In the course of the following winter John Turnham came to stand as one of two candidates for the newly proclaimed electoral district of Ballarat West.
The first news his relatives had of his intention was gleaned1 from the daily paper. Mahony lit on the paragraph by chance one morning; said: “Hullo! Here’s something that will interest you, my dear,” and read it aloud.
Polly laid down her knife and fork, pushed her plate from her, and went pink with pleasure and surprise. “Richard! You don’t mean it!” she exclaimed, and got up to look over his shoulder. Yes, there it was — John’s name in all the glory of print. “Mr. John Millibank Turnham, one of the foremost citizens and most highly respected denizens2 of our marvellous metropolis3, and a staunch supporter of democratic rights and the interests of our people.” Polly drew a deep breath. “Do you know, Richard, I shouldn’t wonder if he came to live on Ballarat — I mean if he gets in.— Does Trotty hear? This is Trotty’s papa they’re writing about in the papers.— Of course we must ask him to stay with us.” For this happened during an interregnum, when the spare room was temporarily out of use.
“Of course we must do nothing of the kind. Your brother will need the best rooms Bath’s can give him; and when he’s not actually on the hustings4, he’ll be hobnobbing in the bar, standing6 as many drinks as there are throats in the crowd,” gave back Mahony, who had the lowest possible opinion of colonial politics.
“Well, at least I can write and tell him how delighted we are,” said Polly, not to be done.
“Find out first, my dear, if there’s any truth in the report. I can hardly think John would have left us in the dark to this extent.”
But John corroborated7 the news; and, in the letter Polly read out a week later, announced the opening of his campaign for the coming month.
I SHALL FEEL MUCH OBLIGED TO YOUR HUSBAND IF HE WILL MEANWHILE EXERT HIS INFLUENCE ON MY BEHALF. HE IS NO DOUBT ACQUAINTED PROFESSIONALLY WITH MANY OF THE LEADING SQUATTERS ROUND BALLARAT, WHOM HE CAN INDUCE TO SUPPORT MY CANDIDATURE.
“Umph!” said Mahony grumpily, and went on scooping8 out his egg. “We’re good enough to tout9 for him.”
“Ssh!” warned Polly, with a glance at Trotty. “Think what it means to him, Richard, and to us, too. It will do your practice ever so much good if he gets in — to be the brother-in-law of the member! We must help all we can, dear.”
She was going driving to Yarangobilly that day with Archdeacon Long to see a new arrival Richard had recently brought into the world; and now she laid plans to kill two birds with one stone, entering into the scheme with a gusto that astonished Mahony. “Upon my word, wife, I believe you’re glad to have something to do.”
“Will my own papa gimme a dolly? . . . like Uncle Papa?” here piped Trotty.
“Perhaps. But you will have to be a VERY good girl, and not talk with your mouth full or dirty your pinnies. Oh, here’s a postscript10!” Polly had returned to the sheet, and was gloating over it. “John writes:
“ESPECIALLY MUST HE ENDEAVOUR TO WIN LAWYER OCOCK OVER TO MY SIDE. I LAY GREAT WEIGHT ON O.‘S SUPPORT.
“Oh, Richard, now ISN’T that unfortunate? I do hope it won’t make any difference to John’s chances.”
Polly’s dismay had good grounds. A marked coolness had sprung up between her husband and the lawyer; and on no account, she knew, would Richard consent to approach Mr. Henry. Some very hot remarks made by the latter had been passed on to her by Mrs. Glendinning. She had not dared to tell Richard the worst.
The coolness dated from an afternoon when Tilly Beamish had burst into the house in a state of rampant11 excitement. “Oh, Polly! oh, I say! my dear, whatever do you think? That old cove12 — old O.—‘as actually had the cheek to make me a proposal.”
