There for some weeks John was a prisoner, with a fractured rib1 encased in strips of plaster. “In your element again, old girl!” Mahony chaffed his wife, when he met her bearing invalid2 trays.
“Oh, it doesn’t all fall on me, Richard. Jinny’s a great help — sitting with John and keeping him company.”
Mahony could see it for himself. Oftenest when he entered the room it was Jinny’s black-robed figure — she was in mourning for her parents; for Mrs. Beamish had sunk under the twofold strain of failure and disgrace, and the day after her death it had been necessary to cut old Beamish down from a nail — oftenest it was Jinny he found sitting behind a curtain of the tester-bed, watching while John slept, ready to read to him or to listen to his talk when he awoke. This service set Polly free to devote herself to the extra cooking; and John was content. “A most modest and unassuming young woman,” ran his verdict on Jinny.
Polly reported it to her husband in high glee. “Who could ever have believed two sisters would turn out so differently? Tilly to get so . . . so . . . well, you know what I mean . . . and Jinny to improve as she has done. Have you noticed, Richard, she hardly ever — really quite seldom now — drops an h? It must all have been due to Tilly serving in that low bar.”
By the time John was so far recovered as to exchange bed for sofa, it had come to be exclusively Jinny who carried in to him the dainties Polly prepared — the wife as usual was content to do the dirty work! John declared Miss Jinny had the foot of a fay; also that his meals tasted best at her hands. Jinny even succeeded in making Trotty fond of her; and the love of the fat, shy child was not readily won. Entering the parlour one evening Mahony surprised quite a family scene: John, stretched on the sofa, was stringing cats’-cradles, Jinny sat beside him with Trotty on her knee.
On the whole, though, the child did not warm to her father.
“Aunty, kin3 dat man take me away f’om you?”
“That man? Why, Trotty darling, he’s your father!” said Polly, shocked.
“Kin ‘e take me away f’om you and Uncle Papa?”
“He could if he wanted to. But I’m sure he doesn’t,” answered her aunt, deftly5 turning a well-rolled sheet of pastry6.
And righting her dolly, which she had been dragging upside down, Trotty let slip her fears with the sovereign ease of childhood.
From the kitchen Polly could hear the boom of John’s deep bass7: it made nothing of the lath-and-plaster walls. Of course, shut up as he was, he had to talk to somebody, poor fellow; and Richard was too busy to spare him more than half an hour of an evening. Jinny was a good listener. Through the crack of the door, Polly could see her sitting humbly8 drinking in John’s words, and even looking rather pretty, in her fair, full womanliness.
“Oh, Polly!” she burst out one day, after being held thus spellbound. “Oh, my dear, what a splendid man your brother is! I feel sometimes I could sink through the floor with shame at my ignorance, when ‘e talks to me so.”
But as time went on Mahony noticed that his wife grew decidedly thoughtful; and if John continued to sing Jinny’s praises, he heard nothing more of it. He had an acute suspicion what troubled Polly; but did not try to force her confidence.
Then one afternoon, on his getting home, she came into the surgery looking very perturbed10, and could hardly find words to break a certain piece of news to him. It appeared that not an hour previously11, Jinny, flushed and tearful, had lain on her neck, confessing her feelings for John and hinting at the belief that they were returned.
“Well, I think you might have been prepared for something of this sort, Polly,” he said with a shrug12, when he had heard her out. “Convalescence is notoriously dangerous for fanning the affections.”
“Oh, but I never DREAMT of such a thing, Richard! Jinny is a dear good girl and all that, but she is NOT John’s equal. And that he can even THINK of putting her in poor Emma’s place!— What shall I say to him?”
“Say nothing at all. Your brother John is not the man to put up with interference.”
“He longs so for a real home again, Polly darling,” said Jinny, wiping her eyes. “And HOW ‘appy it will make me to fulfil ‘is wish! Don’t let me feel unwelcome and an intruder, dear. I know I’m not nearly good enough for ’im, and ‘e could ‘ave had the choice of ever such handsome women. But ‘e ‘as promised to be patient with me, and to teach me everything I ought to know.”
Polly’s dismay at the turn of events yielded to a womanly sympathy with her friend. “It’s just like poor little Agnes and Mr. Henry over again,” was her private thought. For she could not picture John stooping to guide and instruct.
But she had been touched on a tender spot — that of ambitious pride for those related to her — and she made what Mahony called “a real Turnham attempt” to stand up to John. Against her husband’s express advice.
“For if your brother chooses to contract a mesalliance of this kind, it’s nobody’s business but his own. Upon my word though, Polly, if you don’t take care, this house will get a bad name over the matches that are made in it. You had better have your spare room boarded up, my dear.”
