Twice in the past he had plucked up his roots from this soil, to which neither gratitude1 nor affection bound him. Now, fresh from foreign travel, from a wider knowledge of the beauties of the old world, he felt doubly alien; and, with his eyes still full of greenery and lushness, he could see less beauty than ever in its dun and and landscape. — It was left to a later generation to discover this: to those who, with their mother’s milk, drank in a love of sunlight and space; of inimitable blue distances and gentian-blue skies. To them, the country’s very shortcomings were, in time, to grow dear: the scanty3, ragged4 foliage5; the unearthly stillness of the bush; the long, red roads, running inflexible6 as ruled lines towards a steadily7 receding8 horizon . . . and engendering9 in him who travelled them a lifelong impatience10 with hedge-bound twists and turns. To their eyes, too, quickened by emotion, it was left to descry11 the colours in the apparent colourlessness: the upturned earth that showed red, white, puce, gamboge; the blue in the grey of the new leafage; the geranium red of young scrub; the purple-blue depths of the shadows. To know, too, in exile, a rank nostalgia12 for the scent13 of the aromatic14 foliage; for the honey fragrance15 of the wattle; the perfume that rises hot and heavy as steam from vast paddocks of sweet, flowering lucerne — even for the sting and tang of countless16 miles of bush ablaze17.
Of ties such as these, which end by drawing a man home, Richard Mahony knew nothing. He returned to the colony at heart the stranger he had always been.
Landing in Melbourne one cold spring day in the early seventies, he tossed his belongings18 into a hansom, and without pausing to reflect drove straight to his old club at the top of Collins Street. But his stay there was short. For no sooner did he learn the full extent of his losses, than he was ripe to detect a marked reserve, not to say coolness, in the manner of his former friends and acquaintances. More than one, he fancied, deliberately19 shunned20 him. Bitterly he regretted his overhasty intrusion on this, the most exclusive club in the city; to which wealth alone was the passport. (He had forgotten, over his great wanderings, how small a world he had here come back to. Within the narrow clique21 of Melbourne society, anything that happened to one of its members was quickly known to all; and the news of his crash had plainly preceded him.) Well! if this was a foretaste of what he had to expect — snubs and slights from men who would once have been honoured by his notice — the sooner he got out of people’s way the better. And bundling his clothes back into his trunk, he drove off again, choosing, characteristically enough, not a quiet hotel in a good neighbourhood, but a second-class boarding-house on the farther side of the Victoria Parade. Here, there was no earthly chance of meeting any one he knew. Or, for that matter, of meeting any one at all! For these outlying streets, planned originally for a traffic without compare — the seething22 mob of men, horses, vehicles that had once flowed, like a living river, to the goldfields — now lay as bare as they had then been thronged23. By day an occasional spindly buggy might amble24 along their vast width, or a solitary25 bullock-wagon take its tortoise way; but after dark, feebly lit by ill-trimmed lamps set at enormous distances one from another, they turned into mere26 desolate27, wind-swept spaces. On which no creature moved but himself.
It was here that he took his decisions, laid his plans. His days resembled a blurred28 nightmare, in which he sped from one dingy29 office to the next, or sat through interviews with lawyers and bankers — humiliating interviews, in the course of which his unbusiness-like conduct, his want of NOUS in money matters was mercilessly dragged to light. But in the evening he was free: and then he would pace by the hour round these deserted30 streets, with the collar of his greatcoat turned up to his ears, his hands clasped at his back, his head bent31 against the icy south winds; or, caught by a stinging hail-shower, would seek shelter under the lee of an old, half dismantled32 “Horse, Cow and Pig-Market,” of which the wild wind rattled33 and shook the loose timbers as if to carry them sky-high.
Of the large fortune he had amassed34 — the fortune so happily invested, so carefully husbanded — he had been able to recover a bare three thousand pounds. The unprincipled scoundrel in whose charge he had left it — on Purdy’s equally unprincipled advice — had fleeced him of all else. On this pitiful sum, and a handful of second-rate shares which might bring him in the equivalent of what he had formerly35 spent in the year on books, or Mary on her servants and the running of the nurseries, he had now to start life anew: to provide a home, to feed, clothe, educate his children, pay his way. One thing was clear: he must set up his plate again with all dispatch; resume the profession he had once been so heartily36 glad to retire from. And his first bitterness and resentment37 over, he was only too thankful to have this to fall back on.
