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 look-out 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 hard-working, sober wife, was now trying to earn a living at market-gardening. so he had to be encouraged.
the chinaman jog-trotted towards them, his baskets a-sway, his mouth stretched to a friendly grin. “you no want cabbagee to-day? me got velly good cabbagee,” he said persuasively and lowered his pole.
“no thank you, john, not to-day. me wait for white man.”
“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 swart-faced, white-eyed chimney-sweeps of the english nursery. she hid behind her aunt, holding fast to the latter’s skirts, and only stealing an occasional peep from one saucer-like blue eye.
“thank you, john. me takee chowchow for lilly missee,” said polly, who had experience in disposing of such savoury morsels.
“you no buy cabbagee to-day?” repeated ah sing, with the catlike persistence of his race. and as polly, with equal firmness and good-humour, again shook her head, he shouldered his pole and departed at a half-run, crooning as he went.
meanwhile at the bottom of the road another figure had come into view. it was not devine in his spring-cart; it was some one on horseback, was a lady, in a holland habit. the horse, a piebald, advanced at a sober pace, and —“why, good gracious! i believe she’s coming here.”
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 riding-skirt over one arm, put the other through the bridle, and was now making straight for them.
as she drew near she smiled, showing a row of white teeth. “does dr. mahony live here?”
misfortune of misfortunes!— richard was out.
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 — of dandaloo.”
polly flushed, with sheer satisfaction: dandaloo was one of the largest stations in the neighbourhood of ballarat. “oh, i’m certain he will,” she answered quickly.
“i am so glad you think so,” said mrs. glendinning. “a mutual friend, mr. henry ocock, tells me how clever he is.”
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 lurking-place. “what a darling! how i envy you!”
“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 indeed; and tying the hone to the fence, she followed polly into the house.
the latter felt proud this morning of its apple-pie 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 riding-hat lay on her neck. her eyes were the colour of forget-me-nots, 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 the spun-glass of trotty’s hair.
when she rose, she clasped both polly’s hands in hers. “you dear little woman. . . may i kiss you? i am ever so much older than you.”
“i am eighteen,” said polly.
“and i on the shady side of twenty-eight!”
they laughed and kissed. “i shall ask your husband to bring you out to see me. and take no refusal. au revoir!” and riding off, she turned in the saddle and waved her hand.
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 livery-barn, to order the horse to be got ready.
richard took the news coolly. “did she say what the matter was?”
no, she hadn’t; and polly had not liked to ask her; it could surely be nothing very serious, or she would have mentioned it.
“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 suppose they think they’ll try a greenhorn this time.”
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, but asked, a little anxiously: “but you’ll go, dear, won’t you?”
“go? of course i shall! beggars can’t be choosers.” “besides, you know, you might be able to do something where other people have failed.”
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 scantly wooded, uneven plain, burnt tobacco-brown and hard as iron.
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 grey-green foliage of the gums; nor was there any bird-life to rustle the leaves, or peck, or chirrup. did he draw rein, the silence was so intense that he could almost hear it.
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 well-stocked fruit and flower-garden; but the hillside itself, except for a gravelled walk in front of the house, was uncultivated — was given over to dead thistles and brown weeds.
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 sun-blinds 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 came out.
she was still in hat and riding-habit; had herself, she said, reached home but half an hour ago. summoning a station-hand to attend to the horse, she raised a blind and ushered mahony into the dining-room, 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 flies.
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 well-bred ease, there was a womanly deference in her manner, a readiness to be swayed, to stand corrected. the riding-dress set off her figure; and her delicate features were perfectly chiselled. (“though she’ll be florid before she’s forty.”)
some juicy nectarines finished, she pushed back her chair. “and now, doctor, will you come and see your patient?”
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 turned the handle and went in.
the room was so dark that mahony could see nothing. gradually he made out a figure lying on a stretcher-bed. a watcher sat at the bedside. the atmosphere was more than close, smelt rank and sour. his first request was for light and air.
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 fan-wise from the corners of the closed lids. mahony untied the dirty towels that formed the bandages — they had cut ridges in the limbs they confined — and took one of the heavy wrists in his hand.
“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; her skirts overflowed the floor.
the watcher guessed it would be since about the same time yesterday.
“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 mentally raised his eyebrows.
“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. hell-gate, he called it, said he was devil’s-porter at hell-gate, and kept hollerin’ for napkins and his firesticks. poor ol’ boss! it was hell for him and no mistake!”
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 delirium.
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 pass over into a natural repose.
“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’s-cabin — 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 paper-covered magazines, the thick brown dust on which showed that they had not been moved for months — or even years. the whitewashed walls were smoke-tanned and dotted with millions of fly-specks; the dried corpses of squashed spiders formed large black patches; all four corners of the ceiling were festooned with cobwebs.
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 — nor yet madam g. herself.”
having given final instructions, mahony went out to rejoin the lady.
“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 red-rimmed, her shapely features swollen.
“ah, you ask too much of me; i am only a woman; i have no influence over him,” she said sadly, and shook her head.
“what is his age?”
“he is forty-seven.”
mahony had put him down for at least ten years older, and said so. but the lady was not listening: she fidgeted with her lace-edged 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 well-appointed bedchamber, off which gave a smaller room, containing a little four-poster draped in dimity. with a vague gesture in the direction of the bed, she sank on a chair beside the door.
drawing the curtains mahony discovered a fair-haired boy of some eight or nine years old. he lay with his head far back, his mouth wide open — apparently fast asleep.
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 shame of it, doctor . . . is more than i can bear.”
“who is the blackguard? come, answer me, if you please!”
“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?”
“how often has it happened?”
“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 hut-cook 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 this.”
“but who supplies him with money?”
“money? oh, but doctor, he can’t be kept without pocket-money! 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 don’t care what becomes of him. the sooner he dies the better!”
“compose yourself, my dear lady. later you may regret such hasty words. — and what has this to do with the child? come, speak out. it will be a relief to you to tell me.”
“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 grown-up 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 can.”
mahony led the weeping woman back to the dining-room. 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 hands.
here, however, he ran up against a weak maternal obstinacy. “oh, but i couldn’t part from eddy. he is all i have. . . . and so devoted to his mammy.”
as mahony insisted, she looked the picture of helplessness. “but i should have no idea how to set about it. and my husband would put every possible obstacle in the way.”
“with your permission i will arrange the matter myself.”
“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 wishes. otherwise he will fret himself ill.”
mahony promised to do his best to satisfy her, and declining, very curtly, the wine she pressed on him, went out to mount his horse which had been brought round.
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 to-night at warraluen.” catching mahony’s eye fixed on her with a meaning emphasis, she changed colour. “i cannot sit at home and think, doctor. i must distract myself; or i should go mad.”
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 sweet little woman!”
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 well-stocked gardens, the acres on acres of good pasture-land: 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’s-throw, 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 station-hands, 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, merciless sunlight of the late afternoon.
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 hurry away.
