 III. CHAPTER IX. 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. Marnie lit on the paragraph by Chance one morning said, Hello, 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 the 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 room's baths 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 Marnie, 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 around Ballarat, whom he can induce to support my candidature. Hmm! said Marnie grumbly, as he went on scooping out his egg, where good enough to tout for him. Hush! warned Polly with a glance at Trotty. Think what it means to him, Richard, and to us, too. It'll 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 Urangabili 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 Marnie. Upon my word-wife, I believe you're glad to have something to do. Well, my own Papa, give me a dolly like Uncle Papa, here piped Trotty. Perhaps, but you'll have to be a very good girl, and not talk with your mouthful or dirty your pinnies. Oh, here's a post-script. Polly had returned to the sheet, and was gloating over it. John writes, Especially must he endeavour to win lawyer Ock Ock 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. Glen Dinning. 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, has 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 age he had lent Purdy in his evasions. The two women kissed, and Tilly cried a little. It certainly her first offer, thought Mrs. Polly. Allowed, 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 voped against O, Polly, 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 him, Polly, if he'd only said the word. The one drawback to marriage with you-know-oo would have been his infirmity. Some hour, Polly, I can't picture myself dragging a husband with a gammy leg at my ills. From this, Tilly's mind glanced back to the suitor who had honorably declared himself. Of course, O, O, hadn't a great deal of the gentleman about him, and their ages were unsuitable. He owns to fifty-eight, and as you know, Polly, 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 trouble thought Polly to be insincere with her. But in the same breath she took back the approach. A woman herself, she understood something of the fear and shame and heart-burning that had gone into 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 Ginny to find her husband. Though Gin's gone off so, Polly, I'll bet you, darling, know her if you met her 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-card Mr. Ockock 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 around the room. My dear, wish me joy! Oh, Lord, Polly, I do feel happy! 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 jewelers in Sturt Street, where she had the pick of a tray full. And now Mr. Ockock, 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 Manny, and the door of the surgery closed behind them. Here Mr. Ockock 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 Manny 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 dumbed if he'd have anything more to do with him. Besides the Doctor knew what lawyers were, the whole breed of them, sharp as needles, especially Henry, but with a sort of squint in their upper story that made him 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, uh, he hesitated for a word and repeated, our honest opinion, for he only wanted to do the right thing, what was straight and above board. And at last it came out. 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 until 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 cane 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 of his hand over his forehead. He had kept his eyes glued to the table-leg in speaking, and so sore neither his ears involuntary start at the damaging disclosure nor the nervous tightening of the hand that lay along the arm of the chair. Marni sat silent, balancing a paper-knife 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'd known him Ock Ock had led a decent, God-fearing 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 juice couldn't the old fool have held his tongue. O 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 outside his tombest needs choose him for the storehouse of their privacies. Himself he never made a confidence, but it seemed as though just this buttoned upness on his part loosened people's tongues. Blind to the flags of warning he hoisted in looks and bearing they innocently proceeded, as Ock Ock 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 Ock Ock had finished speaking and sat perspiring with anxiety to learn his fate. Marnie 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. Ock Ock had said a true word, where men were strange creatures. The revelation of his secret might shipwreck his latefound happiness. It also, of course, might not, and personally Marnie did not believe it would, for Ock Ock's business drove like the green bay-tree, and Miss Tilly had been promised a fine two-storied house with bow-windows and a garden, and a carriage-drive 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, Marnie's eyes, by far the wisest course would be to let the grass grow over the whole affair. 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? Does he like his billet? But nonetheless, 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 Ock Ock hoped that nothing that had been said would reach your dear little lady. To Henry too, Doc, if you'll be so good, mums the word. Henry had never forgive me, nay, nor you either, if he got to his ears odd bin and let the cat out of the bag. And he's got a bit of a done on you, as it is, for having been your place, I met the future Mrs. Oat. My good man broke from Marnie, and in this address, which would previously never have crossed his lips, all his sensations of the past hour were summed up. As your son Henry the—he checked himself—does he suppose I or I or my wife had anything to do with it? 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 beheld responsible for them. He, who brooking no interference in his own life, demanded only that those about him should be as intolerant as he. 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 back-stare work other people were expected to do for him would form the main theme of conversation for many a day to come. Mrs. Glen-Dinning confirmed Old Ock Ock's words. 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. Glen-Dinning 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's both wrong and foolish to think you or Dr. Manny had anything to do with it, and after the doctor was so kind, too, so very kind about getting poor Mr. Glen-Dinning 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 comical foe. 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's getting on so well, and I have—I shall have plenty, too, by and by. But you know, love, what men are. 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, warm-hearted 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 about things of that sort. 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 done. But when, vigilant as a mother hen, she sought to prepare her husband for a possible unpleasantness, she found him already informed, and her well-meant words were like a match laid to his suppressed indignation. In all my born days I never heard of such impudence. 