Henry Ocock was pressing for a second opinion; his wife had been in poor health since the birth of her last child. Mahony drove to Plevna House one morning between nine and ten o’clock.
A thankless task lay before him. Mrs. Henry’s case had been a fruitful source of worry to him; and he now saw nothing for it but a straight talk with Henry himself.
He drove past what had once been the Great Swamp. From a bed of cattle-ploughed mud interspersed2 with reedy water-holes; in summer a dry and dust-swept hollow: from this, the vast natural depression had been transformed into a graceful3 lake, some three hundred acres in extent. On its surface pleasure boats lay at their moorings by jetties and boatsheds; groups of stiff-necked swans sailed or ducked and straddled; while shady walks followed the banks, where the whiplike branches of the willows4, showing shoots of tenderest green, trailed in the water or swayed like loose harp-strings5 to the breeze.
All the houses that had sprung up round Lake Wendouree had well-stocked spreading grounds; but Ocock’s outdid the rest. The groom6 opening a pair of decorative7 iron gates which were the showpiece of the neighbourhood, Mahony turned in and drove past exotic firs, Moreton Bay fig-trees and araucarias; past cherished English hollies9 growing side by side with giant cacti10. In one corner stood a rockery, where a fountain played and goldfish swam in a basin. The house itself, of brick and two-storeyed, with massive bay-windows, had an ornamental11 verandah on one side. The drawing-room was a medley12 of gilt13 and lustres, mirrors and glass shades; the finest objects from Dandaloo had been brought here, only to be outdone by Henry’s own additions. Yes, Ocock lived in grand style nowadays, as befitted one of the most important men in the town. His old father once gone — and Mahony alone knew why the latter’s existence acted as a drag — he would no doubt stand for Parliament.
Invited to walk into the breakfast-room, Mahony there found the family seated at table. It was a charming scene. Behind the urn8 Mrs. Henry, in be-ribboned cap and morning wrapper, dandled her infant; while Henry, in oriental gown and Turkish fez, had laid his newspaper by to ride his young son on his foot. Mahony refused tea or coffee; but could not avoid drawing up a chair, touching14 the peachy cheeks of the children held aloft for his inspection15, and meeting a fire of playful sallies and kindly16 inquiries17. As he did so, he was sensitively aware that it fell to him to break up the peace of this household. Only he knew the canker that had begun to eat at its roots.
The children borne off, Mrs. Henry interrogated18 her husband’s pleasure with a pretty: “May I?” or “Should I?” lift of the brows; and gathering19 that he wished her to retire, laid her small, plump hand in Mahony’s, sent a graceful message to “dearest Mary,” and swept the folds of her gown from the room. Henry followed her with a well-pleased eye — his opinion was no secret that, in figure and bearing, his wife bore a marked resemblance to her Majesty20 the Queen — and admonished21 her not to fail to partake of some light refreshment22 during the morning, in the shape of a glass of sherry and a biscuit. “Unless, my love, you prefer me to order cook to whip you up an egg-nog.— Mrs. Ocock is, I regret to say, entirely23 without appetite again,” he went on, as the door closed behind his wife. “What she eats is not enough to keep a sparrow going. You must prove your skill, doctor, and oblige us by prescribing a still more powerful tonic24 or appetiser. The last had no effect whatever.” He spoke25 from the hearthrug, where he had gone to warm his skirts at the wood fire, audibly fingering the while a nest of sovereigns in a waistcoat pocket.
“I feared as much,” said Mahony gravely; and therewith took the plunge26.
When some twenty minutes later he emerged from the house, he was unaccompanied, and himself pulled the front door to behind him. He stood frowning heavily as he snapped the catches of his gloves, and fell foul27 of the groom over a buckle28 of the harness, in a fashion that left the man open-mouthed. “Blow me, if I don’t believe he’s got the sack!” thought the man in driving townwards.
The abrupt29 stoppage of Richard’s visits to Plevna House staggered Mary. And since she could get nothing out of her husband, she tied on her bonnet30 and went off hotfoot to question her friend. But Mrs. Henry tearfully declared her ignorance she had listened in fear and trembling to the sound of the two angry voices — and Henry was adamant31. They had already called in another doctor.
Mary came home greatly distressed33, and, Richard still wearing his obstinate34 front, she ended by losing her temper. He knew well enough, said she, it was not her way to interfere35 or to be inquisitive36 about his patients; but this was different; this had to do with one of her dearest friends; she must know. In her ears rang Agnes’s words: “Henry told me, love, he wouldn’t insult me by repeating what your husband said of me. Oh, Mary, isn’t it dreadful? And when I liked him so as a doctor!”— She now repeated them aloud.
