily unlocked the door

But once outside he did not know where to go or what to do. Leaving the town behind him he made for the

Lake, and roved aimlessly and disconsolately about, choosing sheltered paths and remote roads where he

would be unlikely to run the gauntlet of acquaintances. For he shrank from recognition on this particular day,

when all his domestic privacies were being bared to the public view. But altogether of late he had fought shy

of meeting people. Their hard, matteroffact faces showed him only too plainly what they thought of him.

At first he had been fool enough to scan them eagerly, in the hope of finding one saving touch of sympathy or

comprehension. But he might as well have looked for grief in the eyes of an undertaker's mute. And so he had

shrunk back into himself, wearing his stiffest air as a shield and leaving it to Mary to parry colonial

When he reckoned that he had allowed time enough for the disposal of the last pots and pans, he rose and

made his way well, the word "home" was by now become a mere figure of speech. He entered a scene of

the wildest confusion. The actual sale was over, but the work of stripping the house only begun, and

successful bidders were dragging off their spoils. His glassfronted bookcase had been got as far as the

surgerydoor. There it had stuck fast; and an angry altercation was going on, how best to set it free. A

woman passed him bearing Mary's girandoles; another had the diningroom clock under her arm; a third

trailed a whatnot after her. To the palings of the fence several carts and buggies had been hitched, and the

horses were eating down his neatly clipped hedge it was all he could do not to rush out and call their

owners to account. The level sunrays flooded the rooms, showing up hitherto unnoticed smudges and

scratches on the wallpapers; showing the prints of hundreds of dusty feet on the carpetless floors. Voices

echoed in hollow fashion through the naked rooms; men shouted and spat as they tugged heavy articles along

the hall, or bumped them down the stairs. It was pandemonium. The death of a loved human being could not,

he thought, have been more painful to witness. Thus a home went to pieces; thus was a page of one's life

There followed a week of Mrs. Tilly's somewhat stifling hospitality, when one was forced three times a day

to overeat oneself for fear of giving offence; followed formal presentations of silver and plate from Masonic

Lodge and District Hospital, as well as a couple of public testimonials got up by his medical brethren. But at

length all was over: the last visit had been paid and received, the last evening party in their honour sat

through; and Mahony breathed again. He had felt stiff and unnatural under this overdose of

demonstrativeness. Now as always on sighting relief from a state of things that irked him he

underwent a sudden change, turned hearty and spontaneous, thus innocently succeeding in leaving a good

impression behind him. He kept his temper, too, in all the fuss and ado of departure: the running to and fro

after missing articles, the sitting on the lids of overflowing trunks, the strapping of carpetbags, affixing of

labels. Their luggage hoisted into a springcart, they themselves took their seats in the buggy and were

driven to the railway station; and to himself Mahony murmured an all'swell thatendswell. On alighting,

however, he found that his greatcoat had been forgotten. He had to reseat himself in the buggy and gallop

back to the house, arriving at the station only just in time to leap into the train.

"A close shave that!" he ejaculated as he sank on the cushions and wiped his face. "And in more senses than

one, my dear. In tearing round a corner we nearly had a nasty spill. Had I pitched out and broken my neck,

this hole would have got my bones after all. Not that I was sorry to miss that cockandhenshow, Mary.

For a large and noisy crowd had gathered round the door of the carriage to wish the travellers godspeed,

among them people to whom Mahony could not even put a name, whose very existence he had forgotten.

And it had fairly snowed last gifts and keepsakes. Drying her eyes, Mary now set to collecting and arranging

these. "Just fancy so many turning up, dear. The railway people must have wondered what was the matter.

Oh, by the way, did you notice I don't think you did, you were in such a rush who I was speaking to as

you ran up? It was Jim, Old Jim, but so changed I hardly knew him. As spruce as could be, in a black coat

and a belltopper. He's married again, he told me, and has one of the bestpaying hotels in Smythesdale. Yes,

"Oh, you can't look at it that way, Richard. As long as he has the money to pay for it. Fancy, he told me had

always admired the 'tune' of it so much, when I played and sang. My dear little piano!"

