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 interspersed with reedy water-holes; in summer a
dry and dust-swept hollow: from this, the vast natural depression had
been transformed into a graceful 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 willows, showing shoots of tenderest green, trailed in
the water or swayed like loose harp-strings 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 groom opening a
pair of decorative 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 hollies growing side
by side with giant cacti. 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 ornamental
verandah on one side. The drawing-room was a medley of gilt 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 urn 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, touching the peachy cheeks of the children
held aloft for his inspection, and meeting a fire of playful sallies
and kindly inquiries. 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 interrogated her husband's pleasure
with a pretty: "May I?" or "Should I?" lift of the brows; and gathering
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 Majesty the Queen--and admonished her not to
fail to partake of some light refreshment 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, entirely 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 tonic or appetiser. The last had no effect whatever." He
spoke 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 plunge.
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 foul of the groom over a buckle 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 abrupt stoppage of Richard's visits to Plevna House staggered Mary.
And since she could get nothing out of her husband, she tied on her
bonnet 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 adamant. They had
already called in another doctor.
Mary came home greatly distressed, and, Richard still wearing his
obstinate front, she ended by losing her temper. He knew well enough,
said she, it was not her way to interfere or to be inquisitive 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 confinement more
quickly, keep the sherry-decanter out of her reach."
Mary gasped and sank on a chair, letting her arms flop 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?"
stammered Mary still at sea. And as her husband only shrugged 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 displeased 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 intercourse 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
standing up for her friend she had been perfectly sincere: to think ill
of a person she cared for, cost Mary an inward struggle. Against this,
however, she had an antipathy to set that was almost stronger than
herself. Of all forms of vice, intemperance was the one she hated most.
She lived in a country where it was, alas! only too common; but she had
never learnt to tolerate it, or to look with a lenient eye on those who
succumbed: 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
peg 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 rigidly abstemious as in the
days of her girlhood. And she often mused, 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 distress 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 asperity. No, it was a case of either husband or friend. And
though she pitied Agnes from the bottom of her heart, yet there were
literally 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
discreet way. Could he not have avoided a complete break? She sat and
pondered this question till her head ached, finding herself up against
the irreconcilability of the practical with the ideal which complicates
a man's working life. What she belatedly tried to think out for her
husband was some little common-sense stratagem 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 formerly 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 noted for his
tact; it was sad to see it leaving him in the lurch. 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 fretting; 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,
collapsed, 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 retrospect 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 esteem. 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 vibration. 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
unctuous blandness, the sleek 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 wrung 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 altruistic motives had something grandiose 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 judgment, giving rein 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 justified. 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
morbidly 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 inconvenient moment to die--an elderly
man, down with the Russian influenza, who disobeyed orders, got up too
early and was carried off by double pneumonia inside a week.--Worry
over the mishap 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 fixed 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 fowls or root round gardens,
play the flute or go in for carpentry. Now, he might have dug till his
palms blistered, 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 uncertainty, and going lamp in hand into the surgery, to con
over a prescription 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,
evergreen botheration about money.