This was too much for Mahony. He blazed up. “The confounded mischiefmonger — the backbiter! Well, if you will have it, wife, here you are . . . here’s the truth. What I said to Ocock was: I said, my good man, if you want your wife to get over her next confinement37 more quickly, keep the sherry-decanter out of her reach.”
Mary gasped38 and sank on a chair, letting her arms flop39 to her side. “Richard!” she ejaculated. “Oh, Richard, you never did!”
“I did indeed, my dear.— Oh well, not in just those words, of course; we doctors must always wrap the truth up in silver paper.— And I should feel it my duty to do the same again to-morrow; though there are pleasanter things in life, Mary, I can assure you, than informing a low mongrel like Ocock that his wife is drinking on the sly. You can have no notion, my dear, of the compliments one calls down on one’s head by so doing. The case is beyond my grasp, of course, and I am cloaking my own shortcomings by making scandalous insinuations against a delicate lady, who ‘takes no more than her position entitles her to’— his very words, Mary!—‘for the purpose of keeping up her strength.’” And Mahony laughed hotly.
“Yes, but was it — I mean. . . was it really necessary to say it?” stammered40 Mary still at sea. And as her husband only shrugged41 his shoulders: “Then I can’t pretend to be surprised at what has happened, Richard. Mr. Henry will NEVER forgive you. He thinks so much of everything and every one belonging to him.”
“Pray, can I help that? . . . help his infernal pride? And, good God, Mary, can’t you see that, far more terrible than my having had to tell him the truth, is the fact of there being such a truth to tell?”
“Oh yes, indeed I can,” and the warm tears rushed to Mary’s eyes. “Poor, poor little Agnes!— Richard, it comes of her having once been married to that dreadful man. And though she doesn’t say so, yet I don’t believe she’s really happy in her second marriage either. There are so many things she’s not allowed to do — and she’s afraid of Mr. Henry, I know she is. You see he’s displeased42 when she’s dull or unwell; she must always be bright and look pretty; and I expect the truth is, since her illness she has taken to taking things, just to keep her spirits up.” Here Mary saw a ray of light, and snatched at it. “But in that case mightn’t the need for them pass, as she grows stronger?”
“I lay no claim to be a prophet, my dear.”
“For it does seem strange that I never noticed anything,” went on Mary, more to herself than to him. “I’ve seen Agnes at all hours of the day. . . when she wasn’t in the least expecting visitors.— Yes, Richard, I do know people sometimes eat things to take the smell away. But the idea of Agnes doing anything so . . . so low — oh, isn’t it JUST possible there might be some mistake?”
“Oh, well, if you’re going to imitate Ocock and try to teach me my business!” gave back Mahony with an angry gesture, and sitting down at the table, he pulled books and papers to him.
“As if such a thing would ever occur to me! It’s only that . . . that somehow my brain won’t take it in. Agnes has always been such a dear good little soul, all kindness. She’s never done anybody any harm or said a hard word about any one, all the years I’ve known her. I simply CAN’T believe it of her, and that’s the truth. As for what people will say when it gets about that you’ve been shown the door in a house like Mr. Henry’s — why, I’m afraid even to think of it!” and powerless any longer to keep back her tears, Mary hastened from the room.
But she also thought it wiser to get away before Richard had time to frame the request that she should break off all intercourse43 with Plevna House. This, she could never promise to do; and the result might be a quarrel. Whereas if she avoided giving her word, she would be free to slip out now and then to see poor Agnes, when Richard was on his rounds and Mr. Henry at business. But this was the only point clear to her. In standing44 up for her friend she had been perfectly45 sincere: to think ill of a person she cared for, cost Mary an inward struggle. Against this, however, she had an antipathy46 to set that was almost stronger than herself. Of all forms of vice47, intemperance48 was the one she hated most. She lived in a country where it was, alas49! only too common; but she had never learnt to tolerate it, or to look with a lenient50 eye on those who succumbed51: and whether these were but slaves of the nipping habit; or the eternal dram-drinkers who felt fit for nothing if they had not a peg52 inside them; or those seasoned topers who drank their companions under the table without themselves turning a hair; or yet again those who, sober for three parts of the year, spent the fourth in secret debauches. Herself she had remained as rigidly53 abstemious54 as in the days of her girlhood. And she often mused55, with a glow at her heart, on her great good fortune in having found in Richard one whose views on this subject were no less strict than her own. Hence her distress32 at his disclosure was caused not alone by the threatened loss of a friendship: she wept for the horror with which the knowledge filled her.
