Ultima Thule (4 page)

"And me . . . who'd give my life's blood to help 'im!"

"Have you seen MacMullen? What does he say?"

Tilly answered with a hopeless lift of her shoulders. "'E calls it by a fine name, Mary -- they all do. And 'as given us a new food to try. But the long and short of it is, if the wasting isn't stopped, Baby will die." And, the ominous word spoken, Tilly's composure gave way: the tears came with a gush and streamed down her cheeks, dropping even into her lap, before she managed to fish a handkerchief from her petticoat pocket.

"There, there, you old fool!" she rebuked herself. "Sorry, love. It comes of seeing your dear old face again. For weeping and wailing doesn't help either, does it?"

"Poor old girl, it is hard on you . . . and when you've so wanted children."

"Yes, and'm never likely to 'