There was no more chance of sleep. He, too, rose.
The water of the shower-bath was tepid6 and unrefreshing. It had also to be sparingly used. Then came breakfast — with mushy butter, the pat collapsing7 on its way from the cellar; with sticky flies crawling over everything, a soiled cloth, the children’s jabber8, Miss Prestwick’s mincing9 airs, and Mary checking, apportioning10, deciding. Mahony ate hastily, and, there being here no morning paper or early post to engage him, retired11 to the surgery. His cases written up, his visits for the day arranged, he sat and waited, and listened. This was the time when a walking-patient or two might call for treatment; and the footsteps of any one nearing the house could be heard a long way off, crunching12 the gravel13 of the path by the Lagoon14, coming up the right-of-way. And as he sat, idly twirling his thumbs, it became a matter of interest to speculate whether approaching steps would halt at his door or move on towards the railway station. In waiting, he could hear Cuffy’s voice proclaiming loudly and unnaturally15: JER SUISE URN16 PETTY GARSONG, DE BUN FIGOOR.
After a couple of false alarms there was a knock at the door; and Maria introduced a working-man with a foreign body in his eye. A grain of mortar17 extracted and the eye bathed, Mahony washed, stitched and bandaged a child’s gashed18 knee, and drew a tooth for a miner’s wife. Mary’s aid was needed here, to hold the woman’s hands. It was Mary, too, who applied19 restoratives and helped to clean up the patient. After which she brushed yesterday’s dust from his wide-awake, held a silk coat for him to slip his arms into and checked the contents of his bag.
He set off on his morning round, following the path that ran alongside the Lagoon. Here and there the shadow of a fir-tree fell across it, and, though the season was but late spring, the shade was welcome. Emerging from the Lagoon enclosure, he entered the single street that formed the township of Barambogie. This was empty but for a couple of buggies which stood outside a public-house, their hoods20 white with the dust of innumerable bush journeys.
But the sound of his foot on the pavement, his shadow on the glass of the shop-windows, made people dart22 to their doors to see who passed. Huh! it was only “the new doctor”; and out of HIM nothing was to be got . . . in the shape of a yarn23, or a companionable drink.
One or two threw him a “Mornin’!” The rest contented24 themselves with a nod. But all alike regarded his raised hat and courteous25 “Good day to you!” “Good morning, sir!” with the colonial’s inborn26 contempt for form and ceremony. By the Lord Harry27! slapdash was good enough for them.
On this particular day Mahony had three calls to make.
Arrived at the Anglican parsonage — a shabby brick cottage standing28 on a piece of ground that had never been fenced in — he took up the knocker, which, crudely repaired with a headless nail and a bit of twine29, straightway came off in his hand. He rapped with his knuckles30, and the Reverend Thistlethwaite, in nightshirt and trousers and with bare feet, appeared from his back premises31, where he had been feeding fowls32. Re-affixing the knocker with a skill born of long practice, he opened the door of the parlour, into which there was just room to squeeze. On the table, writing-materials elbowed the remains33 of a mutton-chop breakfast. Blowflies crawled over the fatted plates.
An unsightly carbuncle lanced and dressed, the reverend gentleman — he was a fleshy, red-faced man, of whom unkind rumour34 had it that there were times when his tongue tripped over his own name — laid himself out to detain his visitor. He was spoiling for a chat.
“Yes, yes, doctor, hard at work . . . hard at work!”— with an airy wave of the hand at pens, ink and paper. “Must always have something fresh, you know, of a Sunday morning, to tickle35 ’em up with. Even the minor36 prophets are racked, I can assure you, in the search for a rousing heading.”
Mahony replaced lancet and lint37 in silence. It was common knowledge that old Thistlethwaite had not written a fresh sermon for years; but had used his stale ones again and again, some even said reading them backwards38, for the sake of variety. The implements39 littering the table were set permanently40 out on view.
