The Way Home (22 page)

Not till the nuts and port were on the table did John shake off his abstraction. Then his trio of little girls ran into the room -- with the playful antics of so many tame white mice -- ran in and rubbed their sleek little comb-ringed heads against their father's, and climbed over him with their thin little white-stockinged legs. And John became solely the fond parent, gathering his children to him, taking the youngest on his knee and holding her to his watered-silk waistcoat, letting them play with the long gold chain from which depended his pince-nez, count his studs with their little fingers, disarrange the ends of his tie. At the lower end of the table Emmy, who had presided over the meal a radiant vision in white muslin and blue ribbons, flushed, drooped her head, and looked as though she were going to cry. For though the lovely girl had throughout dinner hung distractingly on her father's lips, he had never so much as glanced in her direction.

In watching her, Mahony fell into a reverie, so vividly did she remind him of her dead mother, and the one -- the only -- time he had seen John's first wife. It was here, in this very room, that the gracious Emma, the picture of all that was comely, had dandled her babes. One of the two, like herself, had vanished from mortal eyes. The other, a full-grown woman in her turn, was now ripe for her fate.

When Emmy shepherded the little girls to their nursery, he turned to John. "Upon my soul, it makes a man realise his age, to see the young ones come on as they do."

Something in this reflection seemed to flick John. His response was more in his old style. "You say so? For my part I cannot admit to feeling a day older than I did ten years back. I am not aware of any decrease of vigour. I still rise at six, take a cold shower-bath, and attend to business for a couple of hours before breakfast. I have needed neither to diet myself for a gouty constitution, nor to coddle myself in flannel. Age? Bah! At forty-six a man is in the prime of his life!"

After this one outburst, however, he relapsed into his former moody silence; and they sat smoking, with scant speech, till Mahony rose to leave. Then it turned out that John had forgotten the existence of a previous engagement on Mahony's side, and now made a lame attempt to overthrow it. ("Looks as if he didn't want to be left to his own thoughts!") This being impossible, Mahony suggested that John should accompany him, and undertook to guarantee him a hearty welcome: it would be well worth his while to hear Miss Timms-Kelly sing. At first John pooh-poohed the suggestion; musical evenings were not in his line; and though he had knocked up against old Timms-Kelly at the Club, he had never met the daughter. However, in the end he allowed himself to be persuaded; and off they went, in company.

"And that, my dear, was how it came about in the first place. I dragged him with me, like the fool I was. And, once there, the game was up. From the moment John entered the drawing-room, your friend Lizzie made what I can only describe as a dead set at him. She never took her eyes off him. She talked to him, she talked at him; she sang for him, asked his opinion of her selections; and there sat John, who doesn't know doh from re, or a major key from a minor, tapping his foot to the tune and looking as if he had been a judge of music all his life. On two occasions afterwards, I found him there. Mind you, only two. Then came that unfortunate evening at Ernani. It's no use asking me, Mary, how the muddle occurred. I can't tell you; I had nothing to do with it. All I know is, after the opera Mrs. Vance had to be escorted back to North Melbourne; and this job naturally fell to me, John not being the man to shoulder unpleasant duties if he can, with propriety, put them off on some one else. Well, we hired a wagonette and drove away -- in a violent thunder-shower -- leaving the other three outside the theatre. But it appears that somehow or other, what with the rain and the crush, the two of them lost sight of the old man. According to John's account they stood waiting for him to turn up till Miss Lizzie's teeth were chattering with cold. There seemed nothing for it but for him to call a cab and drive her home. He did so, and the next morning I'm hanged if he doesn't get a furious letter from the father, accusing them of having slipped off alone on purpose. John heads straight for Vaucluse to apologise; and when he gets there the old man hammers the table, declares his daughter has been compromised, and ends by demanding to know John's intentions. Now I ask you, what could John -- what could any man with the feelings of a gentleman -- do, but offer the only reparation in his power and at once propose for her hand? Therewith, of course the old boy cools down . . . becomes amiability itself. I don't know, my dear, whether John was really guilty of an indiscretion -- that's his affair. But if you want my candid opinion, I think the whole thing was a put-up job. Your friend Lizzie is a veritable Leyden jar."

Mary, whom the news of John's engagement had brought flying home from Ballarat, here uttered a disclaimer. "Tch! There you go, Richard . . . jumping to conclusions . . . as usual. Still, I must say . . . I'm confident, as far as John was concerned, he had no idea of marrying again. I really don't know what to think."

