Mahony’s first lightning plan of putting up his plate at the top of Collins Street, among the bigwigs of the profession, was not carried out. For when, the day after landing, he went to interview Simmonds, his man of business, he found his affairs in even more brilliant condition than Simmonds’ letter — written a fortnight back to await the ship’s arrival — had led him to believe. That had put the sum lying to his credit at between ten and eleven thousand pounds. By now, however — a second company in which he was interested choosing the self-same moment to look up — combined dividends were flowing in at the rate of twelve to fifteen hundred pounds a month. And this, despite the enormous outlay incurred by the Australia Felix Company in sinking a fourth shaft, lighting the mine throughout with gas, erecting the heaviest plant yet seen on the goldfields.
In the conveyance that left Collins Street at midday for South Yarra, Mahony sat feeling mildly stunned by the extent of his good fortune, as by Simmonds’ confident prediction of still grander things to come; sat with far-away eyes, absently noting the velvety black shadows that accompanied vehicles and pedestrians up and down the glaring whiteness of the great street. He had already drawn attention to himself by smiling broadly at thought of the news he was taking home to Mary. Now, as a fresh idea struck him, he uttered a smothered exclamation and tried to slap his knee a gesture that entangled him with a stout party whose crinoline overflowed him, and gave a pimply faced youth sitting opposite a chance to exercise his wit.
“Fy, matey, fy! What ‘ud our missis say?”
The vehicle — a kind of roofless omnibus — started with a lunge that sent the two rows of passengers toppling like ninepins one against another. Mahony alone raised his voice in apology: he had lain on the shoulder of the fat woman. The man on her farther side angrily bade her take her danged feathers out of his eye. The greater number recovered their balance by thrusting forth an elbow and lodging it firmly in a neighbour’s rib.
Even in his present holiday mood this promiscuity was too much for Mahony. He regretted not having accepted Devine’s offer of a buggy; and half-way to his destination dismounted, and covered the rest of the distance on foot.
This was better. In the outlying district where he found himself, no traffic moved. Roads and paths were sandy and grass-edged. The scattered houses lay far back in their gardens, screened by rows of Scotch firs. He met no one, could think in peace; and over a knotty point he stopped short and dug with his stick in the sand.
The brilliant idea that had flashed through his mind in the omnibus was: why go back into harness at all? Retire! . . retire and live on his dividends . . . here was the solution. From now on be free to devote himself to the things that really mattered, in which he had hitherto had no share.
He threshed the scheme out as he went, and was plain-spoken with himself. I am now a middle-aged man: forty-three and a quarter to be exact in point of time, but a good ten years older with regard to bodily health . . . and disillusionment: considerably more than halfway, that is, on my journey to the green sod. And what have I so far had of life? It has been but one long grind: firstly to keep my head above water, and then, to live up to my neighbours; while every attempt to free myself has failed, the last great wild-goose chase most completely of any. Yes, the real trouble has always been want of money — of money and time — or of money enough to have time. Now that the one has fallen to me, should I not be a fool beyond compare if I failed to master the other? Think of all the wonders of this world I shall die without knowing — the books I shall not have read, the scientific discoveries, the intellectual achievements I shall never have heard of. Oh! the joy of devoting one’s remaining years to a congenial occupation. One cannot love one’s work, the handle one grinds by — the notion that such a thing is possible belongs to a man’s green and salad days. Though perhaps if one climbed to the top of the tree. . . . . But for the majority of us, the fact that we labour to earn our bread by a certain handiwork wears all liking for it threadbare. It becomes a habit — like the meals one eats . . . the clothes one puts on of a morning. — Ambitions to be sacrificed? But are there? I had them once; in plenty. Where are they now? Blown into thin air — spent like smoke. The fag of living was too much for them. And so, in following my bent, I should sacrifice nothing — or nothing but the possibility of fresh humiliations . . . and much unnecessary pother . . . an infinitude of business . . . .