Insensitive to Mahony’s attitude, he ran on. “Talking of rummy texts now . . . did y’ever hear the story of the three curates, out to impress the Bishop41 with their skill at squeezing juice from a dry orange, who, each in turn, in the different places he visited on three successive Sundays, held forth42 on the theme: ‘Now Peter’s wife’s mother lay sick of a fever’? You have? . . . capital, isn’t it? But I’ll warrant you don’t know the yarn of old Minchin and the cow. It was at Bootajup in the Western District, and his first up-country cure; and Minch, who was a townbird born and bred, was officiating for the first time at Harvest Festival. The farmers had given liberally, the church was full, Minch in the reading-desk with his back to a side door that had been left open for coolness. All went well till in the middle of the Psalms43, when he saw the eyes of his congregation getting rounder and rounder. Old Minch, who was propriety44 in person, thought his collar had come undone45, or that he’d shed a private button . . . ha, ha! Whereas, if you please, it was a cow which had strayed to the door, and was being agreeably attracted by the farm produce. Minch looked round just as the animal walked in, lost his head, dropped his book and bolted; taking the altar rails at a leap, with cassock and surplice bunched up round him. Ha, ha! Capital . . . capital! It was Minchin, too, who was once preaching from the text: ‘And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes,’ when he found himself forced to sneeze some dozen times running. Ha, ha, ha! His own eyes poured tears — ran with water. Out it came: a-tischoo, a-tischoo! The congregation rocked with laughter. — What? . . . you must be toddling46? Well, well! we know you doctors are busy men. Hot? — call this hot? I wonder what you’ll say to our summers! Well, good day, doctor, good day!”
“‘Except ye become as little children’ . . . ‘for of such is the kingdom of heaven.’ MY God! . . . then give me earth.”
Striking off on a bush track Mahony trudged47 along, leaving a low trail of dust in his wake. His goal was a poor outlying wooden shanty48, to treat a washerwoman’s severely49 scalded leg and foot. The wound, some days old, was open, dirty, offensive; the woman, who sat propped50 up before her tubs, struggling to finish her week’s work, loud-mouthed with pain.
“She don’t half holler’n screech if oner the kids knocks up against it,” volunteered a foxy-looking girl who stood by, sucking her thumb, and watching, with an unholy interest, the sponging off of the foul51 rags, the laying bare of the raw flesh.
Mahony’s impatient “Why on earth didn’t you send for me sooner?” brought no coherent response; but his prescription52 of complete rest in a horizontal position effectually loosed the sufferer’s tongue. “Didn’t I know you’d be after orderin’ me some such foolery? Who’s to kape us? I’ve no man. I’m a poor lone53 widder . . .”
“Apply to your priest for aid.”
“The praste? A fat lot o’ good that ‘ud be — the great lazy louse! We cud all starve afore HE’D lift a finger.”
“Well, I’ve warned you, I can do no more.” And cutting further discussion short, Mahony put on his hat and walked out of the house.
As, however, the foxy child, thumb in mouth, lolloped after him, he took a sovereign from his pocket. “Here, my girl, here’s something to tide you over. Now see that your mother lies up. You’re old enough to lend a hand.”
But before he had gone a hundred yards he turned on his heel, recalling the low, cunning look that had leapt into the girl’s eyes at sight of the gold piece. “Fool that I am! . . . the mother will never see it.”
Caught in the act of secreting54 the coin in her stocking, the girl went livid with fury. “What d’you mean? D’you think I was goin’ to pinch it? Ma! . . . d’you hear, Ma? . . . what he says? Ma! he’s callin’ me a thief.”
“A thief, indeed! My child a thief? — And you, you pesky young devil, you hand that chip over or I’ll wring55 your neck!”
Thence to the shop of Ah Sing, the Chinese butcher, where a rachitic infant lay cramped56 with the colic. Mahony looked with pity on the little half-breed, slit57 of eye and yellow of skin, and was very short with the mother, a monstrously58 fat woman who stood, her arms a-kimbo, answering his questions with an air of sulky defiance59. No she didn’t know, not she, what had caused the colic: she’d done ‘nothing. But here espying60 an empty tin dish that had been thrust under the bed, Mahony picked it up and sniffed61 it. “Ha! here we have it. What filthy62 messes has your husband been feeding the child on now? Haven’t I told you her stomach will not stand them?”
“Mrs. Ah Sing” bit back the abusive rejoinders that were given to escaping her at any reference to her child’s mixed origin: “Doctor’s” were Sing’s best customers. But the visit over, she flounced into the shop and, seizing a knife, let loose her spleen in hacking63 down some chops, while she vociferated for all to hear: “Filthy mess, indeed . . . I’ll mess him! Let him look to his own kids, say I! That boy brat64 of his is as white as a sheet and thin as a lizard65. — Here, you Sing, weigh this and look sharp about it, you crawling slug, you!”
“Malia! me give lil baby powder — you no sendee more for doctorman, Malia!” said the soft-voiced, gentle Chinaman who owned her.