The moot38 question was, where to make the start; and in the course of the several anxious debates he had with himself on this subject, he became ever more relieved that Mary was not with him. Her absence gave him a freer hand. For, if he knew her, she would be all in favour of his settling up-country, dead against his trying to get a footing in Melbourne. Now he was as ready as any man could be, to atone39 to her for the straits to which he had brought her. But — he must be allowed to meet the emergency in his own way. It might not be the wisest or the best way; but it was the only one he felt equal to.
Bury himself alive up-country, he could and would not! . . . not if she talked till all was blue. He saw her points, of course: they were like herself . . . entirely40 practical. There were, she would argue, for every opening in Melbourne ten to be found in the bush, where doctors were scarce, and twice and three times the money to be made there. Living-expenses would be less, nor would he need to keep up any style. Which was true enough . . . as far as it went. What, womanlike, she would overlook, or treat as of slight importance, was the fact that he had also his professional pride to consider. He with his past to condemn41 himself to the backwoods! Frankly42, he thought he would be doing not only himself, but his children after him, an injury, did he agree to anything of the kind. No! he was too good for the bush.
But the truth had still another facet43. Constrained44, at his age, to buckle45 to again, he could only, he believed, find the necessary courage under conditions that were not too direly46 repellent. And since, strive as he might, he could not break down Mary’s imagined disapproval47, he threw himself headlong into the attempt to get things settled — irrevocably settled — before she arrived; took to scouring48 the city and its environs, tramping the inner and outer suburbs, walking the soles off his boots and himself to a shadow, to find a likely place. Ruefully he turned his back on the sea at St. Kilda and Elsternwick, the pleasant spot of earth in which he once believed he had found a resting place; gave the green gardens of Toorak a wide berth49 — no room there for an elderly interloper! — and, stifling50 his distaste, explored the outer darkness of Footscray, Essendon, Moonee Ponds. But it was always the same. If he found what he thought a suitable opening, there was certain not to be a house within coo-ee fit for them to live in.
What finally decided51 him on the pretty little suburb of Hawthorn52 — after he had thoroughly53 prowled and nosed round, to make sure he would have the field to himself — was not alone the good country air, but the fact that, at the junction54 of two main streets — or what would some day be main streets, the place being still in the making — he lit on a capital building lot, for sale dirt-cheap. For a doctor no finer position could be imagined — and in fancy he ran up the house that was to stand there. Of brick, two storeys high, towering above its neighbours, it would face both ways, be visible to all comers. The purchase of the land was easily effected — truth to tell, only too easily! He rather let himself be blarneyed into it. The house formed the stumbling-block. He sped from firm to firm; none would touch the job under a couple of thousand. In vain he tried to cut down his requirements. Less than two sitting-rooms they could not possibly do with, besides a surgery and a waiting-room. Four bedrooms, a dressing-room or two, a couple of bathrooms were equally necessary; while no house of this size but had verandah and balcony to keep the sun off, and to serve as an outdoor playroom for the children.
There was nothing for it, in the long run, but to put his pride in his pocket and take the advice given him on every hand: to build, as ninety-nine out of a hundred did here, through one of the numerous Building Societies that existed to aid those short of ready money. But it was a bitter pill for a man of his former wealth to swallow. Nor did it, on closer acquaintance, prove by any means the simple affair he had been led to believe. In the beginning, a thousand was the utmost he felt justified55 in laying down. But when he saw all that was involved he contrived56, after much anxious deliberation, to stretch the thousand to twelve hundred, taking out a mortgage at ten per cent, with regular repayment57 of capital.
It was at this crisis that he felt most thankful Mary was not with him. HOW she would have got on his nerves! . . . with her doubts and hesitations58, her aversion to taking risks, her fears lest he should land them all in Queer Street. Women paid dearly for their inexperience: when it came to a matter of business, even the most practical could not see beyond the tips of their noses. And, humiliating though the present step might be, there was absolutely no cause for alarm. These things were done — done on every hand — his eye had been opened to that, in his recent wanderings. By men, too, less favourably59 placed than he. But even suppose, for supposing’s sake, that he did not succeed to the top of his expectations — get, that was, the mortgage paid off within a reasonable time — where would be the hardship in treating the interest on the loan as a rental60, in place of living rent-free? (And a very moderate rent, too, for a suitable house!) But Mary would never manage to forget the debt that lay behind. And it was here the temptation beset61 him to hold his tongue, to say nothing to her about the means he had been forced to employ. Let her believe he had built out of the resources left to him. For peace’ sake, in the first place; to avoid the bother of explanation and recrimination. (What a drag, too, to know that somebody was eternally on the QUI VIVE to see whether or no you were able to come up to the mark!) Yet again, by keeping his own counsel, he would spare her many an hour’s anxiety — a sheerly needless anxiety. For any doubts he might have had himself, at the start, vanished like fog before a lifting breeze as he watched the house go up. Daily his conviction strengthened that he had done the right thing.
