The Way Home (8 page)
Authors: Henry Handel Richardson
Another thing that sent people's eyebrows up was the supper to which Mary sat them down as the clock struck ten. At this date she had not been long enough in Buddlecombe to know it for an unalterable rule that, unless the invitation was to dinner, a heavy, stodgy dinner of one solid course after another, from which, if you happened to be a peckish eater, you rose feeling as though you could never look on food again; except in this case, the refreshment offered was of the lightest and most genteel: a biscuit; a jug of barley-water for the gouty, or lemon-water for the young -- at most, a glass of inferior sherry, cellars not being tapped to any extent on such occasions. But Mary had gone at her supper in good old style, giving of her best. And Mahony was so used to leaving such matters entirely to her that it had never entered his head to inferfere. Not until the party was squeezed into the little dining-room, round a lengthened dinner-table on which jellies twinkled, cold fowls lay trussed, sandwiches were piled loaf-high -- not till then and till he saw the amazed glances flying between the ladies, did he grasp how wrong Mary had gone. A laden supper-table was an innovation: and who were these newcomers, hailing from God knew where, to attempt to improve on the customs of Buddlecombe? It was also a trap for the gouty -- and all were gouty more or less. Thirdly, such profusion constituted a cutting criticism on the meagre refreshments that were here the rule. He grew stiff with embarrassment; felt, if possible, even more uncomfortable than did poor Mary, at the refusals and head-shakings that went down one side of the table and up the other. For none broke more than the customary Abernethy, or crumpled a sandwich. Liver-wings and slices of breast, ham patties and sausage-rolls made the round, in vain. Mrs. Challoner gave the cue; and even the vicar, a hearty eater, followed her lead, the only person to indulge being the worthy gentleman who had caused half the trouble -- and him Mahony caught being kicked by his wife under the table.
He felt so sore on Mary's behalf that, by the time he had escorted the last guest through the sentry-box porch, he was fairly boiling over. Flinging downstairs to the dining-room, where he found his wife disconsolately regarding her table -- it looked almost as neat as when she first arranged it -- he flashed out: "Well, you've done it now! What in heaven's name possessed you to sit people down to a spread like this?"
Mary had begun to collect her tartlets -- dozens of them -- on one large dish, and was too preoccupied to lend him more than half an ear. To herself she said: "What shall I do with them?"
"Do? Bury 'em, my dear, in a corner of the garden -- hide 'em away out of sight! I wish you could get the memory out of people's minds as easily. Our supper-party will be the talk of Buddlecombe for many a day to come!"
"Just because I tried to make it as nice as I knew how? I think you judge every one by yourself, Richard. Because you didn't enjoy it . . ."
"Then why was nothing touched?"
"Perhaps they didn't feel hungry. I oughtn't to have had it till an hour later."
"Nothing of the sort! Though you had given it to 'em at five in the morning, they would still have walked home on empty stomachs. This kind of thing isn't done here, and the sooner you get that into your head the better!"
"Never will I descend to their starvation-diet!" cried Mary warmly.
"Another thing: what in heaven's name induced you to mix those Perkeses up with Mrs. Challoner and her set? That was faux pas of the first water."
"I do declare I never seem to do anything right! But you said nothing: you didn't know. For if it comes to that, Richard, you make mistakes, too."
"Indeed and I should like to know how?" -- Mahony was huffed in a second.
"I didn't mean to say anything about it. But it appears the vicar took it very badly, the other Sunday, that you went to hear that London preacher at the Methodist Chapel. I overheard something that was said at the last sewing-party -- about your perhaps being really a dissenter."
"Well, of all the. . . objects to my going to hear a well-known preacher, just because he belongs to another sect? Preposterous!"