"You shall have another and a better one, I promise you, old girl don't fret. Well, that slice of our life's

over and done with," he added, and laid his hand on hers. "But we'll hold together, won't we, wife, whatever

They had passed Black Hill and its multicoloured clay and gravel heaps, and the train was puffing uphill. The

last scattered huts and weatherboards fell behind, the workedout holes grew fewer, wooded rises appeared.

Gradually, too, the white roads round Mount Buninyong came into view, and the trees became denser. And

having climbed the shoulder, they began to fly smoothly and rapidly down the other side.

Mahony bent forward in his seat. "There goes the last of old Warrenheip. Thank the Lord, I shall never set

eyes on it again. Upon my word, I believe I came to think that hill the most tiresome feature of the place.

Whatever street one turned into, up it bobbed at the foot. Like a peepshow . . . or a bad dream . . . or a prison

In Melbourne they were the guests of John Mahony had reluctantly resigned himself to being beholden to

Mary's relatives and Mary's friends to the end of the chapter. At best, living in other people's houses was for

him more of a punishment than a pleasure; but for sheer discomfort this stay capped the climax. Under Zara's

incompetent rule John's home had degenerated into a lawless and slovenly abode: the meals were unpalatable,

the servants pert and lazy, while the children ran wild you could hardly hear yourself speak for the racket.

Whenever possible, Mahony fled the house. He lunched in town, looked up his handful of acquaintances,

bought necessaries and unnecessaries for the voyage. He also hired a boat and had himself rowed out

to the ship, where he clambered on board amid the mess of scouring and painting, and made himself known

to the chief mate. Or he sat on the pier and gazed at the vessel lying straining at her anchor, while quick

Of Mary he caught but passing glimpses; her family seemed determined to make unblushing use of her as

long as she was within reach. A couple of days prior to their arrival, John and Zara had quarrelled violently;

and for the dozenth time Zara had packed her trunks and departed for one of those miraculous situations, the

John was for Mary going after her and forcing her to admit the error of her ways. Mary held it wiser to let

"Do be guided by me this time, John," she urged, when she had heard her brother out: "You and Zara will

But the belief was ingrained in John that the most suitable head for his establishment was one of his own

blood. He answered indignantly. "And why not pray, may I ask? Who is to hit it off, as you put it, if not two

"Oh, John. . . " Mary felt quite apologetic for her brother. "Clever as Zara is, she's not at all fitted for a

post of this kind. She's no hand with the servants, and children don't seem to take to her young children, I

"Not fitted? Bah!" said John. "Every woman is fitted by nature to rear children and manage a house."

"They should be, I know," yielded Mary in conciliatory fashion. "But with Zara it doesn't seem to be the

"Then she ought to be ashamed of herself, my dear Mary ashamed of herself and that's all about it!"

Zara wept into a dainty handkerchief and was delivered of a rigmarole of complaints against her brother, the

servants, the children. According to her, the last were naturally perverse, and John indulged them so

shockingly that she had been powerless to carry out reforms. Did she punish them, he cancelled the

punishments; if she left their naughtiness unchecked, he accused her of indifference. Then her housekeeping

had not suited him: he reproached her with extravagance, with mismanagement, even with lining her own

purse. "While the truth is, John is mean as dirt! I had literally to drag each penny out of him."

"Yes, what indeed!" echoed Zara bitterly. "However, once bitten, Mary, twice shy. Never again!"

Even Zara's amateurish hand thus finally withdrawn, it became Mary's task to find some worthy and capable

person to act as mistress. Taking her obligations seriously, she devoted her last days in Australia to conning

"Now no one too attractive, if you please, Mrs. Mahony! if you don't want him to fall a victim," teased

Richard. "Remember our good John's inflammability. He's a very Leyden jar again at present."

"No, indeed I don't," said Mary with emphasis. "But the children are the first consideration. Oh, dear! it does

seem a shame that Tilly shouldn't have them to look after. And it would relieve John of so much

responsibility. As it is, he's even asked me to make it plain to Tilly that he wishes Trotty to spend her

The forsaking of the poor little motherless flock cut Mary to the heart. Trotty had dung to her, inconsolable.

