There were only the three of them; Richard had had to be left behind. It had torn her heart to part from him, to hand him over to strangers but not only Bowes-Smith, every one she consulted had advised against the fatigues5 of the journey for him in his present state. So she had yielded — and not for his sake alone. In the beginning she would need to give her whole mind to her new work. Richard would be better looked after where he was. Thanks to Bowes-Smith, she had managed to get him into a kind of private hospital, where he would live in comfort under a doctor’s eye.
At Toorak, the place was, standing6 in its own beautiful grounds: there were shrubberies and summer-houses, a croquet-lawn, a bowling-green, fruit and flower-gardens; the mere7 sight of which had a good effect on Richard. He brightened up, carried himself more erectly8 — even gave himself proprietary10 airs as they walked together through the gardens. None the less, when the time for parting came he wept bitterly, clinging like a child to her skirts. She had to romance about how soon she was coming back to fetch him: all the doctor thought it wise for him to be told, in the meanwhile, was that she was travelling on ahead to set the new house in order: he surely remembered how he hated the bother and confusion of moving? And by now he was too deeply sunk in himself to put awkward questions. Not once, since his attack, had he troubled his head about ways and means, or where to-morrow’s dinner was to come from. It was pitiable to see; and yet . . . she couldn’t find it in her heart to grudge11 him the peace and content this indifference12 brought him. The doctors called it euphoria.
The one thing he did ask, again like a timid child, was: “Mary, it’s not that place . . . that other place, Mary . . . the one with the whistle . . . and the . . . the . . . the canal, we’re going back to, is it?”
“No, no, dear, indeed it’s not! It’s somewhere quite new; where there’ll be all sorts of fresh things for you to see and do. And till then, Richard, think how comfortable you’re going to be here. Your own room, your own books; and this armchair by the window, so that you can sit and look out at the flowers, and watch the croquet, and see all that happens.”
But something else still wormed in him. “Who will — Mary, will you . . . will they let me . . . clean . . . clean collars, Mary . . . and those other things . . . hankchiefs?”
Here one had a glimpse of the old Richard, with his fastidious bodily habits. Mary got a frog in her throat over it. But she answered sturdily enough: “Of course, they will. As many as you like. And be sure, my darling, if there’s anything you don’t feel quite happy about, let me know, and I’ll have it put right at once.”
As indeed there should be no difficulty in doing, considering what she was paying. Though this, again thanks to Bowes-Smith — and the fact of Richard being a medical man — was only the half of what was charged an ordinary patient: five guineas a week instead of ten. Even so, it was a desperately13 heavy drain. She had put by as much as she dared towards it — seventy pounds — from the sale of the furniture, so in the meantime he was safe. When this was gone, she could but hope and pray he would be well enough to come home.
Out of what remained of the auction15 money, together with Richard’s deposit and her own small savings16, she had at once paid off a quarter’s rent on each of the houses. Neither was yet due . . . and when Sir Jake heard what she had done, he rather called her over the coals for so unbusiness-like a proceeding17. But he didn’t know — how could he? — the load it took from her mind to know these things settled. With her, in the coach, she carried three little packets of notes, two of which, screwed up in old pieces of newspaper and tied securely and privately18 to her body, were towards the next quarter again. The third lay in her sealskin handbag, and was for the expenses of the journey and the purchasing of a few sticks of furniture. It had been a sad blow to learn that the salary attached to the Gymgurra post office was only eighty pounds a year. Eighty pounds! Could she and the children possibly live on that? And what, when Richard came too? Of course there was always a chance the house at Shortlands might find a tenant19 — houses were so scarce there — even though the summer was by now half over. In which case she would be some pounds to the good. Jerry, too, in whose hands she had left the affair of the perished documents, did not despair of retrieving20 SOMETHING from the general ruin. But herself add a single penny to her income she could not; as a Government servant her hands were tied.
