In the weeks and months that followed, as he rode from one end of Ballarat to the other — from Yuille’s Swamp in the west, as far east as the ranges and gullies of Little Bendigo — it gradually became plain to Mahony that Ned’s frothy tales had some body in them after all. The character of the diggings was changing before his very eyes. Nowadays, except on an outlying muddy flat or in the hands of the retrograde Chinese, tubs, cradles, and windlasses were rarely to be met with. Engine-sheds and boiler-houses began to dot the ground; here and there a tall chimney belched1 smoke, beside a lofty poppet-head or an aerial trolley-line. The richest gutters2 were found to take their rise below the basaltic deposits; the difficulties and risks of rock-mining had now to be faced, and the capitalist, so long held at bay, at length made free of the field. Large sums of money were being subscribed3; and, where these proved insufficient4, the banks stepped into the breach5 with subsidies6 on mortgages. The population, in whose veins7 the gold-fever still burned, plunged8 by wholesale9 into the new hazard; and under the wooden verandahs of Bridge Street a motley crew of jobbers10 and brokers11 came into existence, who would demonstrate to you, a la Ned, how you might reap a fortune from a claim without putting in an hour’s work on it — without even knowing where it was.
A temptation, indeed! . . . but one that did not affect him. Mahony let the reins13 droop14 on his horse’s neck, and the animal picked its way among the impedimenta of the bush road. It concerned only those who had money to spare. Months, too, must go by before, from even the most promising15 of these co-operative affairs, any return was to be expected. As for him, there still came days when he had not a five-pound note to his name. It had been a delusion16 to suppose that, in accepting John’s offer, he was leaving money-troubles behind him. Despite Polly’s thrift17, their improved style of life cost more than he had reckoned; the patients, slow to come, were slower still to discharge their debts. Moreover, he had not guessed how heavily the quarterly payments of interest would weigh on him. With as good as no margin19, with the fate of every shilling decided20 beforehand, the saving up of thirty odd pounds four times a year was a veritable achievement. He was always in a quake lest he should not be able to get it together. No one suspected what near shaves he had — not even Polly. The last time hardly bore thinking about. At the eleventh hour he had unexpectedly found himself several pounds short. He did not close an eye all night, and got up in the morning as though for his own execution. Then, fortune favoured him. A well-to-do butcher, his hearty21: “What’ll yours be?” at the nearest public-house waved aside, had settled his bill off-hand. Mahony could still feel the sudden lift of the black fog-cloud that had enveloped22 him — the sense of bodily exhaustion23 that had succeeded to the intolerable mental strain.
For the coming quarter-day he was better prepared — if, that was, nothing out of the way happened. Of late he had been haunted by the fear of illness. The long hours in the saddle did not suit him. He ought to have a buggy, and a second horse. But there could be no question of it in the meantime, or of a great deal else besides. He wanted to buy Polly a piano, for instance; all her friends had pianos; and she played and sang very prettily24. She needed more dresses and bonnets25, too, than he was able to allow her, as well as a change to the seaside in the summer heat. The first spare money he had should go towards one or the other. He loved to give Polly pleasure; never was such a contented26 little soul as she. And well for him that it was so. To have had a complaining, even an impatient wife at his side, just now, would have been unbearable27. But Polly did not know what impatience28 meant; her sunny temper, her fixed29 resolve to make the best of everything was not to be shaken.
Well, comforts galore should be hers some day, he hoped. The practice was shaping satisfactorily. His attendance at Dandaloo had proved a key to many doors: folk of the Glendinnings’ and Urquharts’ standing30 could make a reputation or mar18 it as they chose. It had got abroad, he knew, that at whatever hour of the day or night he was sent for, he could be relied on to be sober; and that unfortunately was not always the case with some of his colleagues. In addition his fellow-practitioners showed signs of waking up to his existence. He had been called in lately to a couple of consultations32; and the doyen of the profession on Ballarat, old Munce himself, had praised his handling of a difficult case of version.