Mahony was feeling particularly rasped by John’s hoity-toity behaviour in this connection. Having been nursed back to health, John went about with his chin in the air, and hardly condescended14 to allude16 to his engagement — let alone talk it over with his relatives. So Mahony retired17 into himself — after all, the world of John’s mind was so dissimilar to his own that he did not even care to know what went on in it. “The fellow has been caught on the hop18 by a buxom19 form and a languishing20 eye,” was how he dismissed the matter in thought.
“I raise my wife to my own station, Mary. And you will greatly oblige me by showing Jane every possible attention,” was the only satisfaction Polly could get from John, made in his driest tone.
Before the engagement was a week old Tilly reappeared — she was to be married from their house on the hither side of Christmas. At first she was too full of herself and her own affairs to let either Polly or Jinny get a word in. Just to think of it! That old cabbage-grower, Devine, had gone and bought the block of land next the one Mr. O. was building on. She’d lay a bet he would put up a house the dead spit of theirs. Did ever anyone hear such cheek?
At the news that was broken to her, the first time she paused for breath, she let herself heavily down on a chair.
“Well, I’m blowed!” was all she could ejaculate. “Blowed!. . . that’s what I am.”
But afterwards, when Jinny had left the room, she gave free play to a very real envy and regret. “In all my life I never did! Jinn to be Mrs. John! . . . and, as like as not, the Honourable21 Mrs. John before she’s done. Oh, Polly, my dear, why EVER didn’t I wait!”
On being presented to John, however, she became more reconciled to her lot. “‘E’s got a temper, your brother has, or I’m very much mistaken. It won’t be all beer and skittles for ‘er ladyship. For Jinn hasn’t a scrap22 of spunk23 in ‘er, Polly. She got so mopey the last year or two, there was no doing anything with ‘er. Now it was just the other way round with me. No matter how black things looked, I always kept my pecker up. Poor ma used to say I grew more like her, every day.”
And at a still later date: “No, Polly, my dear, I wouldn’t change places with the future Mrs. T. after all, thank you — not for Joseph! I SAY! she’ll need to mind her p’s and q’s.” For Tilly had listened to John explaining to Jinny what he expected of her, what she might and might not do; and had watched Jinny sitting meekly24 by and saying yes to everything.
There was nothing in the way of the marriage; indeed, did it not take place immediately, Jinny would have to look about her for a situation of some kind; and, said John, that was nothing for HIS wife. His house stood empty; he was very much in love; and pressed for the naming of the day. So it was decided9 that Polly should accompany Jinny to lodgings25 in Melbourne, help her choose her trousseau and engage servants. Afterwards there would be a quiet wedding — by reason of Jinny’s mourning — at which Richard, if he could possibly contrive26 to leave his patients, would give the bride away. Polly was to remain in John’s house while the happy couple were on honeymoon28, to look after the servants. This arrangement would also make the break less hard for the child. Trotty was still blissfully unconscious of what had befallen her. She had learnt to say “new mamma” parrot-wise, without understanding what the words meant. And meanwhile, the fact that she was to go with her aunt for a long, exciting coach-ride filled her childish cup with happiness. As Polly packed the little clothes, she thought of the night, six years before, when the fat, sleeping babe had been laid in her arms.
“Of course it’s only natural John should want his family round him again. But I SHALL miss the dear little soul,” she said to her husband who stood watching her.
“What you need is a little one of your own, wife.”
“Ah, don’t I wish I had!” said Polly, and drew a sigh. “That would make up for everything. Still if it can’t be, it can’t.”
A few days before the set time John received an urgent summons to Melbourne, and went on ahead, leaving Mahony suspecting him of a dodge29 to avoid travelling EN FAMILLE. In order that his bride-elect should not be put to inconvenience, John hired four seats for the three of them; but: “He might just as well have saved his money,” thought Polly, when she saw the coach. Despite their protests they were packed like herrings in a barrel — had hardly enough room to use their hands. Altogether it was a trying journey. Jinny, worked on by excitement and fatigue30, took a fit of hysterics; Trotty, frightened by the many rough strangers, cried and had to be nursed; and the whole burden of the undertaking31 lay on Polly’s shoulders. She had felt rather timid about it, before starting; but was obliged to confess she got on better than she expected. A kind old man sitting opposite, for instance — a splitter he said he was — actually undid32 Jinny’s bonnet-strings, and fetched water for her at the first stoppage.
Polly had not been in Melbourne since the year after her marriage, and was looking forward intensely to the visit. She went laden33 with commissions; her lady-friends gave her a list as long as her arm. Richard, too, had entrusted34 her to get him second-hand35 editions of various medical works, as well as a new stethoscope. Thirdly, she had promised old Mr. Ocock to go to William’s Town to meet Miss Amelia, who even now was tossing somewhere on the Indian Ocean, and to escort the poor young lady up to Ballarat.