It became a matter of vital importance to him that the walls should be standing62 and the roof on, before Mary saw it: Mary needed the evidence of her senses: could grasp only what she had before her eyes. Then, pleasure at getting so fine a house might help to reconcile her to his scheme . . . God alone knew what the poor soul would be expecting. And so, in the belief that his presence stimulated63 the workpeople, he spent many an hour in the months that followed watching brick laid to brick, and the hodmen lumber64 to and fro; or pottering about among clay and mortar65 heaps: an elderly gentleman in a long surtout, carrying gloves and a cane66; with greyish hair and whiskers, and a thin, pointed67 face.
Again, he cooled his heels there because he had nothing better to do. Once bitten, twice shy, was his motto; and he continued rigidly68 to give friends and relatives the go-by: time enough to pick up the threads when he could step out once more in his true colours. Besides, the relatives were Mary’s; the friends as well. The consequence was, he now fell into a solitariness69 beyond compare: got the habit of solitude70, and neither missed nor wanted the company of his fellows.
Since, however, every man who still stands upright needs some star to go by, he kept his eyes steadfastly71 fixed72 on the coming of wife and children. This was to be his panacea73 for every ill. And as the six months’ separation drew to an end, he could hardly contain himself for anxiety and impatience. Everything was ready for them: he had taken a comfortably furnished house in which to instal them till their own was built; had engaged a servant, moved in himself. Feverishly74 he scanned the shipping-lists. Other boats made port which had left England at the same time . . . and even later . . . despite gales75, and calms, and contrary winds. But it was not till the middle of December that the good ship SOBRAON, ninety odd days out, was sighted off Cape2 Otway; and he could take train to Queenscliffe for a surprise meeting with his dear ones, and to sail with them up the Bay.
In his hand he carried a basket of strawberries — the first to come on the market.
Standing pointing out to the children familiar landmarks76 on the shores of their new-old home, Mary suddenly stopped in what she was saying and rubbed her eyes.
“Why! I do declare . . . if it’s not — Look, children, LOOK, there’s your Papa! He’s waving his handkerchief to you. Wave back! Nod your heads! Throw him a kiss!”
“Papa! . . . dere’s Papa!” the twins told each other, and obediently set to wagging like a pair of china mandarins; the while with their pudgy hands they wafted77 kisses in the direction of an approaching boat-load of men.
“Where’s he? I don’t see!” opposed Cuffy, in a spirit to which the oneness of his sisters — still more, of sisters and mother — often provoked him. But this time he had a grievance78 as well. Throughout the voyage there had been ever such lots of laughing and talking and guessing, about who would reckernise Papa first: and he, as the eldest79, had felt quite safe. Now Mamma, who had joined in the game and guessed with them, had spoilt everything, not played fair.
But for once his mother did not heed80 his pouting81. She was gazing with her heart in her eyes at the Health Officer’s boat, in which, by the side of the doctor coming to board the ship, sat Richard in a set of borrowed oilskins, ducking his head to avoid the spray, and waving and shouting like an excited schoolboy. In a very few minutes now the long, slow torture of the voyage would be over, and she would know the worst.
Here he came, scrambling82 up the ladder, leaping to the deck.
“Richard! . . . my dear! Is it really you? But OH, how thin you’ve got!”
“Yes, here I am, safe and sound! But you, wife . . . how are you? — AND the darlings? Come to Papa, who has missed you more than he can say! — Good day, good day, Eliza! I hope I see you well! — But HOW they’ve grown, Mary! Why, I hardly know them.”
The Dumplings, pink and drooping83 with shyness but docile84 as ever, dutifully held up their bud mouths to be kissed; then, smiling adorably, wriggled85 back to Mamma’s side, crook’d finger to lip. But Cuffy did not smile as his father swung him aloft, and went pale instead of pink. For, at sight of the person who came jumping over, he had been seized by one of his panicky fears. The Dumplings, of course, didn’t remember Papa, they couldn’t, they were only four; but he did . . . and somehow he remembered him DIFFRUNT. Could it be a mistake? Not that it wasn’t him . . . he didn’t mean that . . . he only meant . . . well, he wasn’t sure what he did mean. But when this new-old Papa asked: “And how’s my big boy?” a fresh spasm86 of distrust shot through him. Didn’t he know that everybody always said “small for his age”?
