In the course of the following winter John Turnham came to stand as one of two candidates for the newly proclaimed electoral district of Ballarat West.
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 aloud.
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 the spare room was temporarily out of use.
“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 dark to this extent.”
But John corroborated the news; and, in the letter Polly read out a week later, announced the opening of his campaign for the coming month.
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 SUPPORT MY CANDIDATURE.
“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 brother-in-law of the member! We must help all we can, dear.”
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 to do.”
“Will my own papa gimme a dolly? . . . like Uncle Papa?” here piped Trotty.
“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 had the cheek to make me a proposal.”
“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 momentous a step deserved.
“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 your own. And how happy it would make poor mother to see you settled!”
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 fifty-eight, and as you know, Poll, I’m only just turned twenty-five,” 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 in hand, etc.; and besides, what prospects had she, if she remained a spinster?
So, when she was asked, Tilly accepted without further humming and hawing an invitation to drive out in the smart dog-cart 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 half-hoop of diamonds on her ring-finger: 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 a-smirk 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 evening was far advanced.
It was Polly who, in clearing away, was struck dumb by the thought: “But now whatever is to become of Miss Amelia?”
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 brand-new pair of shepherd’s-plaid trousers, a choker that his work-stained hands had soiled in tying, a black coat, a massive gold watch-chain. 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 wide-awake 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 low-down 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. ............