Little by little, though, her mind worked round to what was, after all, the chief consideration: Richard’s action and its probable consequences. And here once more she was divided against herself. For a moment she had hoped her husband would own the chance of him being in error. But she soon saw that this would never do. A mistake on his part would be a blow to his reputation. Besides making enemies of people like the Henrys for nothing. If he had to lose them as patients, it might as well be for a good solid reason, she told herself with a dash of his own asperity56. No, it was a case of either husband or friend. And though she pitied Agnes from the bottom of her heart, yet there were literally57 no lengths she would have shrunk from going to, to spare Richard pain or even anxiety. And this led her on to wonder whether, granted things were as he said, he had approached Mr. Henry in the most discreet58 way. Could he not have avoided a complete break? She sat and pondered this question till her head ached, finding herself up against the irreconcilability59 of the practical with the ideal which complicates60 a man’s working life. What she belatedly tried to think out for her husband was some little common-sense stratagem61 by means of which he could have salved his conscience, without giving offence. He might have said that the drugs he was prescribing would be nullified by the use of wine or spirits; even better, have warned Agnes in private. Somehow, it might surely have been managed. Mr. Henry had no doubt been extremely rude and overbearing; but in earlier years Richard had known how to behave towards ill-breeding. She couldn’t tell why, but he was finding it more and more difficult to get on with people nowadays. He certainly had a very great deal to do, and was often tired out. Again, he did not need to care so much as formerly62 whether he offended people or not — ordinary patients, that was; the Henrys, of course, were of the utmost consequence. Still, once on a time he had been noted63 for his tact64; it was sad to see it leaving him in the lurch65. Several times of late she had been forced to step in and smooth out awkwardnesses. But a week ago he had had poor little Amelia Grindle up in arms, by telling her that her sickly first-born would mentally never be quite like other children. To every one else this had been plain from the outset; but Amelia had suspected nothing, having, poor thing, no idea when a babe ought to begin to take notice or cut its teeth. Richard said it was better for her to face the truth betimes than to spend her life vainly hoping and fretting66; indeed, it would not be right of him to allow it. Poor dear Richard! He set such store by truth and principle — and she, Mary, would not have had him otherwise. All the same, she thought that in both cases a small compromise would not have hurt him. But compromise he would not . . . or could not. And as, recalled to reality by the sight of the week’s washing, which strained, ballooned, collapsed67, on its lines in the yard — Biddy was again letting the clothes get much too dry!— as Mary rose to her feet, she manfully squared her shoulders to meet the weight of the new burden that was being laid on them.
With regard to Mahony, it might be supposed that having faithfully done what he believed to be his duty, he would enjoy the fruits of a quiet mind. This was not so. Before many hours had passed he was wrestling with the incident anew; and a true son of that nation which, for all its level-headedness, spends its best strength in fighting shadows, he felt a great deal angrier in retrospect68 than he had done at the moment. It was not alone the fact of him having got his conge — no medico was safe from THAT punch below the belt. His bitterness was aimed at himself. Once more he had let himself be hoodwinked; had written down the smooth civility it pleased Ocock to adopt towards him to respect and esteem69. Now that the veil was torn, he saw how poor the lawyer’s opinion of him actually was. And always had been. For a memory was struggling to emerge in him, setting strings in vibration70. And suddenly there rose before him a picture of Ocock that time had dimmed. He saw the latter standing in the dark, crowded lobby of the court-house, cursing at him for letting their witness escape. There it was! There, in these two scenes, far apart as they lay, you had the whole man. The unctuous71 blandness72, the sleek73 courtesy was but a mask, which he wore for you just so long as you did not hinder him by getting in his way. That was the unpardonable sin. For Ocock was out to succeed — to succeed at any price and by any means. In tracing his course, no goal but this had ever stood before him. The obligations that bore on your ordinary mortal — a sense of honesty, of responsibility to one’s fellows, the soft pull of domestic ties — did not trouble Ocock. He laughed them down, or wrung74 their necks like so many pullets. And should the poor little woman who bore his name become a drag on him, she would be tossed on to the rubbish-heap with the rest. In a way, so complete a freedom from altruistic75 motives76 had something grandiose77 about it. But those who ran up against it, and could not fight it with its own weapons, had not an earthly chance.