Over these reckonings the night wore away. (It would be money, always money now she supposed, to the bitter end.) Still, she did not fail to send a warm thought back to the dear friends who had stood by her in her trouble. The Devines had not only housed them all, but had called in their own medical man to Richard, had helped her to make arrangements at the hospital, to interview doctor and matron. Lady Devine, too — notwithstanding her corpulence — had promised to visit Richard weekly and report on his progress. Old Sir Jake, with her hand in both of his, had gone as near as he dared towards offering her a substantial loan. Mr. Henry had driven out to tell her that Mr. Vibert, the Deputy P.M.G., was in receipt of special instructions with regard to her case; while the postmaster at the nearest town of any size to Gymgurra had orders to give her what help she needed. More, said he, the house at Gymgurra had been enlarged by three rooms. Then dear old Tilly had travelled down from Ballarat to see her; Jerry come all the way from Wangaratta. Not to speak of many a kindness shewn her by less intimate acquaintances. — And yet, in spite of this, Mary felt that she was seeing more than one of them for the last time. Still was she Mrs. Townshend-Mahony, the one-time member of Melbourne society. From now on, as plain Mrs. Mahony, postmistress, she would sink below their ken21: she read it in their eyes when she announced what she was going to do; announced it bluntly, even truculently22; for she was determined23 not to sail under false colours.
It was the same with her relatives. Lizzie, for instance: Lizzie who still traded on past glories — and also, alas24! went on hoarding25 up poor John’s children — was loud in praise of her courage and independence. But a blind man could have seen her relief when she learnt that these virtues26 were to be practised at a distance. Jerry, of course, like the sensible fellow he was, ranged himself on her side — if he did seem a trifle unsure of Fanny — but Zara made no bones of her horrification27.
“Have you really thought SERIOUSLY, Mary, of what you are about to do? Of the publicity28, the notoriety it will entail29? For, no matter what has happened, you are still our poor, dear Richard’s wife. And my one fear is, the odium may redound30 on him.”
“Zara, I’ve thought till I could think no more. But it’s either this or the workhouse. People who are too good to know me any longer must please themselves. To tell the truth, I don’t very much care. But as for what I’m doing reflecting on RICHARD . . . no, that’s too absurd!”
It wasn’t really Richard, it was herself Zara was concerned for; and in how far having a postmistress for a sister would damage her prospects31. Besides, never again, poor thing, would she be able to give Richard’s name as a reference. Ah, had Zara only been different! Then the two of them, sisters, and bound by one of nature’s closest ties, might have combined forces; Zara have managed the house? taught the children, even perhaps have augmented32 their slender joint33 incomes by opening a little school.
Thinking these things Mary found she must have dozed35 off; for when, feeling extremely cold, she opened her eyes again, it was broad daylight. Daylight: and all around her what seemed to her the flattest, barest, ugliest country she had ever had the misfortune to see. Not a tree, not a bit of scrub, hardly so much as a bush broke the monotony of these plains, these immeasurable, grassy36 plains: here, flat as pancake, there, rolling a little up and down, or rising to a few knobbly hillocks, but always bare as a shorn head — except for lumps of blackish rock that stuck up through the soil. You could see for miles on every side, to where the earth met the sky. Another ugly feature was the extreme darkness of the soil: the long, straight road they drove was as black as all the other roads she had known had been white or red. A cloudy sky, black roads, bare earth: to Mary, lover of towns, of her kind, of convivial37 intercourse38, the scene struck home as the last word in loneliness and desolation.
Even the children felt it. “Why are there no trees?” demanded Cuffy aggressively, the crosspatch he always was after a broken night. “I don’t LIKE it without.”
And Lucie’s echoing pipe: “Why are there no trees, Mamma?”
And then the place itself.
“Is THIS it? Is this ALL?” more resentfully still. “Then I think it’s simply hidjus!”
“Oh, come! Don’t judge so hastily.”
But her own courage was at zero when, having clambered down from the coach with legs so stiff that they would hardly carry her, she stood, a child on either hand, and looked about her. — Gymgurra! Two wide, ludicrously wide cross-roads, at the corners of which clustered three or four shops, a Bank, an hotel, the post office, the lockup; one and all built of an iron-grey stone that was almost as dark as the earth itself. There were no footpaths40, no gardens, no trees: indeed, as she soon learnt, in Gymgurra the saying ran that you must walk three miles to see a tree; which however was not quite literally41 true; for, on the skyline, adjoining a farm, there rose a solitary42 specimen43 . . . a unicum.