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 any one Richard has a higher opinion of. 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 see her mother alive. They mingled their tears, Polly on her knees at the packing, Tilly weeping wholeheartedly among the pillows of the bed. If it had only been Pa now I shouldn't have felt it off 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 her old life long to keep things going. She's had all the pines and none of the pleasures, and now just when I was hoping to be able to give her a helping hand this must happen. The one bright spot in Tilly's grief was that the journey would be made in a private conveyance. Mr. Ockock 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 beamishers had hidden their heads. If only she's able to look out of the window and see me dash up in my own turnout, said Chilly. Polly fitted out a substantial luncheon basket and was keen as sympathy to the last, but Marnie was a poor assembler, and his sudden thaw as he assisted in the farewell preparations could, Polly feared, have been read right by a child. Tilly hugged Polly to her and gave her kiss after kiss. I shall never forget our kind you've been, Polly, and all you've done for me. I've had my disappointments here as you know, but perhaps after all it'll turn out to be for the best. One of the good sights to it, anyhow, is that you and me will be next-door 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, Paul, I think you've got one of the quearest sticks for our husband that ever walked this earth. Blow's hot one day and cold the next for all the world, like the wind in spring, and without carrying Tup and Zeus' corns he 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 guest in. Such were the wheels within wheels, and thus it came about that when the question rose of paving the way for John Ternum's candidature, Marnie drew the line at approaching Henry Ockock. John drove from Melbourne in a dragon-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 in addressing the crowd of idlers that had gathered around 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 born shoulder high into the Hotel. With Jerry at his heels Marnie 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 bestrewed with ashes and bread-crumbs, 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 astral, some even with their feet on the cloth. John was confabbing with half a dozen black coats in a corner. Each held a wine-glass 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 in the middle button of the waistcoat. It was some time before he discovered the presence of his relatives, and Marnie 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 brawer 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 aspiring them he hurried over, and rubbing his hands with pleasure, said warmly, My dear Marnie, this is indeed kind. Jerry Mallard, how do you do? Still growing, I see. We'll make a fine fella of you yet. Well, doctor, with every reason I think Deville 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. Marnie 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, Marnie 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," said Polly, who had been sitting on the edge of the bed, stood on tiptoe and gave him a kiss. As Marnie 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 her 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 to him, he jumped out of the wagonette, it was hung with placards of vote fraternum, and gave a loud ratatat on 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, you 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. Hmm! 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 parlor with a glance—a very snug little place you have here upon my word. While Polly was Trotty pattering after, bustled to the larder, Marnie 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. Marnie, 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 had 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 his scent. It was arranged that Polly should drive out with him next day to Uringa Billy by way of Dandelion, 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 Council 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 Ock Ocks. 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 Ock Ock 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 it Mr. Henry, Polly considered, would be for Mrs. Glen Dinning 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 unfavorable verdict she managed to worm out of John. Encourageable, my dear Polly, utterly incorrigible, his masters report him idle, disobedient to bad influence on the other scholars. She met staunchly with. Perhaps it has something to do with the school. Why not try another? Johnny has his good qualities in many ways, was quite a lovable child. For the first time Marnie 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 trickling 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 patronizing 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 patronize Polly, that his overbearing nature recognized in hers a certain springy resistance which was not to be crushed? In other words, that in a turnum, turnum 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 Marnie 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 has not tried it knew how hard it was to walk arm in arm with a lame person, especially if you didn't want to hurt his feelings. Purdy took her to the Theatre, helped her to un-muffle and to change her boots, and bore her company until 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 ended, 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, past the time of day there, and watching him with affectionate pride, Polly wondered how Richard could ever have termed him high-handed 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 Marnie ran into his brother-in-law, and John buttonholed him to discuss with him the prospects of the morrow. As they talked, their eyes rested on Polly's glossy black sheignant, 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. Marnie 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 in with somewhat unctuous relish, my sister has turned into a remarkably handsome woman. Words which sent the lightning thought through Marnie that had Polly remained the insignificant little slip of a thing of earlier days she would not have been asked to fill the prominent place she did this evening. John sent his adieu 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 Marnie moved forward alone. Oh, Richard, there you are! Oh, dear, what you've missed! I never thought they could be such acting! And Polly turned her great dark eyes on her husband. They were moist from the noble sentiments of the true Britain. The day of the election broke, a gusty spring day cut up by stinging hail-showers which beat like fuselades on the galvanised iron roofs. Between the showers the sun shone in a gentian blue sky against which the little wooden houses showed up crassly white. Ballarat made holiday. Early as Marnie left home he met a long line of conveyances heading downwards, spring