“Oh, hell take the kid! — and you along with it,” gave back Maria.
On the way home Mahony overtook his children and the governess, returning from their morning walk. The twins’ short fag legs were weary. Entrusting66 his bag to Cuffy, who forthwith became “the doctor,” bowing graciously to imaginary patients, and only waggling the bag just the least little bit to hear the things inside it rattle67, their father took his little girls by the hand. Poor mites68! They were losing their roses already. Somehow or other he must make it possible to send them away when the real hot weather came. This was no place for children in summer; he heard it on every side. And his, reared to sea-breezes, would find it doubly hard to acclimatise themselves. Stung by these reflections he unthinkingly quickened his pace, and strode ahead, a gaunt figure, dragging a small child at a trot69 on either hand. Miss Prestwick gave up the chase.
Dinner over, out he had to turn again. Back to the main street and the hotel, where a buggy should have been in waiting. It was not. He had to stand about in the sun while the vehicle was dragged out, the horse fetched, harnessed, and backed between the shafts70. A strap71 broke in the buckling72; the ostler, whistling between his teeth, leisurely73 repaired the damage with a bit of string.
Stiffly Mahony jerked himself up into the high vehicle and took the reins74. He had a ten-mile drive before him, over the worst possible roads; it would be all he could do to reach home by dark. The horse, too, was unfresh. In vain he urged and cajoled; the animal’s pace remained a dilatory75 amble76. And the heat seemed to accumulate under the close black hood21, which weighed on his shoulders like a giant hat. Yet, if he alighted to slip a rail, it was so much hotter outside that he was glad to clamber back beneath its covering. Still he did not complain. These bush visits were what brought the shekels in: not the tinkering with rachitic infants or impecunious77 Irish, whom, as this morning, he sometimes paid for the privilege of attending. (Ha, ha! . . . capital! . . . as that fool Thistlethwaite would have said.) And to-day promised to be more than ordinarily remunerative78; for he had another long drive before him that evening, in an opposite direction. He could count on clearing a ten-pound note.
But when, towards six o’clock, he reached home, the summons he was expecting had not come. There was time for a bath, a change, a rest; and still the trap that should have fetched him had not appeared. He began to grow fidgety. The case was one of diphtheria. On the previous day he had given relief by opening the windpipe; it was essential for him to know the result of the operation. What could the people be thinking of? Or had the child died in the meantime . . . the membrane79 spread downwards80, causing obstruction81 below the tube? “Surely in common decency82 they would have let me know?”
He wandered from room to room, nervously83 snapping his fingers. Or sat down and beat a tattoo84 on chair-arm or table, only to spring up at an imaginary sound of wheels.
Mary dissuaded85 him from hiring a buggy and driving out to see what had happened. She also pooh-poohed his idea of an accident to the messenger. The father, a vinegrower, had several men and more than one horse and buggy at his disposal. The likelihood was, he would have come himself, had the child been worse. UNLESS, of course . . . well! it wasn’t death SHE thought of. But the township of Mittagunga was not much farther than Barambogie from the patient’s home; and there was another doctor at Mittagunga. She did not speak this thought aloud; but it haunted her; and, as the evening wore eventlessly away, the question escaped her in spite of herself: “Can you have offended them? . . . in any way?”
“OFFENDED them? I? — Well, if it’s offensive to leave one’s bed in the middle of the night for an eight-mile drive on these abominable86 roads, to perform a ticklish87 operation!” And very bitterly: “What extraordinary ideas you do have, Mary! What on earth do you mean now?”
But Mary, repenting88 her slip, was not prepared to stir up the heated discussion that would inevitably89 follow.
She went into the dining-room and sat down to her sewing; while he fell to pacing the verandah. But though she, too, never ceased to keep her ears pricked90 for the noise of wheels, no sound was to be heard but that of Richard’s feet tramping to and fro (“HOW tired he will be to-morrow!”) and the peevish91 whine92 of a little nightwind round the corners of the house. Sorry as she felt for him, she did not again try to reason with him or console him. For when in one of his really black moods, he seemed to retire where words could not get at him. And these moods were growing on him. Nowadays, any small mishap93 sufficed to throw him into a state of excitement, the aftermath of which was bottomless depression. How would it all end? — Letting her work fall, Mary put her chin in her hand, and sat staring into the flame of the kerosene94 lamp. But she did not see it. She seemed to be looking through the light at something that lay beyond . . . something on the farther side, not only of the flame, but of all she had hitherto known of life; to be looking, in visionary fashion, out towards those shadowy to-morrows, for the first of which Richard was so surely incapacitating himself . . . an endless line of days, that would come marching upon her, with never a break, never a respite95, each fuller of anxiety than the one that went before.