Their new home, the “Post and Telegraph Office,” with on its front the large round clock by which the township told the time, stood at one of the corners of the cross-roads. Facing it was a piece of waste ground used for the dumping of rubbish: thousands of tins lay scattered44 about, together with old boots, old pots, broken crockery: its next-door neighbour was the corrugated-iron lock-up. Until now, it had consisted only of an office and two small living-rooms. For her benefit a three-roomed weatherboard cottage had been tacked45 on behind. This poor little dingy46 exterior47 was bad enough; inside, it was even worse. The former postmaster had been a bachelor; and before she and the children could live in the rooms he had left, these would have to be cleaned from top to bottom, and the walls given a fresh coat of whitewash48, to rid them of greasy49 smears50 and finger-marks, of the stains of flies and squashed spiders. In the wooden portion — two small bedrooms and a kitchen — all the workmen’s sawdust and shavings still lay about. From the back door three crude wooden steps led to a yard which, except for the water tank, held only rubbish: bottles galore, whole and broken; old boxes; boots and crockery again; with, she thought, every kerosene-tin that had been emptied since the house was first built. Never a spadeful of earth had been turned.
Thank God, she had not brought Richard with her. The mere sight of such a place might have done him harm. By the time he came, poverty-stricken though it was, she would engage to have it looking very different. And this thought gave her the necessary fillip. Mastering her dismay, throwing off her discouragement with bonnet51 and mantle52, she pinned back her skirts and fell to work. With the help of an old, half-blind woman — women seemed very scarce here — she swept and scrubbed and polished, in an effort to make the little house clean and sweet; to free it of a dirty man’s traces. Then, perched on top of a step-ladder, with her own hands she whitewashed53 walls and ceilings. After this, taking coach to the neighbouring coast town, she bought the few simple articles of furniture they needed. — And, for all her preoccupation over trying to make one pound go as far as two, she could not help smiling at Cuffy’s dismay as he watched her purchase of a kitchen-table for use in the dining-room. “But we can’t eat our dinner off THAT, Mamma!” he nudged her, politely and under his breath lest the shopman should hear, but with his small face one wrinkle of perplexity.
And her whispered assurance that a cloth would hide the deal top didn’t help. Cuffy continued sore and ashamed. It wasn’t only this table. There was the dressing-table, too; and the washstand: they were both REALLY only empty packing-cases, stood on their sides and covered with pink s’lesha and book-muslin, to look nice. And for long he lived in dread54 of some inquisitive55 person lifting up cloth or curtain to peep underneath56. It would be like seeing Mamma found out in a story. (If he were there, he would tell that one of the legs had come off the real things and they were away being mended. It didn’t matter about HIM. But to think of Mamma turning cheat gave him a funny stiff ache in his chest.)
He wasn’t, he knew, being very good just now; he didn’t seem able to help it. It was so dull here; there was nothing to do — not even a piano to play your pieces on. Out of chips and blocks of woods left by the builders he cut little boats, which he and Luce sailed in the wash-tubs by the back door . . . with matches for masts, and bits of paper for sails. But you couldn’t go on doing that always. And Luce soon got tired, and went to see that Mamma hadn’t run away. You weren’t allowed in the office, where there would have been the machine to look at, and letters in the pigeon-boxes (had somebody once kept pigeons in them?) and to see how stamps were sold. And the yard had palings round it so high that you couldn’t see over them, only peep through the cracks. You weren’t supposed to go out in the street. You did. But there wasn’t anything there either. The streets were all just bare.