carts, dog carts, 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 public houses, where the lean, long-legged 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 minus friend and tyrant's foe, John Turnham. In the hope of avoiding a crush Marnie drove straight to the polling booth, but already all the loafers and ruffs in the place seemed to be congregated around the entrance after the polite custom of the country, to chivis, to boo, to hazard those who went in. In waiting his turn he had to listen to comments on his dress and person to put up with vulgar illusions to blue pills and black draughts. Just as he was getting back into his buggy, John rode up, flanked by a bodyguard of friends. John was gulloping 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 respectable majority. For once Marnie did not grumble at his outlying patience was only too thankful to turn his back on the town. It was pandemonium. Bands of music went shriller and more discordant than the next marched up and down the main streets, from the fiefs and drums of the fire brigade to the kerosene tins and penny whistles of the mere determined noisemakers. Struggling 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 school children were let loose to overrun the place and fly advertisement balloons around every corner. And so it went on until far into the night, the dark hours being varied by torchlight processions, fireworks, freefights and orgies of drunkenness. The results of the polling were promised for two o'clock the following day. When, something after this hour, Marnie reached home, he found Polly and the gentle oxide Ginny 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, Marnie, bitten by the general excitement, made his way down to the junction of Sturt Street in the flat. A great crowd blocked the approaches to the hustings. Here were the four candidates, who in attending the issues drove to look decently unconcerned. John had struck a quasi-napoleonic attitude, his right elbow propped in the cup of his left hand. He held his droop 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, Marnie listened to the pie-ball jokes and rude wit with which the people beckiled 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 fifty-two. The crowd, which at sight of the clock had abruptly ceased its fooling, drowned his further statements in a roar of mingled cheers and booze. 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 Marnie 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 Marnie. Just behind him stood one of his brother-in-law's most errant opponents, a butcher by trade, and directly John began to hold forth, this man produced a corner to piston and started to blow it. In vain did Marnie expostulate. He seemed to have got into a very wasp's 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 cornered demands. Marnie 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, wore down and forcibly removed the musician and his clique, Marnie along with them. Having indignantly explained in 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 standing at ease, arms a kimbo, 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, blessed, thrice-blessed 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 mother-country, 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 Gray, 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 wide-stretched 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, for us, is the democratic principle? The answer, my friends, is conservatism. Yes, I repeat it, conservatism. And thus to a final peroration. In the braying and harrying that followed, the din was heightened by some worthy mounting a barrel to move that this year Johnny Turnham was not a fit person to represent the constituency, by the barrel being dragged from under him and the speaker rolled in the mud. While this went on, Marnie stood silent, and he was still standing meditatively pulling his whiskers when a sudden call for a doctor reached his ear. He pushed his way to the front. How the accident happened, no one knew. John had descended from the platform to a veranda 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 Marnie got to him, he was on his feet again, wiping a drop of blood from his left temple. He looked pale but poo-poo'd injury or the idea of interfering with his audience's design, and Marnie saw him shouldered and borne off. That evening there was a lengthy banquet in which all the notables of the place took part. Marnie's seat was some way off John's. He had to lean forward, did he wish to see his brother-in-law. 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 knife-like pain in his left side, the brunt of the blow it seemed had met him slant ways between hip and rib. A cursory examination made Marnie look grave. He must come back with me, John, and let me see to you properly. 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 Ginny Beamish and Marnie got what sleep he could on the parlour-sofa. End of Part Three, Chapter Ten. Part Three, Chapter Eleven of Australia Felix. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Australia Felix by Henry Handel Richardson. Part Three, Chapter Eleven. There, for some weeks, John was a prisoner with a fractured rib encased in strips of plaster. In your element again, old girl, Marnie chuffed his wife when he met her bearing invalid trays. Oh, it doesn't all fall on me, Richard. Ginny's a great help sitting with John and keeping him company. Marnie could see it for himself. Oftenest, when he entered the room, it was Ginny's black-robed 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 Ginny he found sitting behind a curtain of the tester-bed, watching while John slept, ready to read to him or 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 Ginny. Polly reported it to her husband in high glee. Who could have ever believed two sisters would turn out so differently? Tilly to get so—so, well, you know what I mean, and Ginny 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 due to Tilly serving in that low bar. By the time John was so far recovered as to exchange bed for sofa, it had come to be exclusively Ginny who carried into him the dainties Polly prepared. The wife, as usual, was content to do the dirty work. John declared Miss Ginny had the foot of a fey also that his meals tasted best at her hands. Ginny 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 Marnie surprised quite a family scene. John stretched on the sofa with stringing cat's cradles. Ginny sat beside him with Trotty on her knee. On the whole, though, the child did not warm to her father. Auntie, can that man take me away from you? That man? Why Trotty, darling, is your father, said Polly, shocked. Can he take me away from you and Uncle Papa? He could, if he wanted to, but I'm sure he doesn't, answered her aunt, deftly turning a well-rolled sheet of pastry. And writing her dolly, which she had been dragging upside down, Trotty let slip her fears with the sovereign ease of childhood. From the kitchen Polly could hear the boom of John's deep bass. It made nothing of the lathen plaster 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. Ginny 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 womanliness. 