Part 31 (1/2)
”Oh, don't do that, Richard. I promise it shan't happen again. It was very stupid of us, I know. But Purdy didn't really mean it unkindly; and he IS so comical when he starts to imitate people.” And Polly was all but off again, at the remembrance.
But Mahony, stooping to decipher the names Ellen had written on the slate, did not unbend. It was not merely the vulgar joke that had offended him. No, what really rankled was the sudden chill his unlooked-for entrance had cast over the group; they had scattered and gone scurrying about their business, like a pack of naughty children who had been up to mischief behind their master's back. He was the schoolmaster--the spoilsport. They were all afraid of him. Even Polly.
But here came Polly herself to say: ”Dinner, dear,” in her kindest tone. She also put her arm round his neck and hugged him. ”Not cross any more, Richard? I know we behaved disgracefully.” Her touch put the crown on her words. Mahony drew her to him and kissed her.
But the true origin of the unpleasantness, Zara, who in her ghoulish delight at seeing Hempel grovel before her--thus Mahony worded it--behaved more kittenishly than ever at table: Zara Mahony could not so easily forgive; and for the remainder of her stay his manner to her was so forbidding that she, too, froze; and to Polly's regret the old bad relation between them came up anew.
But Zara was enjoying herself too well to cut her visit short on Mahony's account. ”Besides, poor thing,” thought Polly, ”she has really nowhere to go.” What she did do was to carry her head very high in her brother-in-law's presence; to speak at him rather than to him; and in private to insist to Polly on her powers of discernment. ”You may say what you like, my dear--I can see you have a VERY GREAT DEAL to put up with!”
At last, however, the day of her departure broke, and she went off amid a babble of farewells, of requests for remembrance, a fluttering of pocket-handkerchiefs, the like of which Polly had never known; and to himself Mahony breathed the hope that they had seen the last of Zara, her fripperies and affectations. ”Your sister will certainly fit better into the conditions of English life.”
Polly cried at the parting, which might be final; then blew her nose and dried her eyes; for she had a busy day before her. Tilly Beamish had been waiting with ill-concealed impatience for Zara to vacate the spare room, and was to arrive that night.
Mahony was not at home to welcome the new-comer, nor could he be present at high tea. When he returned, towards nine o'clock, he found Polly with a very red face, and so full of fussy cares for her guest's comfort--her natural kindliness distorted to caricature--that she had not a word for him. One look at Miss Tilly explained everything, and his respects duly paid he retired to the surgery, to indulge a smile at Polly's expense. Here Polly soon joined him, Tilly, fatigued by her journey and by her bounteous meal, having betaken herself early to bed.
”Ha, ha!” laughed Mahony, not without a certain mischievous satisfaction at his young wife's discomfiture. ”And with the prospect of a second edition to follow!”
But Polly would not capitulate right off. ”I don't think it's very kind of you to talk like that, Richard,” she said warmly. ”People can't help their looks.” She moved about the room putting things straight, and avoiding his eye. ”As long as they mean well and are good.... But I think you would rather no one ever came to stay with us, at all.”
Fixing her with meaning insistence and still smiling, Mahony opened his arms. The next moment Polly was on his knee, her face hidden in his shoulder. There she shed a few tears. ”Oh, isn't she dreadful? I don't know WHAT I shall do with her. She's been serving behind the bar, Richard, for more than a year. And she's come expecting to be taken everywhere and to have any amount of gaiety.”
At coach-time she had dragged a reluctant Purdy to the office. But as soon as he caught sight of Tilly: ”On the box, Richard, beside the driver, with her hair all towsy-wowsy in the wind--he just said: 'Oh, lor, Polly!' and disappeared, and that was the last I saw of him. I don't know how I should have got on if it hadn't been for old Mr.
Oc.o.c.k, who was down meeting a parcel. He was most kind; he helped us home with her carpet-bag, and saw after her trunk. And, oh dear, what do you think? When he was going away he said to me in the pa.s.sage--so loud I'm sure Tilly must have heard him--he said: 'Well! that's something like a figure of a female this time, Mrs. Doc. As fine a young woman as ever I see!'”
And Polly hid her face again; and husband and wife laughed in concert.
Chapter VIII
That night a great storm rose. Mahony, sitting reading after everyone else had retired, saw it coming, and lamp in hand went round the house to secure hasps and catches; then stood at the window to watch the storm's approach. In one half of the sky the stars were still peacefully alight; the other was hidden by a dense cloud, which came racing along like a giant bat with outspread wings, devouring the stars in its flight. The storm broke; there was a sudden shrill screeching, a grinding, piping, whistling, and the wind hurled itself against the house as if to level it with the ground; failing in this, it banged and battered, making windows and doors shake like loose teeth in their sockets. Then it swept by to wreak its fury elsewhere, and there was a grateful lull out of which burst a peal of thunder. And now peal followed peal, and the face of the sky, with its ma.s.ses of swirling, frothy cloud, resembled an angry sea. The lightning ripped it in fierce zigzags, darting out hundreds of spectral fangs. It was a magnificent sight.
Polly came running to see where he was, the child cried, Miss Tilly opened her door by a hand's-breadth, and thrust a red, puffy face, framed in curl-twists, through the crack. n.o.body thought of sleep while the commotion lasted, for fear of fire: once alight, these exposed little wooden houses blazed up like heaps of shavings. The clock-hands pointed to one before the storm showed signs of abating. Now, the rain was pouring down, making an ear-splitting din on the iron roof and leaping from every gutter and spout. It had turned very cold. Mahony s.h.i.+vered as he got into bed.
He seemed hardly to have closed an eye when he was wakened by a loud knocking; at the same time the wire of the night-bell was almost wrenched in two. He sat up and looked at his watch. It wanted a few minutes to three; the rain was still falling in torrents, the wind sighed and moaned. Wild horses should not drag him out on such a night!
Thrusting his arms into the sleeves of his dressing-gown, he threw up the parlour window. ”Who's there?” The hiss of the rain cut his words through.
A figure on the doorstep turned at the sound. ”Is this a doctor's? I wuz sent here. Doctor! for G.o.d's sake ...”
”What is it? Stop a minute! I'll open the door.”
He did so, letting in a blast of wind and a rush of rain that flooded the oilcloth. The intruder, off whom the water streamed, had to shout to make himself audible.
”It's me--Mat Doyle's me name! It's me wife, doctor; she's dying. I've bin all night on the road. Ah, for the love of--”
”Where is it?” Mahony put his hand to the side of his mouth, to keep his words from flying adrift in the wind.
”Paddy's Rest. You're the third I've bin to. Not one of the dirty dogs'ull stir a leg! Me girl may die like a rabbit for all they care.”-- The man's voice broke, as he halloed particulars.
”Paddy's Rest? On a night like this? Why, the creek will be out.”
”Doctor! you're from th' ould country, I can hear it in your lip.