Having seen them start, Mahony went home to drink his coffee and read his paper in a quiet that was new to him. John’s departure had already eased the strain. Then Tilly had been boarded out at the Methodist minister’s. Now, with the exit of Polly and her charges, a great peace descended15 on the little house. The rooms lay white and still in the sun, and though all doors stood open, there was not a sound to be heard but the buzzing of the blowflies round the sweets of the flytraps. He was free to look as glum36 as he chose of a morning if he had neuralgia; or to be silent when worried over a troublesome case. No longer would Miss Tilly’s bulky presence and loud-voiced reiterations of her prospects37 grate his nerves; or John’s full-blooded absorption in himself, and poor foolish Jinny’s quavering doubts whether she would ever be able to live up to so magnificent a husband, offend his sense of decorum.
Another reason he was glad to see the last of them was that, in the long run, he had rebelled at the barefaced38 way they made use of Polly, and took advantage of her good nature. She had not only cooked for them and waited on them; he had even caught her stitching garments for the helpless Jinny. This was too much: such extreme obligingness on his wife’s part seemed to detract from her personal dignity. He could never though have got Polly to see it. Undignified to do a kindness? What a funny, selfish idea! The fact was, there was a certain streak39 in Polly’s nature that made her more akin4 to all these good people than to him — him with his unsociable leanings towards a hermit’s cell; his genuine need of an occasional hour’s privacy and silence, in which to think a few thoughts through to the end.
On coming in from his rounds he turned out an old linen40 jacket that belonged to his bachelor days, and raked up some books he had not opened for an almost equally long time. He also steered41 clear of friends and acquaintances, went nowhere, saw no one but his patients. And Ellen, to whose cookery Polly had left him with many misgivings42, took things easy. “He’s so busy reading, he never knows what he puts in his mouth. I believe he’d eat his boot-soles, if I fried ’em up neat wid a bit of parsley,” she reported over the back fence on Doctor’s odd ways.
During the winter months the practice had as usual fallen off. By now it was generally beginning to look up again; but this year, for some reason, the slackness persisted. He saw how lean his purse was, whenever he had to take a banknote from it to enclose to Polly; there was literally43 nothing doing, no money coming in. Then, he would restlessly lay his book aside, and drawing a slip of paper to him set to reckoning and dividing. Not for the first time he found himself in the doctor’s awkward quandary44: how to be decently and humanly glad of a rise in the health-rate.
He had often regretted having held to the half-hundred shares he had bought at Henry Ocock’s suggestion; had often spent in fancy the sum they would have brought in, had he sold when they touched their highest figure. Such a chance would hardly come his way again. After the one fictitious45 flare-up, “Porepunkahs” had fallen heavily — the first main prospect-drive, at a depth of three hundred and fifty feet, had failed to strike the gutter46 — and nowadays they were not even quoted. Thus had ended his single attempt to take a hand in the great game.
One morning he sat at breakfast, and thought over his weekly epistle to Polly. In general, this chronicled items of merely personal interest. The house had not yet been burnt down — her constant fear, when absent; another doctor had got the Asylum47; he himself stood a chance of being elected to the Committee of the District Hospital. To-day, however, there was more to tell. The English mail had come in, and the table was strewn with foreign envelopes and journals. Besides the usual letters from relatives, one in a queer, illiterate48 hand had reached him, the address scrawled49 in purple ink on the cheapest note-paper. Opening it with some curiosity, Mahony found that it was from his former assistant, Long Jim.
The old man wrote in a dismal50 strain. Everything had gone against him. His wife had died, he was out of work and penniless, and racked with rheumatism51 — oh, it was “a crewl climat”! Did he stop in England, only “the house” remained to him; he’d end in a pauper’s grave. But he believed if he could get back to a scrap of warmth and the sun, he’d be good for some years yet. Now he’d always known Dr. Mahony for the kindest, most liberal of gentlemen; the happiest days of his life had been spent under him, on the Flat; and if he’d only give him a lift now, there was nothing he wouldn’t do to show his gratitude52. Doctor knew a bit about him, too. Here, he couldn’t seem to get on with folk at all. They looked crooked53 at him, and just because he’d once been spunky enough to try his luck overseas. Mahony pshawed and smiled; then wondered what Polly would say to this letter. She it was who had been responsible for packing the old man off.