"Yes, if it's anything to do with yourself, it's preposterous. But when it's me, it's mistakes, and faux pas, and all the rest of it. Sometimes I really feel quite confused. To remember I mustn't shake hands here or even bow there. That in some quarters I must only say 'Good afternoon,' and not 'How do you do?' -- and then the other way round as well. That nice Mrs. Perkes is not the thing and ought to be cold-shouldered; and when I have company I'm not to give them anything to eat. Oh, Richard, it all seems to me such fudge! How grown-up people can spend their lives being so silly, I don't know. Out there, you had to forget what a person's outside was like -- I mean his table-manners and whether he could say his aitches -- as long as he got on and was capable . . . or rich. But here it's always: 'Who is he? How far back can he trace his pedigree?' -- and nothing else seems to matter a bit. I do believe you might be friends with a swindler or a thief, as long as his family-tree was all right. And the disgrace trade seems to be! Why, looked at this way there wasn't any one in Ballarat who was fit to know. Just think of Tilly and old Mr. Ocock. Here they would be put down as the vulgarest of the vulgar. One certainly wouldn't be able even to bow to them! And then remember all they were to us, and how fond I was of Tilly, and what a splendid character she had. No, this kind of thing goes against the grain in me. I'm afraid the truth is, I like them vulgar best. And I'm too old, now, to change."
"You too old!" cried Mahony, amazed to hear this, his own dirge, on his wife's lips. "Why, Mary love," -- and from where he sat he held out his hand to her across the table, over the creams and jellies standing like flowers in their cups. "You but a couple of months over thirty, and far and away the best-looking woman in the place! Candidly, my dear, never did I set eyes on such a pack of scarecrows -- from the vicaress with her wolf's teeth, up the scale and down."
"You don't feel very happy or at home here, love -- I see that," he went on. "And I sometimes doubt, my dear, whether I did right to uproot you from your adopted country."
"I certainly liked being there better than here. Still I'm quite ready, as you know, to put up with things. Only you mustn't scold me, Richard, when I make mistakes I do my best, dear, but . . ."
"We'll lay our heads together, love, and so avoid them. And as a beginning, Mary, we'll stifle the natural feelings of friendliness and goodwill we have always had for our fellow-mortals -- no matter what their rank in life. We'll forget that we're all, as you say, the sons of Adam, and are placed on this earth-ball but for a very brief period, in which it would certainly be to our advantage to love our neighbours as ourselves. And we'll learn to be narrow, and bigoted, and snobbish, and mean with our grub . . . eh, Mary? Joking apart, my dear, you see how it is. We've either got to adapt ourselves to the petty outlook of those about us, or be regarded as a pair of boors who've brought home with them the manners and habits of the backwoods. And that means turning out again, love. For I won't stay here to be looked down on . . . when I feel every whit as good as anybody else."
"Now when you talk like that, Richard. . . You know I'm willing to put up with any mortal thing, as long as I can feel sure you're happy and contented. But when I think, dear, of the down you used to have on narrowness and snobbishness . . . And this is even worse."
"All the same, I felt I could stand no more of the rough diamonds we had to hobnob with out there."
"Still, some were diamonds, weren't they?"
"What we need, you and I, Mary, is a society that would take the best from both sides. The warm-heartedness of our colonial friends, their generosity and hospitality; while we could do without the promiscuity, the worship of money, the general loudness and want of refinement. -- You wonder if I shall be happy here? I like the place, love; it's an ideal spot. I like this solid old house, too: and so far the climate has suited me. I seem to be getting on fairly well with the people; and though the practice is still nothing extraordinary, it has possibilities."
"Yes; but. . ."
"But? Well, I undoubtedly miss the income I used to have; there's little money to be made -- compared with Ballarat, it's the merest niggling. And besides that, there was a certain breadth of view -- that we'd got used to, you and I. Here, things sometimes seem atrociously cramped and small. But we must remember good exists everywhere and in every one, wife, if we only take the trouble to look for it. And since the fates have pitched us here, here we must stay and work our vein until we've laid the gold bare. We've got each other, love, and that's the chief thing."
"Of course it is."
And now they were up and doing, he helping her to stow away her feast that it should not meet Selina's eye in the morning. And over this there was a good deal of merriment: they had to eat up some of the more perishable things themselves, which they did to a confession from Mary that she really had not meant to make quite so much, but had been lured on from one thing to another, by the thought of how nice it would look on the table. They packed away a decent amount in the larder, for appearance sake; the rest in a cupboard in the surgery.