“Tilly!” gasped13 Polly, and flushed to the roots of her hair. “Oh, my dear, I AM pleased!” For Polly’s conscience was still somewhat tender about the aid she had lent Purdy in his evasions14. The two women kissed, and Tilly cried a little. “It’s certainly her first offer,” thought Mrs. Polly. Aloud, she asked hesitatingly: “And do you . . . shall you . . . I mean, are you going to accept him, Tilly?”
But this was just where Tilly could not make up her mind: should she take him, or should she not? For two whole days she sat about debating the question; and Polly listened to her with all the sympathy and interest so momentous15 a step deserved.
“If you feel you could really learn to care for him, dear. Of course it WOULD be nice for you to have a house of your own. And how happy it would make poor mother to see you settled!”
Tilly tore the last veil from her feelings, uttered gross confidences. Polly knew well enough where her real inclination16 lay. “I’ve hoped against hope, Poll, that a CERTAIN PERSON would come to the scratch at last.” Yes, it was true enough, he had nothing to offer her; but she wasn’t the sort to have stuck at that. “I’d have worked my hands to the bone for ’im, Poll, if ‘e’d ONLY said the word.” The one drawback to marriage with “you know ‘oo” would have been his infirmity. “Some’ow, Polly, I can’t picture myself dragging a husband with a gammy leg at my heels.” From this, Tilly’s mind glanced back to the suitor who had honourably17 declared himself. Of course “old O.” hadn’t a great deal of the gentleman about him; and their ages were unsuitable. “‘E owns to fifty-eight, and as you know, Poll, I’m only just turned twenty-five,” at which Polly drooped18 her head a little lower over the handkerchief she was hemming19, to avoid meeting her friend’s eye. Poor dear Tilly! she would never see thirty again; and she need hardly have troubled, thought Polly, to be insincere with her. But in the same breath she took back the reproach. A woman herself, she understood something of the fear, and shame, and heartburning that had gone to the making of the lie. Perhaps, too, it was a gentle hint from Tilly what age she now wished to be considered. And so Polly agreed, and said tenderly: yes, certainly, the difference was very marked. Meanwhile Tilly flowed on. These were the two chief objections. On the other hand, the old boy was ludicrously smitten20; and she thought one might trust her, Tilly B., to soon knock him into shape. It would also, no doubt, be possible to squeeze a few pounds out of him towards assisting “pa and ma” in their present struggle. Again, as a married woman she would have a chance of helping21 Jinny to find a husband: “Though Jinn’s gone off so, Polly, I bet you’d hardly know her if you met ‘er in the street.” To end all, a bird in hand, etc.; and besides, what prospects23 had she, if she remained a spinster?
So, when she was asked, Tilly accepted without further humming and hawing an invitation to drive out in the smart dog-cart Mr. Ocock had hired for the purpose; and Polly saw her off with many a small private sign of encouragement. All went well. A couple of hours later Tilly came flying in, caught Polly up in a bear’s hug, and danced her round the room. “My dear, wish me joy!— Oh, lor, Polly, I DO feel ‘appy!” She was wearing a large half-hoop of diamonds on her ring-finger: nothing would do “old O.” but that they should drive there and then to the finest jeweller’s in Sturt Street, where she had the pick of a trayful. And now Mr. Ocock, all a-smirk with sheepish pride, was fetched in to receive congratulations, and Polly produced refreshments24; and healths were drunk. Afterwards the happy couple dallied25 in the passage and loitered on the doorstep, till evening was far advanced.
It was Polly who, in clearing away, was struck dumb by the thought: “But now whatever is to become of Miss Amelia?”
She wondered if this consideration troubled the old man. Trouble there was, of some sort: he called at the house three days running for a word with Richard. He wore a brand-new pair of shepherd’s-plaid trousers, a choker that his work-stained hands had soiled in tying, a black coat, a massive gold watch-chain. On the third visit he was lucky enough to catch Mahony, and the door of the surgery closed behind them.
