John drove from Melbourne in a drag and four, accompanied by numerous friends and well-wishers. 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 box-seat 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 ear-witness of the scene — and was afterwards borne shoulder-high into the hotel.
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 dining-room 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 wine-stained, 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 a-straddle, some even with their feet on the cloth. John was confabbing with half a dozen black-coats 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 corner-talk over, John dispersed himself among the company; drinking with this one and that; glibly answering questions; patting a glum-faced brewer on the back; and simultaneously checking over, with an oily-haired agent, his committee-meetings 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 favourably impressed by the few words I heard him say,” he added.
“Oh, Richard, I’m SO glad!” and Polly, who had been sitting on the edge of the bed, stood on tiptoe to give him a kiss.
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 rough-and-ready 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 gave a loud rat-a-tat at the door.
Forgetting in her excitement that this was Ellen’s job, Polly opened to him herself, and drew him in. “John! How pleased I am to see you!”
“My dear girl, how are you? God bless me, how you’ve altered! I should never have known you.” He held her at arm’s length, to consider 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 properly grateful to her?”
Abruptly quitting his hold, he swept the parlour with a glance. “A very snug little place you have here, upon my word!”
While Polly, with Trotty pattering after, bustled to the larder, Mahony congratulated his brother-in-law 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 pocket-book. 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, carnation-red 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 card-party, 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 chancel-fund 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 bushing-party, 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 qualities; in many ways was quite a lovable child.”
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 Turnham, Turnham blood met its match.
John re-took 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 whip-cracking that brought the neighbours to their windows.
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 arm-in-arm 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 com............