Thus Mahony sat in judgment78, giving rein79 for once to his ingrained dislike for the man of whom he had now made an enemy. In whose debt, for the rest, he stood deep. And had done, ever since the day he had been fool enough, like the fly in the nursery rhyme, to seek out Ocock and his familiars in their grimy little “parlour” in Chancery Lane.
But his first heat spent he soon cooled down, and was able to laugh at the stagy explosiveness of his attitude. So much for the personal side of the matter. Looked at from a business angle it was more serious. The fact of him having been shown the door by a patient of Ocock’s standing was bound, as Mary saw, to react unfavourably on the rest of the practice. The news would run like wildfire through the place; never were such hotbeds of gossip as these colonial towns. Besides, the colleague who had been called in to Mrs. Agnes in his stead, was none too well disposed towards him.
His fears were justified80. It quickly got about that he had made a blunder: all Mrs. Henry needed, said the new-comer, was change of air and scene; and forthwith the lady was packed off on a trial trip to Sydney. Mahony held his head high, and refused to notice looks and hints. But he knew all about what went on behind his back: he was morbidly81 sensitive to atmosphere; could tell how a house was charged as soon as he crossed the threshold. People were saying: a mistake there, why not here, too? Slow recoveries asked themselves if a fresh treatment might not benefit them; lovers of blue pills hungered for more drastic remedies. The disaffection would blow over, of course; but it was painful while it lasted; and things were not bettered by one of his patients choosing just this inconvenient82 moment to die — an elderly man, down with the Russian influenza83, who disobeyed orders, got up too early and was carried off by double pneumonia84 inside a week.— Worry over the mishap85 robbed his poor medical attendant of sleep for several nights on end.
Not that this was surprising; he found it much harder than of old to keep his mind from running on his patients outside working-hours. In his younger days he had laid down fixed86 rules on this score. Every brainworker, he held, must in his spare time be able to detach his thoughts from his chief business, pin them to something of quite another kind, no matter how trivial: keep fowls87 or root round gardens, play the flute88 or go in for carpentry. Now, he might have dug till his palms blistered89, it would not help. Those he prescribed for teased him like a pack of spirit-presences, which clamour to be heard. And if a serious case took a turn for the worse, he would find himself rising in a sweat of uncertainty90, and going lamp in hand into the surgery, to con1 over a prescription91 he had written during the day. And one knew where THAT kind of thing led!
Now, as if all this were not enough, there was added to it the old, evergreen92 botheration about money.
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con
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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interspersed
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| adj.[医]散开的；点缀的v.intersperse的过去式和过去分词 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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urn
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| n.（有座脚的）瓮；坟墓；骨灰瓮 | |
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hollies
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| n.冬青（常绿灌木，叶尖而硬，有光泽，冬季结红色浆果）( holly的名词复数 )；（用作圣诞节饰物的）冬青树枝 | |
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cacti
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| n.（复）仙人掌 | |
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ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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medley
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| n.混合 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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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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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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interrogated
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| v.询问( interrogate的过去式和过去分词 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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admonished
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| v.劝告( admonish的过去式和过去分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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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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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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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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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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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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adamant
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| adj.坚硬的，固执的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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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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flop
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| n.失败(者)，扑通一声；vi.笨重地行动，沉重地落下 | |
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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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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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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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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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intemperance
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| n.放纵 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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lenient
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| adj.宽大的，仁慈的 | |
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succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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abstemious
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| adj.有节制的，节俭的 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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irreconcilability
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| Irreconcilability | |
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complicates
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| 使复杂化( complicate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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stratagem
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| n.诡计，计谋 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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lurch
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| n.突然向前或旁边倒；v.蹒跚而行 | |
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fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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unctuous
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| adj.油腔滑调的，大胆的 | |
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blandness
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| n.温柔，爽快 | |
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sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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altruistic
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| adj.无私的，为他人着想的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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grandiose
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| adj.宏伟的，宏大的，堂皇的，铺张的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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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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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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morbidly
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| adv.病态地 | |
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inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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influenza
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| n.流行性感冒，流感 | |
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pneumonia
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| n.肺炎 | |
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mishap
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| n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸 | |
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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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fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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blistered
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| adj.水疮状的，泡状的v.（使）起水泡( blister的过去式和过去分词 )；（使表皮等）涨破，爆裂 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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evergreen
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| n.常青树；adj.四季常青的 | |
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