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 he talks to me so. But as time went on Marnie noticed that his wife grew decidedly thoughtful, and if John continued to sing Ginny's praises he heard nothing more of it. He had an acute suspicion what troubled Polly, but did not try to force her confidence. 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 Ginny, 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. Ginny is a dear good girl and all that, but she's 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 longed so for a real home again, Polly, darling, said Ginny, wiping her eyes, and how happy it will make me to fulfil his wish. Don't let me feel unwelcome and intruded, dear. I know I'm not nearly good enough for him, and he could have had the choice of ever such handsome women, but he's promised to be patient with me and to teach me everything I ought to know. 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 and instruct. But she had been touched on a tender spot, that of ambitious pride for those related to her, and she made what Marnie called a real turnum attempt to stand up to John, against her husband's express advice. For if your brother chooses to contract him his alliance 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 in it. You'd better have your spare room boarded up, my dear. Marnie was feeling particularly rasped by John's hoity-toity 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 Marnie retired into himself. After all, the world of John's mind was so dissimilar to his own that he didn't 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 thought. 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 till he reappeared, she was to be married from their house on the hithers side of Christmas. At first she was too full of herself and her own affairs to let either Polly or Ginny get a word in. Just to think of it, that old cabbage-grower divine had gone and bought the block of land next to the one Mr. O. was building on. She'd lay a bet he would put up a house the dead spit of theirs. Did anyone ever hear such cheek? At the news that was broken to her, the first time she paused for breath, she let herself heavily down on a chair. Will I am blowed, was all she could ejaculate. Blowed, that's what I am. But afterwards, when Ginny had left the room, she gave free play to a very real envy and regret. In all my life I never did. Gin to be Mrs. John. And, as like us, not the honourable Mrs. John before she's done. Oh, Polly, my dear, why ever didn't I wait? On being presented to John, however, she became more reconciled to her lot. He's got a temper, your brother has, or I'm very much mistaken. It won't be all beer and skittles for a ladyship. For Gin hasn't a scrap, a spunk in her, Polly. She got so mopey the last year or two, there was no doing anything with her. Now it was just the other way round with me. No matter how black things looked, I always kept my pecker up. Poor Ma used to say I grew more like her every day. 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, shall need to mind her peas and queues. Fatilli had listened to John explaining to Ginny what he expected of her, what she might and might not do, and had watched Ginny sitting meekly by and saying yes to everything. There was nothing in the way of the marriage. Indeed, did it not take place immediately, Ginny 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 Ginny to lodgings in Melbourne, help her choose her trousseau and engage servants. Afterwards there would be a quiet wedding by reason of Ginny's morning, at which Richard, if he could possibly can drive 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 mama, parrot-wise, without understanding what the words meant. And meanwhile the fact that she was to go with her aunt for a long exciting coach-ride 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 around him again, but I shall miss the dear little soul, she said to her husband, who stood watching her. What you need is a little one of your own wife. 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 it can't. A few days before the set time John received an urgent summons to Melbourne and went on ahead leaving Marnie suspecting him of a dodge to avoid travelling off Amie. In order that his bride-elect 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 protest they were packed like herrings in a barrel, had hardly enough room to use their hands. Altogether it was a trying journey. Ginny, 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 spitter, he said he was, actually undid Ginny's bonnet-strings and fetched water for her at the first stoppage. 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 lady-friends gave her a list as long as her arm. Richard, too, had entrusted her to get him second-hand editions of various medical works as well as a new stethoscope. Thirdly she had promised old Mr. Ockock to go to Williamstown 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 astart, Marnie 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 Tillie had been boarded out at the Methodist ministers. 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 blow-flies around the suites of the fly-traps. 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 Tillie's bulky presence and loud-voiced reiterations of her prospects grate his nerves, or John's full-blooded absorption in himself, and poor foolish Ginny's quavering doubts whether she would ever be able to live up to so magnificent a husband offend his sense of decorum. Another reason he was glad to see the last of them was that in the long run he had rebelled at the bare-faced 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 Ginny. 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 which to think a few thoughts through to the end. 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 patience. 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 boot-soles if I fried him up neat with a bit of parsley. She reported over the back fence on doctor's odd ways. 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 humanly glad of a rise in the health rate. He had often regretted having held to the half-hundred shares he had bought at Henry Ockock's suggestion, had often spent infancy 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 flare-up poorer punkers had fallen heavily, the first main prospect-drive 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 the great game. 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 went 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 note-paper. Opening it with some curiosity, Marnie found that it was from his former assistant, Long Jim. 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 cruel climate! 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. Marnie for the kindest, most liberal of gentlemen, the happiest days of his life had been spent under him on the flat, and if it only give him a lift now there was nothing he wouldn't do to show his gratitude. Dr. 