Unfolding the STAR, he ran his eye over its columns. He had garnered54 the chief local news and was skimming the mining intelligence, when he suddenly stopped short with an exclamation55 of surprise; and his grip on the paper tightened56. There it stood, black on white. “Porepunkahs” had jumped to three pounds per share! What the dickens did that mean? He turned back to the front sheet, to find if any clue to the claim’s renewed activity had escaped him; but sought in vain. So bolting the rest of his breakfast, he hurried down to the town, to see if, on the spot, he could pick up information with regard to the mysterious rise.
The next few days kept him in a twitter of excitement. “Porepunkahs” went on advancing — not by leaps and bounds as before, but slowly and steadily57 — and threw off a dividend58. He got into bed at night with a hot head, from wondering whether he ought to hold on or sell out; and inside a week he was off to consult the one person who was in a position to advise him. Henry Ocock’s greeting resembled an embrace —“It evidently means a fortune for him”— and all trifling59 personal differences were forgotten in the wider common bond. The lawyer virtually ordered Mahony to “sit in”, till he gave the word. By this time “Porepunkahs” had passed their previous limit, and even paid a bonus: it was now an open secret that a drive undertaken in an opposite direction to the first had proved successful; the lead was scored and seamed with gold. Ocock spoke60 of the stone, specimens61 of which he had held in his hand — declared he had never seen its equal.
But when the shares stood at fifty-three pounds each, Mahony could restrain himself no longer; and, in spite of Ocock’s belief that another ten days would see a COUP27, he parted with forty-five of the half hundred he held. Leaving the odd money with the lawyer for re-investment, he walked out of the office the possessor of two thousand pounds.
It was only a very ordinary late spring day; the season brought its like by the score: a pale azure62 sky, against which the distant hills looked purple; above these a narrow belt of cloud, touched, in its curves, to the same hue63. But to Mahony it seemed as if such a perfect day had never dawned since he first set foot in Australia. His back was eased of its burden; and, like Christian64 on having passed the wall known as Salvation65, he could have wept tears of joy. After all these years of pinching and sparing he was out of poverty’s grip. The suddenness of the thing was what staggered him. He might have drudged till his hair was grey; it was unlikely he would ever, at one stroke, have come into possession of a sum like this.— And that whole day he went about feeling a little more than human, and seeing people, places, things, through a kind of beatific66 mist. Now, thank God, he could stand on his own legs again; could relieve John of his bond, pay off the mortgage on the house, insure his life before it was too late. And, everything done, he would still have over a thousand pounds to his credit. A thousand pounds! No longer need he thankfully accept any and every call; or reckon sourly that, if the leakage67 on the roof was to be mended, he must go without a new surtout. Best of all, he could now begin in earnest to save.
First, though, he allowed himself two very special pleasures. He sent Polly a message on the electric telegraph to say that he would come down himself to fetch her home. In secret he planned a little trip to Schnapper Point. At the time of John’s wedding he had been unable to get free; this would be the first holiday he and Polly had ever had together.
The second thing he did was: to indulge the love of giving that was innate68 in him; and of giving in a somewhat lordly way. He enjoyed the broad grin that illumined Ellen’s face at his unlooked-for generosity69; Jerry’s red stammered70 thanks for the gift of the cob the boy had long coveted71. It did him good to put two ten-pound notes in an envelope and inscribe72 Ned’s name on it; he had never yet been able to do anything for these poor lads. He also, without waiting to consult Polly — fearing, indeed, that she might advise against it — sent off the money to Long Jim for the outward voyage, and a few pounds over. For there were superstitious73 depths in him; and, at this turn in his fortunes, it would surely be of ill omen13 to refuse the first appeal for help that reached him.
Polly was so much a part of himself that he thought of her last of all. But then it was with moist eyes. She, who had never complained, should of a surety not come short! And he dropped asleep that night to the happy refrain: “Now she shall have her piano, God bless her! . . . the best that money can buy.”
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rib
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| n.肋骨，肋状物 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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pastry
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| n.油酥面团，酥皮糕点 | |
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bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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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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perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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hop
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| n.单脚跳，跳跃；vi.单脚跳，跳跃；着手做某事；vt.跳跃，跃过 | |
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buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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languishing
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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spunk
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| n.勇气，胆量 | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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lodgings
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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coup
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| n.政变；突然而成功的行动 | |
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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second-hand
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glum
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prospects
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barefaced
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| adj.厚颜无耻的，公然的 | |
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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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linen
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steered
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| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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quandary
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| n.困惑，进迟两难之境 | |
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fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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garnered
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| v.收集并（通常）贮藏（某物），取得，获得( garner的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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dividend
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| n.红利，股息；回报，效益 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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60
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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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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beatific
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| adj.快乐的，有福的 | |
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leakage
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| n.漏，泄漏；泄漏物；漏出量 | |
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innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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inscribe
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| v.刻；雕；题写；牢记 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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