"It's not possible, darling. Your papa would never agree. But I tell you what, Trotty: you must be a good girl

and make haste and learn all you can. For soon, I'm sure, he'll want you to come and be his little housekeeper,

Sounded on this subject, however, John said dryly: "Emma's influence would be undesirable for the little

ones." His prejudice in favour of his second wife's children was an eternal riddle to his sister. He dandled

"It must be the black eyes," said Mary to herself; and shook her head at men's irrationality. For Jinny's

And now the last night had come; and they were gathered, a family party, round John's mahogany. The cloth

had been removed; nuts and port were passing. As it was a unique occasion the ladies had been excused from

withdrawing, and the gentlemen left their cigars unlighted. Mary's eyes roved fondly from one face to

another. There was Tilly, come over from her hotel ("Nothing would induce me to spend a night under his

roof, Mary") Tilly sat hugging one of the children, who had run in for the almonds and raisins of dessert.

"What a mother lost in her!" sighed Mary once more. There was Zara, so far reconciled to her brother as to

consent to be present; but only speaking at him, not to him. And dear Jerry, eager and alert, taking so

intelligent a share in what was said. Poor Ned alone was wanting, neither Richard nor John having offered to

pay his fare to town. Young Johnny's seat was vacant, too, for the boy had vanished directly dinner was over.

In the harmony of the evening there was just one jarring note for Mary; and at moments she grew very

thoughtful. For the first time Mrs. Kelly, the motherly widow on whom her choice had fallen, sat opposite

John at the head of the table; and already Mary was the prey of a nagging doubt. For this person had doffed

the neat mourninggarb she had worn when being engaged, and come forth in a cap trimmed with cherry

coloured ribbons. Not only this, she smiled in sugary fashion and far too readily; while the extreme humility

with which she deferred to John's opinion, and hung on his lips, made another bad impression on Mary. Nor

was she alone in her observations. After a particularly glaring example of the widow's complaisance, Tilly

Meanwhile the men's talk had gradually petered out: there came long pauses in which they twiddled and

twirled their wineglasses, unable to think of anything to say. At heart, both John and Mahony hailed with a

certain relief the coming break. "After all I dare say such a queer faddy fellow is out of his element here. He'll

go down better over there," was John's mental verdict. Mahony's, a characteristic: "Thank God, I shall not

have to put up much longer with his confounded selfimportance, or suffer under his matrimonial muddles!"

When at a question from Mary John began animatedly to discuss the tuition of the younger children, Mahony

seized the chance to slip away. He would not be missed. He never was here or anywhere.

On the verandah a dark form stirred and made a hasty movement. It was the boy Johnny now grown tall as

Mahony himself and, to judge from the smell, what he tried to smuggle into his pocket was a briar.

"Oh well, yes, I'm smoking," he said sullenly, after a feeble attempt at evasion. "Go in and blab on me, if you

"Oh yes, it does; it saves a hiding," retorted the boy. And added with a youthful vehemence: "I'm hanged if I

let the governor take a stick to me nowadays! I'm turned sixteen; and if he dares to touch me "

"Come, come. You know, you've been something of a disappointment to your father, Johnny that's the

"Glad if I have! He hates me anyway. He never cared for my mother's children," answered Johnny with a

"There you're wrong. He was devoted to her. Her death nearly broke his heart. She was one of the most

"Was she?" said Johnny civilly, but with meagre interest. This long dead mother had bequeathed him not

even a memory of herself was as unreal to him as a dream at second hand. From the chilly contemplation

of her he turned back impatiently to his own affairs, which were burning, insistent. And scenting a vague

sympathy in this stranger uncle who, like himself, had drifted out from the intimacy of the candlelit room,

"I can't stand the life here, Uncle Richard, and I'm not going to not if father cuts me off with a shilling! I

mean to see the world. This isn't the world this deadandalive old country! . . . though it's got to seem

like it to the governor, he's been here so long. And he cleared out from his before he was even as old as I am.

Of course there isn't another blessed old Australia for me to decamp to; he might be a bit sweeter about it, if

there was. But America's good enough for me, and I'm off there yes, even if I have to work my passage

Early next morning, fully equipped for their journey, the Mahonys stood on the William's Town pier, the

centre of the usual crowd of relatives and friends. This had been further swelled by the advent of Mrs.