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. Marnie shored 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 eyes 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. Poor Apunkas 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 claims of 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. Poor Apunkas 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 Ock Ock'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 Marnie to sit in until he gave the word. By this time Poor Apunkas 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 seemed with gold. Ock Ock spoke of the stone specimens of which he had held in his hand, declared he had never seen its equal. But when the share stood at fifty-three pounds each, Marnie could restrain himself no longer, and in spite of Ock Ock's belief that another ten days would see a coup, he parted with forty-five of the half-hundred he held, leaving the odd money with the lawyer for reinvestment he walked out of the office the possessor of two thousand pounds. It was only a very ordinary late spring day the season brought its light 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 Marnie 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 walls 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 judged until 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, ensure 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 reconcile that if the leakage on the roof was to be mended he must go without a new sir to. Best of all he could now begin in earnest to save. 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 Snapper Point. At the time of John's wedding he had been unable to get free. This would be the first holiday he and Polly had ever had together. 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 unlooked for generosity. Jerry's red stammered thanks for the gift of the cob the boy had long coveted. It did him good to put two ten-pound notes in an envelope and inscribe Ned's name on it. He'd 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 gym 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 appeal for help that reached him. 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 assurity 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. End of Part 3 Chapter 11 The new-house stood in Webster Street. It was twice as large as the old one, had a garden back and front of a rand around three sides. When Marnie 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'd 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 all their own. How glad he was to leave the tiny sun-baked box that until now had been his home! It had had neither blind nor shutter, and on his entering it of a summer mid-day it had sometimes struck hotter than outside. The windows of his new room were fitted with green Venetians, round the veranda-posts twined respectively a banksia and a Japanese honeysuckle which further damped the glare, while on the patch of buffalo-grouse in front stood a spreading fig-tree that leafed well and threw a fine shade. It also added a sofatise-equipment. Now, when he came in tired or with a headache, he could stretch himself at full length. He was lying on it at this moment. Polly, too, had reason to feel satisfied with the change. A handsome little broadwood with a ruby silk and carved wood front stood against the wall of her drawing-room. Guilt-cornices surmounted the windows, and from the centre of the ceiling hung a luster chandelier that was the envy of every one who saw it. Mrs. Henry Ockox was not a patch on it, and yet it cost more. This time Marnie 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 reigned on them at once, several months past 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 nest egg he had left with the lawyer had served its purpose of chaining that old hen fortune to the spot. Ockox had invested and reinvested on his behalf. Now it was twenty coonours, now thirty consolidated beehives, and Marnie 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 poorer punkers 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 Ockox'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 dwelling-house standing in extensive grounds on the further side of Ewell'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 Marnie's acquaintances had burnt his fingers. On the other hand, old divine, Polly's one-time market gardener 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 Marnie could hear the murmur of his wife's even voice. Polly sat at the further end of the veranda talking to Ginny, who dandled her babe in a rocking chair that made a light tip-tap as it went to and fro. Ginny said nothing. She was no doubt sunk in adoration of her, or rather John's infant, and Marnie all betozed off under the full round tones he knew so well. 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 his way as good as unsought. Against this he had one piece of ill luck 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 rarely 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 Queen's Cliff 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 those draughty 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 wide parasol. There's nothing to equal it, Mary, this side heaven, he declared as he rejoined her, his towel about his neck. I wish I could persuade you to take a dip, my dear. But Mary preferred to sit quietly on the beach. The dressing and undressing is such a trouble, said she. As it was, one of her elastic sides was full of sand. 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. Marnie had opened the door himself to Ned's knock, and there in a spring-cart sat the frowsy red-head 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 money in his pocket. He had been forced to take the trio in and give them house-room, but he bore the storming of his hard-won privacy with a bad grace, and Mary had much to gloss over on her return. She had been greatly distressed by her favourite brother's ill-considered marriage, for if they had not held Ginny to be John's equal, what was to be said of Ned's choice? Mrs. Ned had lived among the mining population of Castle Main, where her father kept a public house, and, said Richard, her manners were accordingly loud, slap-dash, familiar. Before she had been twenty-four hours under his roof she was bluntly addressing him as Marnie. 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 prime 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 never ending, and at the first hint that the change would come gracefully from her, Mrs. Ned had flown into a passion. It's all the same to me, Richard, what I'm called, Mary soothed him, and don't you think Polly was beginning to sound rather childish, now I'm nearly twenty-four? 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 good-natured, turned sullen and left off tossing his child in the air. 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 when that's over. 