The distances to be covered — that was what made the work stiff. And he could not afford to neglect a single summons, no matter where it led him. Still, he would not have grumbled33, had only the money not been so hard to get in. But the fifty thousand odd souls on Ballarat formed, even yet, anything but a stable population: a patient you attended one day might be gone the next, and gone where no bill could reach him. Or he had been sold off at public auction34; or his wooden shanty35 had gone up in a flare36 — hardly a night passed without a fire somewhere. In these and like accidents the unfortunate doctor might whistle for his fee. It seldom happened nowadays that he was paid in cash. Money was growing as scarce here as anywhere else. Sometimes, it was true, he might have pocketed his fee on the spot, had he cared to ask for it. But the presenting of his palm professionally was a gesture that was denied him. And this stand-offishness drove from people’s minds the thought that he might be in actual need of money. Afterwards he sat at home and racked his brains how to pay butcher and grocer. Others of the fraternity were by no means so nice. He knew of some who would not stir a yard unless their fee was planked down before them — old stagers these, who at one time had been badly bitten and were now grown cynically37 distrustful. Or tired. And indeed who could blame a man for hesitating of a pitch-dark night in the winter rains, or on a blazing summer day, whether or no he should set out on a twenty-mile ride for which he might never see the ghost of a remuneration?
Reflecting thus, Mahony caught at a couple of hard, spicy38, grey-green leaves, to chew as he went: the gums, on which the old bark hung in ribbons, were in flower by now, and bore feathery yellow blossoms side by side with nutty capsules. His horse had been ambling39 forward unpressed. Now it laid its ears flat, and a minute later its master’s slower senses caught the clop-clop of a second set of hoofs40, the noise of wheels. Mahony had reached a place where two roads joined, and saw a covered buggy approaching. He drew rein12 and waited.
The occupant of the vehicle had wound the reins round the empty lamp-bracket, and left it to the sagacity of his horse to keep the familiar track, while he dozed41, head on breast, in the corner. The animal halted of itself on coming up with its fellow, and Archdeacon Long opened his eyes.
“Ah, good-day to you, doctor!— Yes, as you see, enjoying a little nap. I was out early.”
He got down from the buggy and, with bent42 knees and his hands in his pockets, stretched the creased43 cloth of his trousers, where this had cut into his flesh. He was a big, brawny44, handsome man, with a massive nose, a cloven chin, and the most companionable smile in the world. As he stood, he touched here a strap45, there a buckle46 on the harness of his chestnut47 — a well-known trotter, with which he often made a match — and affectionately clapped the neck of Mahony’s bay. He could not keep his hands off a horse. By choice he was his own stableman, and in earlier life had been a dare-devil rider. Now, increasing weight led him to prefer buggy to saddle; but his recklessness had not diminished. With the reins in his left hand, he would run his light, two-wheeled trap up any wooded, boulder-strewn hill and down the other side, just as in his harum-scarum days he had set it at felled trees, and, if rumour48 spoke49 true, wire-fences.
Mahony admired the splendid vitality50 of the man, as well as the indestructible optimism that bore him triumphantly51 through all the hardships of a colonial ministry52. No sick bed was too remote for Long, no sinner sunk too low to be helped to his feet. The leprous Chinaman doomed53 to an unending isolation54, the drunken Paddy, the degraded white woman — each came in for a share of his benevolence55. He spent the greater part of his life visiting the outcasts and outposts, beating up the unbaptised, the unconfirmed, the unwed. But his church did not suffer. He had always some fresh scheme for this on hand: either he was getting up a tea-meeting to raise money for an organ; or a series of penny-readings towards funds for a chancel; or he was training with his choir56 for a sacred concert. There was a boyish streak57 in him, too. He would enter into the joys of the annual Sunday-school picnic with a zest58 equal to the children’s own, leading the way, in shirt-sleeves, at leap-frog and obstacle-race. In doctrine59 he struck a happy mean between low-church practices and ritualism, preaching short, spirited sermons to which even languid Christians60 could listen without tedium61; and on a week-day evening he would take a hand at a rubber of whist or ecarte — and not for love — or play a sound game of chess. A man, too, who, refusing to be bound by the letter of the Thirty-nine Articles, extended his charity even to persons of the Popish faith. In short, he was one of the few to whom Mahony could speak of his own haphazard62 efforts at criticising the Pentateuch.
The Archdeacon was wont63 to respond with his genial64 smile: “Ah, it’s all very well for you, doctor!— you’re a free lance. I am constrained65 by my cloth.— And frankly66, for the rest of us, that kind of thing’s too — well, too disturbing. Especially when we have nothing better to put in its place.”
Doctor and parson — the latter, considerably67 over six feet, made Mahony, who was tall enough, look short and doubly slender — walked side by side for nearly a mile, flitting from topic to topic: the rivalry68 that prevailed between Ballarats East and West; the seditious uprising in India, where both had relatives; the recent rains, the prospects69 for grazing. The last theme brought them round to Dandaloo and its unhappy owner. The Archdeacon expressed the outsider’s surprise at the strength of Glendinning’s constitution, and the lively popular sympathy that was felt for his wife.
“One’s heart aches for the poor little lady, struggling to bear up as though nothing were the matter. Between ourselves, doctor”— and Mr. Long took off his straw hat to let the air play round his head — “between ourselves, it’s a thousand pities he doesn’t just pop off the hooks in one of his bouts70. Or that some of you medical gentlemen don’t use your knowledge to help things on.”
He let out his great hearty laugh as he spoke, and his companion’s involuntary stiffening71 went unnoticed. But on Mahony voicing his attitude with: “And his immortal72 soul, sir? Isn’t it the church’s duty to hope for a miracle? . . . just as it is ours to keep the vital spark going,” he made haste to take the edge off his words. “Now, now, doctor, only my fun! Our duty is, I trust, plain to us both.”
It was even easier to soothe73 than to ruffle74 Mahony. “Remember me very kindly75 to Mrs. Long, will you?” he said as the Archdeacon prepared to climb into his buggy. “But tell her, too, I owe her a grudge76 just now. My wife’s so lost in flannel77 and brown holland that I can’t get a word out of her.”
“And mine doesn’t know where she’d be, with this bazaar78, if it weren’t for Mrs. Mahony.” Long was husband to a dot of a woman who, having borne him half a dozen children of his own feature and build, now worked as parish clerk and district visitor rolled in one; driving about in sunbonnet and gardening-gloves behind a pair of cream ponies79 — tiny, sharp-featured, resolute80; with little of her husband’s large tolerance81, but an energy that outdid his own, and made her an object of both fear and respect. “And that reminds me: over at the cross-roads by Spring Hill, I met your young brother-in-law. And he told me, if I ran across you to ask you to hurry home. Your wife has some surprise or other in store for you. No, nothing unpleasant! Rather the reverse, I believe. But I wasn’t to say more. Well, good-day, doctor, good-day to you!”
Mahony smiled, nodded and went on his way. Polly’s surprises were usually simple and transparent82 things: some one would have made them a present of a sucking-pig or a bush-turkey, and Polly, knowing his relish83 for a savoury morsel84, did not wish it to be overdone85: she had sent similar chance calls out after him before now.
When, having seen his horse rubbed down, he reached home, he found her on the doorstep watching for him. She was flushed, and her eyes had those peculiar86 high-lights in them which led him jokingly to exhort87 her to caution: “Lest the sparks should set the house on fire!”
“Well, what is it, Pussy88?” he inquired as he laid his bag down and hung up his wide-awake. “What’s my little surprise-monger got up her sleeve to-day? Good Lord, Polly, I’m tired!”
Polly was smiling roguishly. “Aren’t you going into the surgery, Richard?” she asked, seeing him heading for the dining-room.
“Aha! So that’s it,” said he, and obediently turned the handle. Polly had on occasion taken advantage of his absence to introduce some new comfort or decoration in his room.
The blind had been let down. He was still blinking in the half-dark when a figure sprang out from behind the door, barging heavily against him, and a loud voice shouted: “Boh, you old beef-brains! Boh to a goose!”
Displeased89 at such horseplay, Mahony stepped sharply back — his first thought was of Ned having unexpectedly returned from Mount Ararat. Then recognising the voice, he exclaimed incredulously: “YOU, Dickybird? You!”
“Dick, old man. . . . I say, Dick! Yes, it’s me right enough, and not my ghost. The old bad egg come back to roost!”
The blind was raised; and the friends, who had last met in the dingy90 bush hut on the night of the Stockade91, stood face to face. And now ensued a babel of greeting, a quick fire of question and answer, the two voices going in and out and round each other, singly and together, like the voices in a duet. Tears rose to Polly’s eyes as she listened; it made her heart glow to see Richard so glad. But when, forgetting her presence, Purdy cried: “And I must confess, Dick. . . . I took a kiss from Mrs. Polly. Gad92, old man, how she’s come on!” Polly hastily retired93 to the kitchen.
At table the same high spirits prevailed: it did not often happen that Richard was brought out of his shell like this, thought Polly gratefully, and heaped her visitor’s plate to the brim. His first hunger stilled, Purdy fell to giving a slapdash account of his experiences. He kept to no orderly sequence, but threw them out just as they occurred to him: a rub with bushrangers in the Black Forest, his adventures as a long-distance drover in the Mildura, the trials of a week he had spent in a boiling-down establishment on the Murray: “Where the stink94 wa so foul95, you two, that I vomited96 like a dog every day!” Under the force of this Odyssey97 husband and wife gradually dropped into silence, which they broke only by single words of astonishment98 and sympathy; while the child Trotty spooned in her pudding without seeing it, her round, solemn eyes fixed unblinkingly on this new uncle, who was like a wonderful story-book come alive.
In Mahony’s feelings for Purdy at this moment, there was none of the old intolerant superiority. He had been dependent for so long on a mere99 surface acquaintance with his fellows, that he now felt to the full how precious the tie was that bound him to Purdy. Here came one for whom he was not alone the reserved, struggling practitioner31, the rather moody100 man advancing to middle-age; but also the Dick of his boyhood and early youth.
He had often imagined the satisfaction it would be to confide101 his troubles to Purdy. Compared, however, with the hardships the latter had undergone, these seemed of small importance; and dinner passed without any allusion102 to his own affairs. And now the chances of his speaking out were slight; he could have been entirely103 frank only under the first stimulus104 of meeting.
Even when they rose from the table Purdy continued to hold the stage. For he had turned up with hardly a shirt to his back, and had to be rigged out afresh from Mahony’s wardrobe. It was decided that he should remain their guest in the meantime; also that Mahony should call on his behalf on the Commissioner105 of Police, and put in a good word for him. For Purdy had come back with the idea of seeking a job in the Ballarat Mounted Force.
When Mahony could no longer put off starting on his afternoon round, Purdy went with him to the livery-barn, limping briskly at his side. On the way, he exclaimed aloud at the marvellous changes that had taken place since he was last in the township. There were half a dozen gas-lamps in Sturt Street by this time, the gas being distilled106 from a mixture of oil and gum-leaves.
“One wouldn’t credit it if one didn’t see it with one’s own peepers!” he cried, repeatedly bringing up short before the plate-glass windows of the shops, the many handsome, verandahed hotels, the granite107 front of Christ Church. “And from what I hear, Dick, now companies have jumped the claims and are deep-sinking in earnest, fortunes’ll be made like one o’clock.”
But on getting home again, he sat down in front of Polly and said, with a businesslike air: “And now tell me all about old Dick! You know, Poll, he’s such an odd fish; if he himself doesn’t offer to uncork, somehow one can’t just pump him. And I want to know everything that concerns him — from A to Z.”
Polly could not hold out against this affectionate curiosity. Entrenching108 her needle in its stuff, she put her work away and complied. And soon to her own satisfaction. For the first time in her married life she was led to discuss her husband’s ways and actions with another; and, to her amazement109, she found that it was easier to talk to Purdy about Richard than to Richard himself. Purdy and she saw things in the same light; no rigmarole of explanation was necessary. Now with Richard, it was not so. In conversation with him, one constantly felt that he was not speaking out, or, to put it more plainly, that he was going on meanwhile with his own, very different thoughts. And behind what he did say, there was sure to lurk110 some imaginary scruple111, some rather far-fetched delicacy112 of feeling which it was hard to get at, and harder still to understand.
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belched
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| v.打嗝( belch的过去式和过去分词 )；喷出，吐出；打（嗝）；嗳（气） | |
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gutters
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| （路边）排水沟( gutter的名词复数 )； 阴沟； （屋顶的）天沟； 贫贱的境地 | |
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subscribed
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| v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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subsidies
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| n.补贴，津贴，补助金( subsidy的名词复数 ) | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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jobbers
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| n.做零活的人( jobber的名词复数 )；营私舞弊者；股票经纪人；证券交易商 | |
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brokers
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| n.（股票、外币等）经纪人( broker的名词复数 )；中间人；代理商；（订合同的）中人v.做掮客（或中人等）( broker的第三人称单数 )；作为权力经纪人进行谈判；以中间人等身份安排… | |
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rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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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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droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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thrift
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| adj.节约，节俭；n.节俭，节约 | |
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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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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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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practitioner
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| n.实践者，从事者；(医生或律师等)开业者 | |
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consultations
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| n.磋商（会议）( consultation的名词复数 )；商讨会；协商会；查找 | |
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grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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shanty
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| n.小屋，棚屋；船工号子 | |
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flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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cynically
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| adv.爱嘲笑地，冷笑地 | |
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spicy
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| adj.加香料的；辛辣的，有风味的 | |
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ambling
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| v.（马）缓行( amble的现在分词 )；从容地走，漫步 | |
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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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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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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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43
creased
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的过去式和过去分词 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹； 皱皱巴巴 | |
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brawny
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| adj.强壮的 | |
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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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46
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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chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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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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50
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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51
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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52
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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53
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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54
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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57
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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58
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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59
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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60
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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61
tedium
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| n.单调；烦闷 | |
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62
haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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70
bouts
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| n.拳击（或摔跤）比赛( bout的名词复数 )；一段（工作）；（尤指坏事的）一通；（疾病的）发作 | |
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71
stiffening
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| n. (使衣服等)变硬的材料, 硬化 动词stiffen的现在分词形式 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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ruffle
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| v.弄皱，弄乱；激怒，扰乱；n.褶裥饰边 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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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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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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bazaar
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| n.集市，商店集中区 | |
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ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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83
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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85
overdone
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| v.做得过分( overdo的过去分词 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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86
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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87
exhort
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| v.规劝，告诫 | |
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88
pussy
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| n.(儿语)小猫，猫咪 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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stockade
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| n.栅栏，围栏；v.用栅栏防护 | |
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gad
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| n.闲逛；v.闲逛 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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stink
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| vi.发出恶臭；糟透，招人厌恶；n.恶臭 | |
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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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96
vomited
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97
odyssey
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| n.长途冒险旅行；一连串的冒险 | |
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98
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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99
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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100
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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101
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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102
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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103
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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104
stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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105
commissioner
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| n.（政府厅、局、处等部门）专员，长官，委员 | |
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106
distilled
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| adj.由蒸馏得来的v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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107
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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108
entrenching
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| v.用壕沟围绕或保护…( entrench的现在分词 )；牢固地确立… | |
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109
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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110
lurk
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| n.潜伏，潜行；v.潜藏，潜伏，埋伏 | |
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111
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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112
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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