But, dumped down on the deck again, he was forgotten, while over his head the quick, clipped voice went on: “Perfectly well! . . . and with nothing in the world to complain of, now I’ve got you again. I thought you’d NEVER come. Yes, I’ve been through an infernally anxious time, but that’s over now, and things aren’t as bad as they might be. You’ve no need to worry. But let’s go below where we can talk in peace.” And with his arm round her shoulders he made to draw Mary with him . . . followed by the extreme silent wonder of three pairs of eyes, whose owners were not used any more to seeing Mamma taken away like this without asking. Or anybody’s arm put round her either. When she belonged to them.
But at the head of the companion-way Mahony paused and slapped his brow.
“Ha! . . . but wait a minute . . . . Papa was forgetting. See here!” and from a side pocket of the capacious oilskins he drew forth87 the basket of strawberries. These had suffered in transit88, were bruised89 and crushed.
“What, strawberries? — already?” exclaimed Mary, and eyed the berries dubiously90. They were but faintly tinged91.
“The very first to be had, my dear! I spied them on my way to the train. — Come, children!”
But Mary barred the way . . . stretched out a preventing hand. “Not just now, Richard. Later on, perhaps . . . when they’ve had their dinners. Give them to me, dear.”
Jocularly he eluded92 her, holding the basket high, out of her reach. “No, this is MY treat! — Now who remembers the old game? ‘Open your mouths and shut your eyes and see what Jacko will send you!’”
The children closed in, the twins displaying rosy93 throats, their eyes faithfully glued to.
But Mary peremptorily94 interposed. “No, no, they mustn’t! I should have them ill. The things are not half ripe.”
“What? Not let them eat them? . . after the trouble I’ve been to, to buy them and lug95 them here? Not to speak of what I paid for them.”
“I’m sorry, Richard, but — ssh, dear! surely you must see . . .” Mary spoke96 in a low, persuasive97 voice, at the same time frowning and making other wifely signals to him to lower his. (And thus engrossed98 did not feel a pull at her sleeve, or hear Cuffy’s thin pipe: “I’LL eat them, Mamma. I’d LIKE to!” Now he knew it was Papa all right.) For several of their fellow passengers were watching and listening, and there stood Richard looking supremely99 foolish, holding aloft a single strawberry.
But he was too put out to care who saw or heard. “Well and good then, if they’re not fit to eat — not even AFTER dinner! — there’s only one thing to be done with them. Overboard they go!” And picking up the basket he tossed it and its contents into the sea. Before the children . . . Eliza . . . everybody.
With her arm through his, Mary got him below, to the privacy and seclusion100 of the cabin. The same old Richard! touchy101 and irascible . . . wounded by any trifle. But she knew how to manage him; and, by appealing to his common sense and good feelings, soon talked him round. Besides, on this particular day he was much too happy to see them all again, long to remain in dudgeon. Still, his first mood of pleasure and elation102 had fizzled out and was not to be recaptured. The result was, the account he finally gave her of the state of his finances, and their future prospects103, was not the rose-coloured one he had intended and prepared. What she now got to hear bore more relation to sober fact.
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1
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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engendering
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的现在分词 ) | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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descry
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| v.远远看到；发现；责备 | |
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nostalgia
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| n.怀乡病，留恋过去，怀旧 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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aromatic
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| adj.芳香的，有香味的 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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clique
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| n.朋党派系，小集团 | |
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seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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amble
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| vi.缓行，漫步 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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amassed
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| v.积累，积聚( amass的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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moot
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| v.提出；adj.未决议的；n.大会；辩论会 | |
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atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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facet
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| n.(问题等的)一个方面；(多面体的)面 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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direly
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| 可怕的，恐怖的； 悲惨的； 迫切的，极端的 | |
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disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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51
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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52
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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53
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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54
junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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55
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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repayment
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| n.偿还，偿还款；报酬 | |
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hesitations
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| n.犹豫( hesitation的名词复数 )；踌躇；犹豫（之事或行为）；口吃 | |
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favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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rental
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| n.租赁，出租，出租业 | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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solitariness
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| n.隐居；单独 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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panacea
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| n.万灵药；治百病的灵药 | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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gales
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| 龙猫 | |
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landmarks
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| n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 )；目标；（标志重要阶段的）里程碑 ~ (in sth)；有历史意义的建筑物（或遗址） | |
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wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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pouting
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的现在分词 ) | |
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scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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wriggled
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的过去式和过去分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等） | |
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spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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transit
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| n.经过，运输；vt.穿越，旋转；vi.越过 | |
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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eluded
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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lug
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| n.柄，突出部，螺帽；(英）耳朵；（俚）笨蛋；vt.拖，拉，用力拖动 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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101
touchy
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| adj.易怒的；棘手的 | |
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102
elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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