"Ah! but such a dear, kind, generous creature . . ."

"Why, so she is. But . . ."

"But it's another story, eh, when John the Great comes in question?"

"Don't be sarcastic! You know quite well I'm very fond of Lizzie. But poor John was so comfortably settled -- I mean with Miss Julia to look after him. It seemed as if he was going to have peace at last. And then, think of the upset again for those poor dear children."

"Indeed and I do. Though, on the other hand . . . stepmother to two families . . . I shouldn't care, love, to take on the job. But there's another thing, Mary. Your brother is decidedly queer just now -- I mean in his manner . . . and appearance. He looks a tired man. My own opinion is, he's seen the best of his health. Of course, he's lived a strenuous life -- like all the rest of us -- and isn't as young as he was. But that's not enough . . . doesn't account for everything. And makes what has happened very disturbing. If only I'd let well alone that evening . . . he'd probably never have set eyes on the woman. It is certainly a lesson to mind one's own business -- even when it's a question of doing a kindness . . . or what one thinks a kindness." --

"My déhling Mary! So we are to be sisters, love -- actually sisters! I cannot say how overjoyed I am. Never have I had such a surprise, déhling, as when my papéh informed me your brother had declared himself. I said: 'Papéh, are you sure you are not mistaken?' For never had I imagined, love, that such a clever and accomplished man as your brother would select me, from all the ladies of his acquaintance. My heart still flutters when I think of it. I walk on air. -- Yes, déhling! Though how I shall ever manage to leave my dear papéh, Ido not know."

"Dear Lizzie! I, too, am very glad. -- But what about the children? Have you thought if it will suit you to be a stepmother? Emmy is a grown girl now -- turned seventeen."

"Mary! The déhlings! The poor neglected lambs! Why, I yearn, dearest, simply yearn to show them a mother's love."

But on Emmy being presented, Lizzie's fervour suffered a visible abatement. Even to Mary's eye. And an embrace given and received, her stepmother-to-be looked the girl up and down, with a coolness which not even her extreme warmth of manner could conceal.

"My déhling! Why, Mary, love, I had no idea -- positively I had not . . . I declare it will be like having a younger sister. -- My déhling girl! And I will show you how to dress your hair, love -- two puffs, one on each side of the parting -- it will be a great improvement to your appearance. That will please papéh, won't it? His dear pet, I feel sure. Who will be able to tell me all his little ways."

Emmy wept.

"I hate the way she does her hair, Aunt Mary. I wouldn't wear mine like that -- not for anything! And I'm not going to show her how papa likes things done. -- Oh, couldn't I come and live with you and Uncle Richard? I shall never be happy here, any more. Why does papa want to get married? Auntie Julia always promised me I should keep house for him, and he would learn to like me in time. And now . . . now. . ."

It was not for a daughter to sit in judgment on her father, and Mary gently rebuked Emmy, even while she reflected that the girl had really a great deal of John's own spirit in her. Lizzie would not find her new position a bed of roses. For neither did the little ones take to her. They clung to Auntie Julia's hands and skirts -- although, to these children who were without personal beauty, their future mother was still more gracious than to Emmy. At first, that was. Afterwards, remarked Mahony who was present at the introduction: afterwards when she saw that they were not to be cozened into friendliness, she made him think of a pretended animal lover, who, on a dog failing to respond to his advances, looks as though he will presently kick it on the sly. But then Richard had flown to the other extreme, and become both prejudiced and unfair, not being able to get over the march that had been stolen on him.

But to such a bagatelle as the likes or dislikes of a parcel of children Miss Timms-Kelly paid small heed. She had other and more important fish to fry. The engagement was to be as brief as propriety admitted; and she was hard put to it to get her trousseau bought, furniture chosen, the affairs of her maidenhood set in order. Through the apartments of her new home she swept like a whirlwind . . . like a whirlwind, too, overthrowing and destroying. Painters and paperhangers were already hard at work. For much company would be seen there after the wedding, great receptions held: as the Honourable Mrs. Turnham she would move not only in musical circles, but in the wider world of politics. John's prospects were of the best: it was an open secret that, for his services in the Devine ministry, he would probably receive a knighthood. And small wonder, thought Mary, that Lizzie found the house shabby and antiquated. Nothing had been done to it since the day on which John, in his first ardour, had dressed it for his first bride.