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 read 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 and a carrying agency which would just keep his head above water, and she found a tiny three-roomed house that was near enough to let her be daily with her sister-in-law when the latter's time came. Meanwhile she cut out and helped to sow 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 also for a never-failing sympathy in what she called her troubles. I vow your, Mary, the kindest-hearted little soul it's ever been me luck to run across. She averred one day to Marnie, who was visiting her professionally, so common-sense, too, known nonsense about her. I shouldn't have thought a Gabby-like Ned could have sported such a trump of a sister. Another pensioner for your carrot, our steer," said Marnie, 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 Castle Main 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 his remaining in his present post. Here Marnie was effectively roused by a stir on the veranda. Ginny 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 ginger beer. He heard the cork-pop, the drip of the overflow on the boards, the clink of the empty glass, and Purdy's warm words of appreciation. Then there was silence. Rising from the sofa, Marnie inserted himself between blind and window and peeped out. 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 around her, and generously swept the ground. Collar and cuffs of spotless lawn outlined neck and wrists. She bent lower over her stitching, and the straight white parting of her hair intensified the ebony of the glossy bands. Her broad pure furrowed had neither line nor stain. On the trellis behind her a vine hung laden with massy branches of muscatels. Purdy sat on the edge of the veranda with his back to Marnie. Between thumb and forefinger he idly swung a pair of scissors. Urged by some awkward sympathy, Mary at once glanced up and discovered her husband. Her face was lightly flashed 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 wild rows 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 friend's head. Here, however, Purdy brought his eyes back from the garden, and she abruptly dropped hers to her needle-work. The scissors were shut with a snap, and thrown rather than laid to the other implements in the work-box. One had think you were paid to finish the Richard sewing in a fixed time polly, said Purdy, contankerously. Haven't you got a word to say? It's for the Dorcas Society. They're having a sale of work. Oh, damned Dorcas, as you're always slaving for somebody, you'll ruin your eyes. I wonder Dick allows it. I shouldn't, I know that. The peel 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 Marnie, and still laughing stepped out of the window. Hello, you there, said Purdy, and rose to his feet. What a beastly fright to give one! He looked red and sulky. I scored that time a boy, and linking his arm in Mary's, Marnie confronted his friend. Afraid I'm neglecting my duties, are you, letting this young woman spoil her eyes? Turn them on in my love, in all their splendor, that he may judge for himself. Nonsense, Richard, said Mary softly, but with an affectionate squeeze of his arm. Well, Tata, I'm off, said Purdy, and as Marnie 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 ended your noddle, at 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, were husband and wife's simultaneous exclamations. I shouldn't think so, said Mary, sturdily, and would have added more, but just at this minute Ginny came out of the house with the peculiar noiseless tread she had acquired in moving around an infant's crib, and Purdy vanished. Ginny gazed at her sister-in-law with such meaning that Mary could not but respond. Did you get her safely laid down, dear? 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 Ginny'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. Money gave an impatient shrug in Ginny'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 Ginny knew each fresh pin-head of a spot that joined the rash. Money made light of her fears, then turning to his wife asked her to hurry on the six o'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 until the last moment, and also to please Ginny by paying a visit to the baby. Ah, the angels can't look very different when they sleep, I think, moment 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 veranda. It was late afternoon in a breathless pale skyed February day, and the boards of the flooring gritted with sandy dust beneath their feet. He was grumpy this afternoon, wasn't he? said Mary, without preamble, but I have 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 his liverish from the heat. It might be a good thing, dear, if you went around and overhauled him. Somehow it seems unnatural for Purdy to be bad tempered. It's true he may be a bit out of sorts, but I fear the evil sleep is seated. It's my opinion the boy is tiring of regular work, now that he hasn't even the excitement of the gold escort to look forward to, and has been a rolling stone from the beginning, you know. 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? Oh, Richard Hush, such foolish talk! But is it? Let me look at her. Well, if not the prettiest, at least a very pretty person indeed, it certainly becomes you to bestow to a wife. 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 Ockock went past, one of them said out loud, God, that's a lovely woman. Agnes heard it herself and was most distressed, and the whole day, wherever she went, they kept their field-glasses on her. Mr. Henry was furious. If you'll allow me to say so, my dear, Mrs. Henry cannot hold a candle to someone, I know, to my mind at least. If I suit you, Richard, that's all I care about. 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 ill temper 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 Marnie's tone took on an edge. The broken nights that were nowadays the rule with himself were the main drawbacks to his prosperity. He'd 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 Sting stood at present, his rest was wholly at the mercy of the night-bell, a remorseless instrument given chiefly to peeling just as he'd 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 clipped in at the sides of the bedroom window. 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'd 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 holiday. This he promised himself to do before he was very much older. End of Part 4 Chapter 1 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 tipsy cakes, four trifles, eight-jump sandwiches. John Turnham had run up from Melbourne to fetch home wife and child, and his relatives were giving a musical card-party in his honour. By the window Ginny sat on a low ottoman, suckling her babe, and paying but scant heed to her sister-in-law'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 dimity white, 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 mother-face. 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 veranda. For Ginny was too absorbed in her task to take thought of the proprieties. Here now she sat, she had grown very big and full since her marriage, in the generous wide-lapped 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. Ginny made him a sign, and John, now commissioner of trade and customs, advanced as likely as could be expected of a heavy, well-grown man. Does she sleep? he asked. 