This was the first time they hadn’t had a garden; and fiercely Cuffy hated the gaunt, untidy yard; the unfinished back to the house. There hadn’t been much at Shortlands either, only pear-trees and grass; but he liked grass; specially57 if it nearly covered you when you sat down in it. At Barambogie there had been flowers, and the verandah, and lots of paths . . . and heaps and heaps of trees and wattle to go out and walk in. He could remember it quite well. And in a kind of vague way he remembered other things, too. Somewhere there had been straight black trees like steeples, that swept their tops about when the wind blew; lawns with water spraying on them; hairy white strawberries that somebody made you open your mouth to have popped into. And, vague and faint as these memories were, as little to be caught and held as old dreams, they had left him a kind of heritage, in the shape of an insurmountable aversion to the crude makeshifts and rough slovenliness58 of colonial life. His little sister, on the other hand, carried with her, as the sole legacy59 of her few years, only a wild fear lest, one sure prop9 having given way, the other should now also fail her. Except at her mother’s side, little Lucie knew no rest. She had, as it were, eternally to stand guard over the parent who was left. And to her baby mind the one good thing about this poor, ugly place was that Mamma never went out. Not even to church: a state of things that threw Cuffy who, ever since he could toddle60, had been walked to church on his mother’s hand, into fresh confusion. What would God think? It wouldn’t do for Him not to LIKE Mamma any more, now she was so poor. And He’d said as plain as plain, Remember the Sabbath Day to keep it holy. Oh dear! he was only a little boy and nobody took any notice of him; but what with boxes dressed up as tables, and a table that pretended to be mahogany, and now none of them going to church, he felt as if his world was turning upside down. And that it was one’s MAMMA who did it . . . who ought to know better; be perfect, without sin . . . .
Mary was unaware61 of these vicarious sufferings on her behalf: had neither time nor thought to spare for a child’s imaginary torments62. She was never off her feet — from seven in the morning till long past midnight. For when the office closed, she had still the main part of her work to do: food to prepare for the next day; to wash and iron and sew: whatever happened, her children must be spotlessly turned out.
Very soon after arriving she had given the relieving officer his conge. The man’s manners were intolerable. It also came to her ears that he was going about the township saying: “By the Lord Harry63, there’s a pair of eyes for you!” Which explained why he and the boy who was her sole assistant sat stolidly64 by, not budging65 to help, while she answered knocks at the little window: to dole66 out a single penny stamp, sell a postcard, repeat till she was tired: “Nothing to-day,” to inquiries67 for letters. She thought every man in the place must have come rapping at the wooden shutter68 . . . to take a look at her. Once alone with the lad, however, she had small difficulty in keeping him in his place. He was a heavy, lumpish youth; clerk, operator, telegraph messenger rolled in one. The trouble was, he was so often absent. For though no letters were carried out, yet, had a telegram to be delivered, what with the long distances to be covered on foot and the lad’s incurable69 propensity70 for gossip, she would find herself deserted71 for hours at a time on the run between “key” and window, getting her “statement” made up at any odd moment. Luckily enough, the money side of the business continued to come easy to her. Figures seemed just to fall into line and to add up of themselves.
Had there been the day’s work only to contend with, she would not have complained. It was the nights that wore her down. The nights were cruel. On every one of them without exception, between half-past one and a quarter to two, there came a knocking like thunder at the front door. This was the coach arriving with the night mail: she had to open up the office, drag a heavy mail-bag in, haul another out. Not until this was over could there be any question of sleep for her.
Almost at once it became a nervous obsession72 (she who had had such small patience with Richard’s night fancies!) that, did she even doze34 off, she might fail to hear the knocking — calculated though this was to wake the dead! — fail in her duty, lose her post, bring them all to ruin. Hence she made a point of sitting up till she could sit no longer, then of lying down fully39 dressed, watching the shadows thrown by the candle on walls and ceiling, listening to the children’s steady breathing, the wind that soughed round the corners of the house.
Then when the coach had rumbled73 off, the sound of wheels and hoofs74 died away, and she might have slept, she could not. The effort of rising, of pulling the bags about and exchanging words with the driver, had too effectually roused her. Also, the glimpse caught through the open door of the black darkness and loneliness without alarmed her each time afresh. For the country was anything but safe. The notorious Kellys had recently been at work in the district, and not so very far from Gymgurra either; the township still rang with tales of their exploits. And after the Bank, the post office was the likeliest place to be stuck up, if not THE likeliest; for the Bank Manager had a strong-room, and no doubt a revolver, too . . . besides being a man. While she was only a defenceless woman, with no companions but two small children. If the bushrangers should appear one night, and order her to “bail up” while they rifled the office, she would be utterly75 at their mercy.
