Part 41 (2/2)

Mary, in particular, profited by the change; for in one of those ”general posts” so frequently played by the colonial cabinet, John Turnham had come out Minister of Railways; and she could have a ”free pa.s.s” for the asking. John paid numerous visits to his const.i.tuency; but he was now such an important personage that his relatives hardly saw him. As likely as not he was the guest of the Henry Oc.o.c.ks in their new mansion, or of the mayor of the borough. In the past two years Mahony had only twice exchanged a word with his brother-in-law.

And then they met again.

In Melbourne, at six o'clock one January morning, the Honourable John, about to enter a saloon-compartment of the Ballarat train, paused, with one foot on the step, and disregarding the polite remarks of the station-master at his heels, screwed up his prominent black eyes against the sun. At the farther end of the train, a tall, thin, fair-whiskered man was peering disconsolately along a row of crowded carriages. ”G.o.d bless me! isn't that ... Why, so it is!” And leaving the official standing, John walked smartly down the platform.

”My dear Mahony!--this is indeed a surprise. I had no idea you were in town.”

”Why not have let me know you proposed coming?” he inquired as they made their way, the train meanwhile held up on their account, towards John's s.p.a.cious, reserved saloon.

(”What he means is, why I didn't beg a pa.s.s of him.”) And Mahony, who detested asking favours, laid exaggerated emphasis on his want of knowledge. He had not contemplated the journey till an hour beforehand.

Then, the proposed delegate having been suddenly taken ill, he had been urgently requested to represent the Masonic Lodge to which he belonged, at the Installation of a new Grand Master.

”Ah, so you found it possible to get out of harness for once?” said John affably, as they took their seats.

”Yes, by a lucky chance I had no case on hand that could not do without me for twenty-four hours. And my engagement-book I can leave with perfect confidence to my wife.”

”Mary is no doubt a very capable woman; I noticed that afresh, when last she was with us,” returned John; and went on to tick off Mary's qualities like a connoisseur appraising the points of a horse. ”A misfortune that she is not blessed with any family,” he added.

Mahony stiffened; and responded dryly: ”I'm not sure that I agree with you. With all her energy and spirit Mary is none too strong.”

”Well, well! these things are in the hands of Providence; we must take what is sent us.” And caressing his bare chin John gave a hearty yawn.

The words flicked Mahony's memory: John had had an addition to his family that winter, in the shape--to the disappointment of all concerned--of a second daughter. He offered belated congratulations. ”A regular Turnham this time, according to Mary. But I am sorry to hear Jane has not recovered her strength.”

”Oh, Jane is doing very well. But it has been a real disadvantage that she could not nurse. The infant is ... well, ah ... perfectly formed, of course, but small--small.”

”You must send them both to Mary, to be looked after.”

The talk then pa.s.sed to John's son, now a schoolboy in Geelong; and John admitted that the reports he received of the lad continued as unsatisfactory as ever. ”The young rascal has ability, they tell me, but no application.” John propounded various theories to account for the boy having turned out poorly, chief among which was that he had been left too long in the hands of women. They had overindulged him.

”Mary no more than the rest, my dear fellow,” he hastened to smooth Mahony's rising plumes. ”It began with his mother in the first place.

Yes, poor Emma was weak with the boy--lamentably weak!”

Here, with a disconcerting abruptness, he drew to him a blue linen bag that lay on the seat, and loosening its string took out a sheaf of official papers, in which he was soon engrossed. He had had enough of Mahony's conversation in the meantime, or so it seemed; had thought of something better to do, and did it.

His brother-in-law eyed him as he read. ”He's a bad colour. Been living too high, no doubt.”

A couple of new books were on the seat by Mahony; but he did not open them. He had a tiring day behind him, and the briefest of nights.

Besides attending the masonic ceremony, which had lasted into the small hours, he had undertaken to make various purchases, not the least difficult of which was the buying of a present for Mary--all the little fal-lals that went to finish a lady's ball-dress. Railway-travelling was, too, something of a novelty to him nowadays; and he sat idly watching the landscape unroll, and thinking of nothing in particular.

The train was running through mile after mile of flat, treeless country, liberally sprinkled with trapstones and clumps of tussock gra.s.s, which at a distance could be mistaken for couched sheep. Here and there stood a solitary she-oak, most doleful of trees, its scraggy, pine-needle foliage bleached to grey. From the several little stations along the line: mere three-sided sheds, which bore a printed invitation to intending pa.s.sengers to wave a flag or light a lamp, did they wish to board the train: from these shelters long, bare, red roads, straight as ruled lines, ran back into the heart of the burnt-up, faded country.

Now and then a moving ruddy cloud on one of them told of some vehicle crawling its laborious way.

When John, his memoranda digested, looked up ready to resume their talk, he found that Mahony was fast asleep; and, since his first words, loudly uttered, did not rouse him, he took out his case, chose a cigar, beheaded it and puffed it alight.

While he smoked, he studied his insensible relative. Mahony was sitting uncomfortably hunched up; his head had fallen forward and to the side, his mouth was open, his gloved hands lay limp on his knee.

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