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 dear. Flushing to her hair-roots, Ginny 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 its high-time baby was weaned, Ginny is filling 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 murmur, Ginny. And now, Mary, a word with you about the elder children. I understand that you're 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. Ginny'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, marveled at the firm determination to get rid of her step-children, which her sister-in-law, otherwise so pliable, displayed. Brother and sister talked things over, intuitively meeting halfway, understanding each other with the word as only blood relations can. Ginny, the chief person concerned, sat meekly by, or chimed in merely to echo her husband's views. By the way, I ran into Richard on Specimen Hill, said John, as he turned to leave the room, and he asked me to let you know that he would not be home to lunch. There, if that isn't always the way, exclaimed Mary, as sure as I cook something he especially likes, he doesn't come in, till he sent me over the loveliest little sucking pig this morning Richard would have enjoyed it. You should be proud, my dear Mary, that his services are in such demand. I am, John, no one could be prouder, but all the same I wish he would 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, to-morrow 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 dining-room, John and Marnie lunched together in the surgery, while Ginny'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 flowery and preoccupied, drawing grating shelves out of the oven, greasing tins and patty-pans, dredging flour. The click-clack of egg-beating resounded continuously, and mountains of sponge-cakes of all shapes and sizes rose under her hands. This would be the largest most ambitious party she'd ever given. The guests expected numbered between twenty and thirty, and had, besides carte blanche, to bring with them any one 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 article on her supper-table run short. In all this she had only such help as her one-maid servant could give her. John had expressly forbidden Ginny the kitchen. True, during the morning Miss Amelia Ockock, 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 Ockocks. 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 of Perne's that before she had finished with one of them it was lunchtime. 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 looks lovely now it's done. Purdy dropped in during the afternoon and was more useful. He sliced the crusts off lo-fi mounds of sandwiches and tested the strength and flavour of the claret cup. 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'd 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 Ginny, whom he aspired comfortably dandling her child on the front veranda. I'd like to ring 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 children of your own. Under her guidance he bore stacks of plates across the yard to the dining-room, 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 soup-tereen in which was the claret cup. 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 to-night, 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 horselove, a bad cold, not in voice! Mary laughed afresh and ordered him off. But when he had gone she looked grave and out of an oddly disquieting feeling said to herself, I do hope he'll be on his best behaviour to-night and not tread on Richard's toes. 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 the Divines for the evening. 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. Divine is going to stand for Parliament and has promised his support if he gets in to some measure John has at heart. John wants to have a long talk with him to-night. 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 omnion-gathering as this party of yours will be. Even while he spoke there came a rattatat at the front door and Mary had to hurry off. And now Nock succeeded Nock with the briefest of intervals, the noise carrying far in the quiet street. Mysteriously bunched up figures, their heads veiled in the fleasiest of clouds, were piloted along the passage, and I hope when not the first was murmured by each newcomer in turn. The gentlemen went to change their boots on the back veranda, 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 cringlin' hoops swaying from this side to that, as the guests gave place to one another before the looking glass, where bands of hair were smoothed and the catches of bracelets snapped. Music cases lay strewn over the counter-pane. 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, broached her throat, and only a delicate pink on her cheeks to tell of all her labours, moved helpfully to and fro, offering a shoe-horn, a hand-mirror, pins and hair-pins. She was caught as she passed Mrs. Henry Ockock, 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. Ockock, rustling up to them, till he was the biggest and most handsomely dressed woman in the room. On her knees, worshipping, I'll 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, then, girls, how much longer you're going to stand preening and prinking? The girls was Zara, at this present a trifle parse, and Miss Amelia, who was still further from her prime, and gathering the two into her train as a hen does its chickens, till he swept them off to face the ordeal of the gentleman in the drawing-room. 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 her footstool under her feet. Mary plundered Ginny next to her and left them to their talk of nurseries. For Richard's sake she wished to screen Agnes from the vulgarities of Mrs. Divine. Herself she saw with dismay on entering that Richard had already been pounced on by the husband, there he stood listening to his ex-Greengrocer's words, they were interlarded with many an awkward and familiar gesture, on his face and expression his wife knew well, while one small impatient hand tugged at his whiskers. But old Mrs. Ockock came to his rescue, bearing down upon him with her outstretched hand and a howdy-do 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 home. Mr. Ockock has something wrong, if you please, with his leg or his big toe, gout or rimities or something of that sort, and he's been so crabby with it for the last day or so that to-night I said to him, No, my dear, you'll just take a glass of hot toddy and go early and comfortable to your bed. Music or parties aren't in his line any hour. A lively clatter of tongues filled the room, the space of which was taxed to its utmost. Though a present, beside the friends and intimates of the house, several of Manny's colleagues, a couple of bank managers, the police magistrate, the postmaster, the town clerk, or 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 few glide chorus went up, Mrs. Manny, 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 piano as unconcernedly as she would have gone to sweep a room or make a bed. Placing a piece of music on the rack, she turned down the corners of the leaves. But here Archdeacon Long's handsome weather-beaten face looked over her shoulder. I hope you're going to give us the cannons, Mrs. Manny, he said, genuinely. And so Mary obliged him by laying aside the more so she had chosen, and setting up instead a battle-piece that was a general favourite. Aha! that's the ticket, said Henry Ockock, and rubbed his hands as Mary struck up