The result of letting her mind dwell on such things was that she grew steadily76 more awake; and till dawn would lie listening to every sound. Never did the cheering fall of a human foot pass the house. Unlit, unpatrolled, the township slept the sleep of the dead. Only the dingoes snarled77 and howled; at first a long way off, and then, more shrilly78, near at hand. Or the old volcano that stood in its lake some three miles away — it was said to be extinct, but really one didn’t know — would suddenly give vent14 to loud, unearthly rumblings; which sometimes became so violent that the jugs79 on the washstand danced and rattled80. And then the children, who had learned to sleep through the bustle81 of the coach, would wake up, too, and be frightened; and she would have to light the candle again and talk to them, and give them drinks, and re-arrange their pillows.
“It’s all right, chicks. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Mamma’s here.”
This satisfied them: Mamma was there, hence all was well . . . as though she were a kind of demigod, who controlled even the eruptions82 of volcanoes! With Lucie cuddled tight in her arms, all the fragrance83 of the child’s warm body mounting to her, she lay and thought of her children with a pity that left mere love far behind. They trusted her so blindly; and she, what could she do for them? Except for this imagined security, she had nothing to give. And, should anything happen to her, while they were still too young to fend84 for themselves — no! that simply did not bear thinking of. She had seen too much of the fates of motherless children in this country. Bandied from one home to another, tossed from pillar to post . . . like so much unclaimed baggage. Rather than know hers exposed to such a destiny . . . yes, there came moments when she could understand and condone85 the madness of the mother who, about to be torn away, refused to leave her little ones behind. For, to these small creatures, bone of her bone and flesh of her flesh, links bound Mary that must, she felt, outlast86 life itself. Through them and her love for them, she caught her one real glimpse of immortality87.
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1
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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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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jolts
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| （使）摇动， （使）震惊( jolt的名词复数 ) | |
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fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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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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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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erectly
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| adv.直立地，垂直地 | |
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prop
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| vt.支撑；n.支柱，支撑物；支持者，靠山 | |
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proprietary
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| n.所有权，所有的；独占的；业主 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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retrieving
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| n.检索（过程），取还v.取回( retrieve的现在分词 )；恢复；寻回；检索（储存的信息） | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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truculently
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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hoarding
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| n.贮藏；积蓄；临时围墙；囤积v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的现在分词 ) | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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horrification
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| n.角（质）化 | |
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publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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redound
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| v.有助于；提；报应 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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footpaths
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| 人行小径，人行道( footpath的名词复数 ) | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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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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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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tacked
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| 用平头钉钉( tack的过去式和过去分词 )； 附加，增补； 帆船抢风行驶，用粗线脚缝 | |
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46
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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whitewash
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| v.粉刷，掩饰；n.石灰水，粉刷，掩饰 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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smears
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| 污迹( smear的名词复数 )； 污斑； （显微镜的）涂片； 诽谤 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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53
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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56
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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57
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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58
slovenliness
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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toddle
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| v.（如小孩）蹒跚学步 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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stolidly
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| adv.迟钝地，神经麻木地 | |
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budging
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| v.（使）稍微移动( budge的现在分词 )；（使）改变主意，（使）让步 | |
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66
dole
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| n.救济，（失业）救济金；vt.（out）发放，发给 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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68
shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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69
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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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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obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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73
rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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74
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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75
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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jugs
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| （有柄及小口的）水壶( jug的名词复数 ) | |
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80
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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81
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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82
eruptions
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| n.喷发，爆发( eruption的名词复数 ) | |
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83
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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84
fend
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| v.照料（自己），（自己）谋生，挡开，避开 | |
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85
condone
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| v.宽恕；原谅 | |
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86
outlast
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| v.较…耐久 | |
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87
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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