Part 16 (1/2)
She went on with her sewing. But when Mahony came back from the brisk walk by means of which he got rid of his annoyance, he fancied, though Polly was as cheery as ever and had supper laid for him, that her eyelids were red.
This was why, the following evening, he promised himself to be discreet.
Winter had come in earnest; the night was wild and cold. Before the crackling stove the cat lay stretched at full length, while Pompey dozed fitfully, his nose between his paws. The red-cotton curtains that hung at the little window gave back the lamplight in a ruddy glow; the clock beat off the seconds evenly, except when drowned by the wind, which came in bouts, hurling itself against the corners of the house.
And presently, laying down his book--Polly was too busy now to be read to--Mahony looked across at his wife. She was wrinkling her pretty brows over the manufacture of tiny clothes, a rather pale little woman still, none of the initial discomforts of her condition having been spared her. Feeling his eyes on her, she looked up and smiled: did ever anyone see such a ridiculous armhole? Three of one's fingers were enough to fill it--and she held the little s.h.i.+rt aloft for his inspection. Here was his chance: the child's coming offered the best of pretexts. Taking not only the midget garment but also the hand that held it, he told her of his resolve to go back to England and re-enter his profession.
”You know, love, I've always wished to get home again. And now there's an additional reason. I don't want my ... our children to grow up in a place like this. Without companions--or refining influences. Who knows how they would turn out?”
He said it, but in his heart he knew that his children would be safe enough. And Polly, listening to him, made the same reservation: yes, but OUR children....
”And so I propose, as soon as the youngster's old enough to travel, to haul down the flag for good and all, and book pa.s.sages for the three of us in some smart clipper. We'll live in the country, love. Think of it, Polly! A little gabled, red-roofed house at the foot of some Suss.e.x down, with fruit trees and a high hedge round it, and only the oast-houses peeping over. Doesn't it make your mouth water, my dear?”
He had risen in his eagerness, and stood with his back to the stove, his legs apart. And Polly nodded and smiled up at him--though, truth to tell, the picture he drew did not mean much to her: she had never been in Suss.e.x, nor did she know what an oast-house was. A night such as this, with flying clouds and a shrill, piping wind, made her think of angry seas and a dark s.h.i.+p's cabin, in which she lay deathly sick. But it was not Polly's way to dwell on disagreeables: her mind glanced off to a pleasanter theme.
”Have you ever thought, Richard, how strange it will seem when there ARE three of us? You and I will never be quite alone together again.
Oh, I do hope he will be a good baby and not cry much. It will worry you if he does--like Hempel's cough. And then you won't love him properly.”
”I shall love it because it is yours, my darling. And the baby of such a dear little mother is sure to be good.”
”Oh, babies will be babies, you know!” said Polly, with a new air of wisdom which sat delightfully on her.
Mahony pinched her cheek. ”Mrs. Mahony, you're s.h.i.+rking my question.
Tell me now, should you not be pleased to get back to England?”
”I'll go wherever you go, Richard,” said Polly staunchly. ”Always. And of course I should like to see mother--I mean my real mother--again.
But then Ned's here ... and John, and Sarah. I should be very sorry to leave them. I don't think any of them will ever go home now.”
”They may be here, but they don't trouble YOU often, my dear,” said Mahony, with more than a hint of impatience. ”Especially Ned the well-beloved, who lives not a mile from your door.”
”I know he doesn't often come to see us, Richard. But he's only a boy; and has to work so hard. You see it's like this. If Ned should get into any trouble, I'm here to look after him; and I know that makes mother's mind easier--Ned was always her favourite.”
”And an extraordinary thing, too! I believe it's the boy's good looks that blind you women to his faults.”
”Oh no, indeed it isn't!” declared Polly warmly. ”It's just because Ned's Ned. The dearest fellow, if you really know him.”
”And so your heart's anch.o.r.ed here, little wife, and would remain here even if I carried your body off to England?”
”Oh no, Richard,” said Polly again. ”My heart would always be where you are. But I can't help wondering how Ned would get on alone. And Jerry will soon be here too, now, and he's younger still. And HOW I should like to see dear Tilly settled before I go!”
Judging that enough had been said for the time being, Mahony re-opened his book, leaving his wife to chew the cud of innocent matchmaking and sisterly cares.
In reality Polly's reflections were of quite another nature.
Her husband's abrupt resolve to leave the colony, disturbing though it was, did not take her altogether by surprise. She would have needed to be both deaf and blind not to notice that the store-bell rang much seldomer than it used to, and that Richard had more spare time on his hands. Yes, trade was dull, and that made him fidgety. Now she had always known that someday it would be her duty to follow Richard to England. But she had imagined that day to be very far off--when they were elderly people, and had saved up a good deal of money. To hear the date fixed for six months hence was something of a shock to her. And it was at this point that Polly had a sudden inspiration. As she listened to Richard talking of resuming his profession, the thought flashed through her mind: why not here? Why should he not start practice in Ballarat, instead of travelling all those thousands of miles to do it?
This was what she ruminated while she tucked and hemmed. She could imagine, of course, what his answer would be. He would say there were too many doctors on Ballarat already; not more than a dozen of them made satisfactory incomes. But this argument did not convince Polly.
Richard wasn't, perhaps, a great success at storekeeping; but that was only because he was too good for it. As a doctor, he with his cleverness and gentlemanly manners would soon, she was certain, stand head and shoulders above the rest. And then there would be money galore. It was true he did not care for Ballarat--was down on both place and people. But this objection, too, Polly waived. It pa.s.sed belief that anybody could really dislike this big, rich, bustling, go-ahead towns.h.i.+p, where such handsome buildings were springing up and every one was so friendly. In her heart she ascribed her husband's want of love for it to the ”infra dig” position he occupied. If he mixed with his equals again and got rid of the feeling that he was looked down on, it would make all the difference in the world to him. He would then be out of reach of snubs and slights, and people would understand him better--not the residents on Ballarat alone, but also John, and Sarah, and the Beamishes, none of whom really appreciated Richard. In her mind's eye Polly had a vision of him going his rounds mounted on a chestnut horse, dressed in surtout and choker, and hand and glove with the bigwigs of society--the gentlemen at the Camp, the Police Magistrate and Archdeacon Long, the rich squatters who lived at the foot of Mount Buninyong. It brought the colour to her cheeks merely to think of it.