Pianissimo the march that told of the enemy's approach. And bumpity, bump, bump, bump, Archdeacon Long could not refrain from underlining each fresh salvo of artillery, while, as a beach in their walls for him, was chinery of the London Chartered's contribution to the stock of fun. Manny stood on the hearth-rug 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 swallowing nervously when she attacked high notes. "'Oh, Doctor, your wife do play the piano lovely,' said Mrs. Devine, and her fat front rose and fell in an ecstatic sigh. "'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 recitation—at that kind of thing he had not his equal. But first there was a cry for his flute, and in vain did Marnie 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 from the old familiar air of the minstrel boy. The theme in his rendering was overlaid by flurried variations, and combered with senseless repetitions, but nonetheless 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 Balfon Blockley had silenced, held their tongues, and Mrs. Devine openly wiped her eyes. Oh, 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 the cover of the applause at its close remarked abruptly, you should fatten Richard up a bit, Mary, he could stand it. From where they sat they had Richard in profile, and Mary studied her husband critically ahead 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 might, 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 tool-de-rule, but when the honourable Mrs. T and I were nippers we'd no time to lull around pianists nor any pianists to lull around. This, just to see her brother-in-law's dark skull, 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 were 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 coily confessed to the presence of silver threads among the gold. And Mrs. Chinnery, an old young 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 armed chair. The gentleman 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 art with a comic song, and in the character of an outraged wife tickled the visibility 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 one till half past four. Zara and Mrs. Long both produced home they brought her warrior dead from their portfolios, so Zara could naturally gave way, and struck up Robert Trois-Cajem, 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 gift 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 high-minded nobleman, sought the hand of a virtuous gypsy maid. And he doesn't give her a second thought, if one could just tell her not to be so silly. Not only had Purdy never once looked near Amelia, for the most part he had sat rather mum-chance 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 quarrelous mother, after braving a long sea voyage 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 house-room first by her father, then by the Henry's, and once more had to go back to the paternal roof. It was nothing for Morsio Henry in the long run, was his stepmother's comment, but she laughed good-humently 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 each other's practical qualities. 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 he did with Agnes, and Amelia was to be married off to. Well, if you turn your head, my dear, you'll see you. Back there opened a old up-the-door post. Under cover of Zara's roulades Mary cautiously looked around. It was Henry's partner, young Grindel, now on the threshold of the thirties. His side whiskers are shadeless flamboyant than of old, a heavy watch chain draped across his front. Grindel 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 shouldn't be happy. That'll be all right, Mary, trust me. Only give her a handle to her name, and Amelia would be happy with any one. She hasn't that much backbone in her. Besides, my dear, you think she's over forty. Let her take her chance and be thankful. It isn't every old maid that gets such an offer. And is—is he agreeable, as Mary, still unconvinced? Tilly half-closed her right eye and protruded the tip of her tongue. You could stake your last farther on it, he is. But now that portion of the entertainment devoted to art was at an end, and the serious business of the evening began. Card-tables had been set out, for lieu as for less hazardous games. In principle, Marnie 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 havens. They would have thanked you kindly and have stayed at home. Here at the loo-tables places were eagerly snapped up, Henry Ockock and his step-mother being among the first to secure seats. Both were keen hard players who invariably relined their well-filled pockets. It would not have been the thing for either Marnie or his wife to take a hand. Several of the guests held aloof. John had button-hulled old divine. Ginny 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 formally taken such pleasure. Richard and Archdeacon Long sat on the veranda and, in moving to and fro, Mary caught a fragment of their talk. They were at the debatable question of table-turning, and her mental comment was amotherly and amused that Richard, who is so clever, can interest himself in such nonsense. Further on, Zara was giving Grindel an account of her voyage home and ticking off the reasons that had led her to return. She sat across a hammock and daintily exposed a very neat ankle. It was much too sleepy and dull for me, now I have quite decided to spend the rest of my days in the colony. Mrs. Divine was still perched on her ottoman. She beamed at her hostess. Now I don't know one card from another, dearie, and I want to—oh, my dear, what a lovely party it has been, and how well you've carried it off! 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 supper-tables, up and down which benches were ranged borrowed from the Sunday school. To her surprise, she found herself followed by Mrs. Divine. Do let me help you, my dear, do now! I feel that stiff and silly sitting stuck up there with means before me, and just send that young fellow about his business. So Purdy and his office of assistance were returned with thanks to the card-room, and Mrs. Divine pinned up her black silk front. But not until she had freely vented her astonishment at the profusion of Mary's good things. Ah, do you get them to rise so? No, I never did. Fit for Buttonham Palace and Queen Victoria, and all by your little self, too, my dear, I must give you a good hug. Hence, when at twelve o'clock the company began to stream in, they found Mrs. Divine installed behind the barricade of cup-sources and glasses, and it was she who dispensed tea and coffee and ladled out the claret cup, thus leaving Mary free to keep an augus eye on her visitor's 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, sausage rolls and meat pies, her jam rolls, pastries and lemon sponges, her jellies, custards and creams, her blancs and jaune marges, and whipped syllabubs, her trifles, tipsy cakes, and charlotte ruses formed the theme of talk and objects of attention. And though the ladies picked with becoming daintiness, the gentleman made up for their partner's deficiencies, and there was none present who did not, in the shape of a hearty and well-turned compliment, add yet another laurel to Mary's crown.