Till, with a shiver, she resolutely96 shook herself free. “Tch! . . . it comes of listening to that silly, dismal97 wind.”
Yet when, on the clock striking eleven, she stepped out on the verandah, her first words were: “Oh, what a lovely night!”
For the little wind whistled and piped out of a clear sky; and the moon, at full, drenched98 the earth with its radiance. Before the house the Lagoon lay like a sheet of beaten silver. Trees and bushes, jet-black on one side, were white as if with hoar frost on the other. The distant hills ran together with the sky in a silver haze99. All was peace . . . except for the thudding of Richard’s feet.
“My dear, I’m sure it’s no use waiting up any longer. They won’t come now. Do go to bed.”
“I’m too worried. I couldn’t sleep.”
“But at least it would rest you. As it is, you’re wearing yourself out.”
“Very easy for you to talk! But if anything should happen . . . the responsibility . . . my practice here — I can’t afford it, Mary, and that’s the truth . . . not yet.”
There was nothing to be done. With a sigh that was like a little prayer for patience, Mary turned away.
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1
screech
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| n./v.尖叫；(发出)刺耳的声音 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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3
magisterial
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| adj.威风的，有权威的；adv.威严地 | |
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scampering
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的现在分词 ) | |
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clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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6
tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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collapsing
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| 压扁[平]，毁坏，断裂 | |
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jabber
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| v.快而不清楚地说；n.吱吱喳喳 | |
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mincing
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| adj.矫饰的；v.切碎；切碎 | |
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10
apportioning
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| vt.分摊，分配（apportion的现在分词形式） | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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crunching
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的现在分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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lagoon
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| n.泻湖，咸水湖 | |
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unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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urn
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| n.（有座脚的）瓮；坟墓；骨灰瓮 | |
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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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gashed
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| v.划伤，割破( gash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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hoods
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| n.兜帽( hood的名词复数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩v.兜帽( hood的第三人称单数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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inborn
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| adj.天生的，生来的，先天的 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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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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twine
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| v.搓，织，编饰；（使）缠绕 | |
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knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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tickle
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| v.搔痒，胳肢；使高兴；发痒；n.搔痒，发痒 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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37
lint
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| n.线头；绷带用麻布，皮棉 | |
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38
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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42
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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43
psalms
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| n.赞美诗( psalm的名词复数 )；圣诗；圣歌；(中的) | |
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44
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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45
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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46
toddling
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| v.（幼儿等）东倒西歪地走( toddle的现在分词 )；蹒跚行走；溜达；散步 | |
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47
trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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48
shanty
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| n.小屋，棚屋；船工号子 | |
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49
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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50
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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52
prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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53
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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54
secreting
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| v.（尤指动物或植物器官）分泌( secrete的现在分词 )；隐匿，隐藏 | |
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55
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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56
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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57
slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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58
monstrously
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59
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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espying
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| v.看到( espy的现在分词 ) | |
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sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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hacking
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| n.非法访问计算机系统和数据库的活动 | |
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brat
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| n.孩子；顽童 | |
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lizard
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| n.蜥蜴，壁虎 | |
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entrusting
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的现在分词 ) | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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mites
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| n.（尤指令人怜悯的）小孩( mite的名词复数 )；一点点；一文钱；螨 | |
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trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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strap
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| n.皮带，带子；v.用带扣住，束牢；用绷带包扎 | |
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buckling
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| 扣住 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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dilatory
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| adj.迟缓的，不慌不忙的 | |
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amble
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| vi.缓行，漫步 | |
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impecunious
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| adj.不名一文的，贫穷的 | |
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remunerative
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| adj.有报酬的 | |
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membrane
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| n.薄膜，膜皮，羊皮纸 | |
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downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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obstruction
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| n.阻塞，堵塞；障碍物 | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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tattoo
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| n.纹身，(皮肤上的)刺花纹；vt.刺花纹于 | |
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dissuaded
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| 劝（某人）勿做某事，劝阻( dissuade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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ticklish
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| adj.怕痒的；问题棘手的；adv.怕痒地；n.怕痒，小心处理 | |
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repenting
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的现在分词 ) | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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mishap
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| n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸 | |
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kerosene
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| n.(kerosine)煤油，火油 | |
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respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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