Devine, who came panting up followed by her husband, and by Agnes Ocock and Amelia Grindle, who had

contrived to reach Melbourne the previous evening. Even John's children were tacked on, clad in their

Sunday best. Everybody talked at once and laughed or wept; while the children played hideandseek round

the ladies' crinolines. Strange eyes were bent on their party, strange ears cocked in their direction; and yet

once again Mahony's dislike to a commotion in public choked off his gratitude towards these good and kindly

people. But his star was rising: tears and farewells and vows of constancy had to be cut short, a jaunt planned

by the whole company to the ship itself abandoned; for a favourable wind had sprung up and the captain was

impatient to weigh anchor. And so the very last kisses and handclasps exchanged, the travellers climbed

down into a boat already deep in the water with other cuddypassengers and their luggage, and were rowed

out to where lay that good clippership, the Red Jacket. Sitting side by side husband and wife watched, with

feelings that had little in common, the receding quay, Mary fluttering her damp handkerchief till the separate

figures had merged in one dark mass, and even Tilly, planted in front, her handkerchief tied flagwise to the

Mahony's foot met the ribbed teak of the deck with the liveliest satisfaction; his nostrils drank in the smell of

tarred ropes and oiled brass. Having escorted Mary below, seen to the stowing away of their belongings and

changed his town clothes for a set of comfortable baggy garments, he returned to the deck, where he passed

the greater part of the day tirelessly pacing. They made good headway, and soon the ports and towns at the

water's edge were become mere whitey smudges. The hills in the background lasted longer. But first the

Macedon group faded from sight; then the Dandenong Ranges, grown bluer and bluer, were also lost in the

sky. The vessel crept round the outside of the great Bay, to clear shoals and sandbanks, and, by afternoon,

with the sails close rigged in the freshening wind, they were running parallel with the Cliff "The Cliff!"

thought Mahony with a curl of the lip. And indeed there was no other; nothing but low scrubgrown sandhills

The passage through the Heads was at hand. Impulsively he went down to fetch Mary. Threading his way

through the saloon, in the middle of which grew up one of the masts, he opened a door leading off it.

"Come on deck, my dear, and take your last look at the old place. It's not likely you'll ever see it again."

"Don't ask me even to lift my head from the pillow, Richard. Besides, I've seen it so often before."

He lingered to make some arrangements for her comfort, fidgeted to know where she had put his books; then

mounted a locker and craned his neck at the porthole. "Now for the Rip, wife! By God, Mary, I little thought

But the cabin was too dark and small to hold him. Climbing the steep companionway he went on deck

again, and resumed his flittings to and fro. He was no more able to be still than was the good ship under him;

he felt himself one with her, and gloried in her growing unrest. She was now come to the narrow channel

between two converging headlands, where the waters of Hobson's Bay met those of the open sea. They boiled

and churned, in an eternal commotion, over treacherous reefs which thrust far out below the surface and were

betrayed by straight, white lines of foam. Once safely out, the vessel hove to to drop the pilot. Leaning over

the gunwale Mahony watched a boat come alongside, the man of oilskins climb down the ropeladder and

Here, in the open, a heavy swell was running, but he kept his foot on the swaying boards long after the last of

his fellowpassengers had vanished a tall, thin figure, with an eager, pointed face, and hair just greying at

the temples. Contrary to habit, he had a word for every one who passed, from mate to cabinboy, and he

drank a glass of wine with the Captain in his cabin. Their start had been auspicious, said the latter; seldom

Then the sun fell into the sea and it was night a fine, starry night, clear with the hard, cold radiance of the

south. Mahony looked up at the familiar constellations and thought of those others, long missed, that he was

soon to see again. Over! This page of his history was turned and done with; and he had every reason to

feel thankful. For many and many a man, though escaping with his life, had left youth and health and hope on

these difficult shores. He had got off scotfree. Still in his prime, his faculties green, his zest for living

unimpaired, he was heading for the dear old mother country for home. Alone and unaided he could never

have accomplished it. Strength to will the enterprise, steadfastness in the face of obstacles had been lent him

from above. And as he stood gazing down into the black and fathomless deep, which sent crafty, licking

tongues up the vessel's side, he freely acknowledged his debt, gave honour where honour was due. From

Thee cometh victory, from Thee cometh wisdom, and Thine is the glory and I am thy servant.

The last spark of a coastlight went out. Buffeted by the rising wind, the good ship began to pitch and roll.

Her canvas rattled, her joints creaked and groaned as, lunging forward, she cut her way through the troubled