Here Mr. Ocock sat on the extreme edge of a chair; alternately crushed his wide-awake flat between his palms and expanded it again, as though he were playing a concertina; and coughed out a wordy preamble26. He assured Mahony, to begin with, how highly he esteemed27 him. It was because of this, because he knew doctor was as straight as a pound of candles, that he was going to ask his advice on an awkward matter — devilish awkward!— one nobody had any idea of either — except Henry. And Henry had kicked up such a deuce of a row at his wanting to marry again, that he was damned if he’d have anything more to do with him. Besides, the doctor knew what lawyers were — the whole breed of ’em! Sharp as needles — especially Henry — but with a sort of squint28 in their upper storey that made ’em see every mortal thing from the point of view of law. And that was no good to him. What he needed was a plain and honest, a . . . he hesitated for a word and repeated, “a Honest opinion;” for he only wanted to do the right thing, what was straight and above board. And at last out it came: did “doc.” think it would be acting29 on the square, and not taking a low-down advantage of a female, if he omitted to mention to “the future Mrs. O” that, up till six months back, he had been obliged to . . . well, he’d spit it out short and say, obliged to report himself to the authorities at fixed30 intervals31? Women were such shy cattle, so damned odd! You never knew how they’d take a thing like this. One might raise Cain over it, another only laugh, another send him packing. He didn’t want to let a fine young woman like Matilda slip if he could help it, by dad he didn’t! But he felt he must either win her by fair dealing32 or not at all. And having got the load off his chest, the old colonist33 swallowed hard, and ran the back of his hand over his forehead.
He had kept his eyes glued to the table-leg in speaking, and so saw neither his hearer’s involuntary start at the damaging disclosure, nor the nervous tightening34 of the hand that lay along the arm of the chair. Mahony sat silent, balancing a paper-knife, and fighting down a feeling of extraordinary discomfort35 — his very finger-tips curled under the strain. It was of little use to remind himself that, ever since he had known him, Ocock had led a decent, God-fearing life, respected both in his business relations and by his brethren of the chapel36. Nor could he spare more than a glance in passing for those odd traits in the old man’s character which were now explained: his itch37 for public approval; his unvarying harshness towards the pair of incorrigibles who weighed him down. At this moment he discounted even the integrity that had prompted the confession38. His attitude of mind was one of: why the deuce couldn’t the old fool have held his tongue?
Oh, these unbidden, injudicious confidences! How they complicated life! And as a doctor he was pestered39 with only too many; he was continually being forced to see behind the scenes. Now, outsiders, too, must needs choose him for the storehouse of their privacies. Himself he never made a confidence; but it seemed as though just this buttoned-upness on his part loosened people’s tongues. Blind to the flags of warning he hoisted40 in looks and bearing, they innocently proceeded, as Ocock had done, to throw up insurmountable barriers. He could hear a new tone in his own voice when he replied, and was relieved to know the old man dull of perception. For now Ocock had finished speaking, and sat perspiring41 with anxiety to learn his fate. Mahony pulled himself together; he could, in good faith, tender the advice to let the dead past bury its dead. Whatever the original fault had been — no, no, please! . . . and he raised an arresting hand — it was, he felt sure, long since fully42 atoned43. And Mr. Ocock had said a true word: women were strange creatures. The revelation of his secret might shipwreck44 his late-found happiness. It also, of course, might not — and personally Mahony did not believe it would; for Ocock’s buisness throve like the green bay-tree, and Miss Tilly had been promised a fine two-storeyed house, with bow-windows and a garden, and a carriage-drive up to the door. Again, the admission might be accepted in peace just now, and later on used as a weapon against him. In his, Mahony’s, eyes, by far the wisest course would be, to let the grass grow over the whole affair.
And here he rose, abruptly45 terminating the interview. “You and I, too, sir, if you please, will forget what has passed between us this morning, and never come back on it. How is Tom getting on in the drapery business? Does he like his billet?”
But none the less as he ushered46 his visitor out, he felt that there was a certain finality about the action. It was — as far as his private feelings were concerned — the old man’s moral exit from the scene.
On the doorstep Ocock hoped that nothing that had been said would reach “your dear little lady.” “To ‘Enry, too, doc., if you’ll be so good, mum’s the word! ‘Enry ‘ud never forgive me, nay47, or you eether, if it got to ‘is ‘ears I’d bin5 an’ let the cat outer the bag. An’ ‘e’s got a bit of a down on you as it is, for it ‘avin’ bin your place I met the future Mrs. O. at.”
“My good man!” broke from Mahony — and in this address, which would previously48 never have crossed his lips, all his sensations of the past hour were summed up. “Has your son Henry the”— he checked himself; “does he suppose I— I or my wife — had anything to do with it?”
He turned back to the surgery hot with annoyance49. This, too! Not enough that he must be put out of countenance50 by indiscreet babbling51; he must also get drawn52 into family squabbles, even be held responsible for them: he who, brooking53 no interference in his own life, demanded only that those about him should be as intolerant as he.
It all came from Polly’s indiscriminate hospitality. His house was never his own. And now they had the prospect22 of John and his electoral campaign before them. And John’s chances of success, and John’s stump54 oratory55, and the backstair-work other people were expected to do for him would form the main theme of conversation for many a day to come.
Mrs. Glendinning confirmed old Ocock’s words.
She came to talk over the engagement with Polly, and sitting in the parlour cried a little, and was sorry. But then “poor little Agnes” cried so easily nowadays. Richard said her nerves had been shattered by the terrible affair just before Christmas, when Mr. Glendinning had tried first to kill her, and then to cut his own throat.
Agnes said: “But I told Henry quite plainly, darling, that I would not cease my visits to you on that account. It is both wrong and foolish to think you or Dr. Mahony had anything to do with it — and after the doctor was so kind, too, so VERY kind, about getting poor Mr. Glendinning into the asylum56. And so you see, dear, Henry and I have had quite a disagreement”; and Agnes cried again at the remembrance. “Of course, I can sympathise with his point of view. . . . Henry is so ambitious. All the same, dearest, it’s not quite so bad — is it?— as he makes out. Matilda is certainly not very COMME IL FAUT— you’ll forgive my saying so, love, won’t you? But I think she will suit Henry’s father in every way. No, the truth is, the old gentleman has made a great deal of money, and we naturally expected it to fall to Henry at his death; no one anticipated his marrying again. Not that Henry really needs the money; he is getting on so well; and I have. . . . I shall have plenty, too, by and by. But you know, love, what men are.”
“Dearest Agnes! . . . don’t fret57 about it. Mr. Henry thinks too much of you, I’m sure, to be vexed58 with you for long. And when he looks at it calmly, he’ll see how unfair it is to make us responsible. I’m like you, dear; I can’t consider it a misfortune. Tilly is not a lady; but she’s a dear, warm-hearted girl and will make the old man a good wife. I only hope though, Agnes, Mr. Henry won’t say anything to Richard. Richard is so touchy59 about things of that sort.”
The two women kissed, Polly with feelings of the tenderest affection: the fact that, on behalf of their friendship, Agnes had pitted her will against Mr. Henry’s, endeared her to Polly as nothing else could have done.
But when, vigilant60 as a mother-hen, she sought to prepare her husband for a possible unpleasantness, she found him already informed; and her well-meant words were like a match laid to his suppressed indignation.
“In all my born days I never heard such impudence61!”
He turned embarrassingly cool to Tilly. And Tilly, innocent of offence and quite unskilled in deciphering subtleties62, put this sudden change of front down to jealousy63, because she was going to live in a grander house than he did. For the same reason he had begun to turn up his nose at “Old O.,” or she was very much mistaken; and in vain did Polly strive to convince her that she was in error. “I don’t know anyone Richard has a higher opinion of!”
But it was a very uncomfortable state of things; and when a message arrived over the electric telegraph announcing the dangerous illness of Mrs. Beamish, distressed64 though she was by the news, Polly could not help heaving a tiny sigh of relief. For Tilly was summoned back to Melbourne with all speed, if she wished to see her mother alive.
They mingled65 their tears, Polly on her knees at the packing, Tilly weeping whole-heartedly among the pillows of the bed.
“If it ‘ad only been pa now, I shouldn’t have felt it half so much,” and she blew her nose for the hundredth time. “Pa was always such a rum old stick. But poor ma . . . when I THINK how she’s toiled66 and moiled ‘er whole life long, to keep things going. She’s ‘ad all the pains and none of the pleasures; and now, just when I was hoping to be able to give ‘er a helping hand, THIS must happen.”
The one bright spot in Tilly’s grief was that the journey would be made in a private conveyance67. Mr. Ocock had bought a smart gig and was driving her down himself; driving past the foundations of the new house, along the seventy odd miles of road, right up to the door of the mean lodging68 in a Collingwood back street, where the old Beamishes had hidden their heads. “If only she’s able to look out of the window and see me dash up in my own turn-out!” said Tilly.
Polly fitted out a substantial luncheon-basket, and was keenest sympathy to the last. But Mahony was a poor dissembler; and his sudden thaw69, as he assisted in the farewell preparations, could, Polly feared, have been read aright by a child.
Tilly hugged Polly to her, and gave her kiss after kiss. “I shall NEVER forget ‘ow kind you’ve been, Poll, and all you’ve done for me. I’ve had my disappointments ’ere, as you know; but p’raps after all it’ll turn out to be for the best. One o’ the good sides to it anyhow is that you and me’ll be next-door neighbours, so to say, for the rest of our lives. And I’ll hope to see something of you, my dear, every blessed day. But you’ll not often catch me coming to this house, I can tell you that! For, if you won’t mind me saying so, Poll, I think you’ve got one of the queerest sticks for a husband that ever walked this earth. Blows hot one day and cold the next, for all the world like the wind in spring. And without caring twopence whose corns ‘e treads on.”— Which, thought Polly, was but a sorry return on Tilly’s part for Richard’s hospitality. After all, it was his house she had been a guest in.
Such were the wheels within wheels. And thus it came about that, when the question rose of paving the way for John Turnham’s candidature, Mahony drew the line at approaching Henry Ocock.
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gleaned
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| v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的过去式和过去分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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denizens
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| n.居民，住户( denizen的名词复数 ) | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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hustings
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| n.竞选活动 | |
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bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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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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corroborated
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| v.证实，支持（某种说法、信仰、理论等）( corroborate的过去式 ) | |
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scooping
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| n.捞球v.抢先报道( scoop的现在分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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rampant
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| adj.(植物)蔓生的；狂暴的，无约束的 | |
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cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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evasions
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| 逃避( evasion的名词复数 )； 回避； 遁辞； 借口 | |
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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honourably
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| adv.可尊敬地，光荣地，体面地 | |
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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hemming
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| 卷边 | |
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smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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dallied
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| v.随随便便地对待( dally的过去式和过去分词 )；不很认真地考虑；浪费时间；调情 | |
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preamble
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| n.前言；序文 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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squint
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| v. 使变斜视眼, 斜视, 眯眼看, 偏移, 窥视; n. 斜视, 斜孔小窗; adj. 斜视的, 斜的 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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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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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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colonist
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| n.殖民者，移民 | |
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tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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itch
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| n.痒，渴望，疥癣；vi.发痒，渴望 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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pestered
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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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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atoned
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的过去式和过去分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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48
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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49
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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50
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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51
babbling
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| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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52
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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53
brooking
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| 容忍，忍受（brook的现在分词形式） | |
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54
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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55
oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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56
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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57
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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58
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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59
touchy
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| adj.易怒的；棘手的 | |
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60
vigilant
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| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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61
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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62
subtleties
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| 细微( subtlety的名词复数 )； 精细； 巧妙； 细微的差别等 | |
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63
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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64
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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65
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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66
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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67
conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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68
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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69
thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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