Now, drastic changes were in progress. The old mahogany four-poster with its red rep curtains -- "Jinny's bed," as it persisted in Mary's mind -- was to be replaced by one of the new French testers, with canopy and curtains at the head only. (A rather risky innovation at John's age!) Oval plate-glass mirrors in gilt frames, with bunches of candelabra attached, were hung round the drawing-room walls: a splendid Collard and Collard ousted the old piano; bouquets of wax flowers and fruit under glass shades topped the whatnots; horsehair gave way to leather. And the nursery, which stood next John's own bedroom, was requisitioned by Lizzie as a boudoir, the children being relegated to the back of the house.

And John? -- To the four eyes that watched him, with curiosity and a motherly anxiety, John's attitude came as a surprise and a relief. He was regularly caught up in the whirl; and, for once leaving both business and politics in the lurch, danced attendance on his affianced from morning till night. Though he still had a haggard air, and certainly nowadays looked what he was, an elderly man, yet a wave of new life ran through him. In his attire he grew almost as dapper as of old. It seemed as if he was determined to carry the affair off with a high hand. He spared no expense, baulked at no alteration; and the ring that sparkled on Lizzie's plump finger was, even in this land of showy jewellery, so costly and magnificent as to draw all eyes. Nor would he have been human, had he not at heart felt proud of the fine figure cut by his bride-elect. He was proud, and showed it. More: when he returned from his wedding-trip to Sydney and the Blue Mountains, every one could see that he was very much in love.

First, though, she charged herself with Emmy and the children: to get them out of the workpeople's way, and after the wedding -- it was celebrated at All Saints, Brighton, and proved a very swell affair indeed, John's four daughters following the bride up the aisle -- to leave Miss Julia free to give the final touches to the house. Emmy cried bitterly when the day came to return to it: all Mary's reasoning and persuading had not succeeded in plucking from the girl's heart the sting this third marriage of her father's had implanted there. A great hope had been dashed in Emmy; and she went back hot with resentment against the intruder. The young ones were easier to manage. The excitement of the wedding, new frocks, new dolls, helped them over the break. For them, too, this would not be so complete. Miss Julia proposed to open a select school for the daughters of gentlemen, at which the three little girls were to be day-pupils.

Not a word had passed between Mary and Miss Julia in criticism of John's marriage. Their eyes just met for a moment in a look of complete understanding ("Oh, these men. . . these men!"). Then with a nod and a sigh they set resolutely to making the best of things -- a task, said Mahony, in which the wife had at last found her peer.

John's affairs having thus once more slipped from her grasp, Mary devoted herself to the long line of visitors who now crossed the threshold of "Ultima Thule."

Louisa Urquhart headed the list. Louisa arrived one afternoon at Spencer Street railway station, and was drawn from the train, her bonnet askew, her cheeks scarlet with excitement at having undertaken without escort the four-hour journey from Ballarat. And after Louisa, who far outstayed her welcome, came Agnes Ocock and her children and her children's nurses; came Zara and her husband, in search of expert medical advice; Jerry and his Fanny, the latter in a delicate state of health; a couple of Ned's progeny; Amelia Grindle and a sickly babe; came Mrs. Tilly: not to speak of other, less intimate acquaintances.

Mahony groaned. It was all very well for Mary to say that, if he wished to be alone, he had only to go into his study and shut the door. He could and did retire there. But, like other doors, this, too, had a handle; and since Mary could never get it into her head that to be busy among your books was to be seriously busy, the petty interruptions he suffered were endless. Take, for example, the case of Louisa Urquhart. This was by no means exhausted with the stitching of a rose in a drab bonnet. Louisa had lived so long in semi-invalid retirement that she was little better than a cretin with regard to the small, practical affairs of life. She did not know how to stamp a letter or tie up a newspaper for the post; could not buy a pair of gloves or cross a crowded street without assistance. They had to accompany her everywhere. She also lived in a perpetual nervous flutter lest some accident should happen at Yarangobilly while she was absent: the house catch fire, or one of the children take a fit. "That Willy will not do a bolt with a less dismal party than she, it would be rash indeed to assume! Of all the woebegone wet-blankets . . ." Mahony was disgruntled: it spoilt his appetite for breakfast to listen to Louisa's whining, did she learn by the morning post that one of her infants had the stomach-ache; or to look on at the heroic efforts made by Mary to disperse the gloom. (The wife's tender patience with the noodles she gathered round her invariably staggered him afresh.) Then parties must needs be given in Louisa's honour -- and the honour of those who came after; the hours for meals disarranged, put backwards or forwards to suit the home habits of the particular guest.