Thus he reasoned, thus justified himself to himself, arriving at the house with his arguments marshalled ready to be laid before Mary. The walk, however, had taken longer than he expected; the afternoon was now far advanced and he footsore and hungry. But though he could hear the servants chattering in the kitchen, none came to offer him so much as a cup of tea. They would of course suppose him to have lunched; or else Madam D. had the keys of the larder in her petticoat pocket. The big house yawned inhospitably still and empty — but for a common-looking child in copper-toed boots and oilcloth apron, which he unexpectedly ran across: it fled from him like a startled cat. Mary was out driving with her hostess and did not get back till close on dinner-time. There was another party that night; they sat down fifteen to table and went to bed only in the small hours. He could do no more than skim the cream off his interview for her benefit, before retiring.
His chance came next morning.
Ten o’clock had struck, but Mary was still in bedgown and slippers, her hair tied in its nightly bunch of half a dozen little plaits on the crown of her head. This state of undress did not, however, imply that she had newly risen — as a matter of fact she had been up and doing for a couple of hours. But it was one of the rules of this extraordinary house that visitors did not breakfast till after ten; the longer after, the better, but at any moment PAST the hour, provided that the servants did not know beforehand what it would be: they must be kept up to the mark, hover perpetually alert for the ringing of the dining-room bell: and many and scathing were Richard’s comments on the practice of using your guests as the stick with which to belabour your slaves. Mrs. Devine herself, clad in a voluminous paisley gown, her nightcap bound under her chin, was early astir: she gave her husband, who rose at dawn to work among his flowers — as he had once worked among his market produce — breakfast at eight, before he left for town. But if you belonged to the elite, were truly BON TON, you did not descend till the morning was half over, and even then must appear “stifling elegant yawns, which show the effort it has been to tear your high-born limbs from the feathers!”— so ran another of Richard’s glosses. The first morning he and Mary had blundered in this respect; on the second they were wiser; and now loitered chilly and hungry above-stairs. Chafing at the absurdity and fretting for his breakfast, Mahony grumbled: “Was there ever such a fudge? As if the woman didn’t know I used to have to be up at daybreak, if necessary . . . was in my consulting-room hours before this.”
Mary, who had been writing letters and sewing, began to dress her hair. “Do try not to fuss so, dear. After all, it’s only a little thing. It pleases her to imagine she’s up in the ways of good society. Besides, every house has its peculiarities.”
“Then give me my own, thank you. But what absurd nonsense you do talk, Mary! I’m sure, when you had ’em, you never tyrannised over guests in this stark fashion. You were their drudge, my dear; danced to their tune. But I believe you’d sacrifice the last scrap of your personal comfort to pander to the foibles of other people.”
“Nonsense!” said Mary stoutly. “But we can’t possibly let her see we don’t like it.”
She had unbound her hair: freed from its plaits, it hung all crinks and angles. Now she set, with long, smooth sweeps, to brushing it to its customary high gloss.
Mahony pulled a chair to the window, threw up the sash and leant his elbow on the sill. The morning was warm and balmy, after a bitterly cold night. By midday the sun would have gained almost summer strength, gradually to fade through the autumn of the afternoon till, with darkness, you were back in a wintry spring. The orange-blossom scent of the pittosperums, now everywhere in flower, filled the air. Sunning himself thus, he fell to informing Mary yet once again what he had made up his mind to; spoke shortly and impatiently and with decision. For this time at least he knew that his planning involved his wife in no hardships: he was not asking her to shoulder fresh burdens.
Practised hand though she was at concealing surprise, and rightly attributing Richard’s snappishness to the want of a good hot cup of coffee, Mary could not help echoing his words, her hairbrush suspended in the air. “Give up practice altogether?” And, at his emphatic affirmation: “But, Richard, you’d soon get tired of having nothing to do.”
“Nothing to do indeed! I, who all my life have longed for a little leisure to follow my own pursuits! Haven’t I told you, Mary, again and again, that if I were to read fr............