But afterwards, Mary as she took down her hair, Mahony as he went round the house locking up, each dedicated the matter a further and private refection. She said to herself, astonished: "I do believe Richard is turning radical," and then went on to muse, a little wryly, that the "fates" to which he so jauntily referred were, after all, but another name for his own caprices. He, on the other hand, after justifying an omission to himself with: "No use worrying the poor little soul about that dam fool Robinson!" sent her a thought so warm that it resembled a caress. For at heart his whole sympathy was with Mary and Mary's ineradicable generosity. Alone, and his irritation cooled, he ranged himself staunchly on her side, against the stiff, uncharitable little world into which they were fallen.
He went downstairs to her, pulling off his gloves. "What? . . . the mail in already? I calculated it wasn't due for another week at least."
"And such a big one!"
Mary sat in an armchair, her lap full of envelopes, a closely written sheet of foreign note in her hand. Mahony picked up the several letters bearing his name, and ran his eye over the superscriptions. Their English post-bag was a lean one; but the arrival of the Australian mail more than atoned for it; and the deciphering of the crossed and recrossed pages, the discussing of news from the old home occupied the pair of them for days. Among his pile Mahony found a letter from Chinnery of the London Chartered, another from Archdeacon Long, a third from an old fellow-practitioner; while a bulky envelope promised a full business statement from the agent whom he had left in charge of his affairs. Taking off his greatcoat he sat down to read at his ease.
First, though, he had to hear from Mary the gist of those she had fleetly skimmed, prior to going back and reading them over again, word by word, with a brooding seriousness.
"Just fancy, John writes he's been forced to shut up his house and go and live at the Melbourne Club. What a state of things! That lovely house left to go to rack and ruin. It seems the last housekeeper turned out worst of all. She didn't set her cap at him, like Mrs. Perry, but he discovered that she was carrying on improperly with men. To think of a woman like that looking after poor Jinny's children! Now John has put all three to boarding-school. And Josey still the merest baby. How he expects them to thrive, I don't know -- with never a proper home, or a mother's care. Then, here's Trotty . . . or Emma as he will persist in calling her . . . accused of being idle and flighty. Trotty flighty! If ever there was a dear, good-hearted little soul . . . easy to manage and open as the day. But John still seems to have his old down on Emma's children. And that brings me to some bad news. Johnny has run away. Listen to this. And now I pass to the doings of my son and heir. After keeping the boy to his desk under my own eye for the past twelve months, and endeavouring by precept and severity to make an honest man of him -- in vain, Mary, for never a moment's gratification or satisfaction have I had from him; never a thank-you has he given me for all the money spent on him -- he was lazy, deceptive, and frequented loose company . . . Richard! At seventeen! . . . neglected his duties, took more wine than was good for him, played cards for money, and in the end went so far as to abstract his losses from my private drawer. -- Isn't it dreadful? -- When I taxed him with it, and threatened him with exposure, he as good as whistled in my face; then actually had the audacity to assert he owed me no gratitude, since I had never done anything for him; and the next morning he was missing -- his bed had not been slept in. When after the lapse of several weeks I contrived to track him, I learned, to my shame and disgrace, that he had shipped before the mast to that eldorado of thieves and scoundrels, America. Now he may shift for himself; I wash my hands of him. I have cut him out of my will and shall do the same by Emma, unless she mends her ways. You will scarcely credit it, my dear Mary, but her schoolmistress writes me that the girl -- not yet fifteen years of age, mark you! -- has had to be 'publicly rebuked' for coquetting with members of the other sex in a place of worship. -- Oh, stuff and nonsense, John! Never will I believe such a thing of Trotty. I know the child a great deal better than you. If I were only there, to find out what it all means He winds up with the usual: Thank God, Jane's children are of another disposition. I am confident I shall never be disgraced by them. No, my dear John, they haven't the spirit. But . . . well, I never did!" and Mary let her hand fall flop on the table. "Just listen to this! A postscript -- I didn't see it before. He says: Your sister Zara seems about to make a fool of the first water of herself. She is, I hear -- for I have seen nothing of her, I am thankful to say -- contemplating matrimony. -- Richard! And he doesn't even say who to. Isn't that like a man? Can it . . . could it be . . . But there! I believe I saw a letter from Zara herself."
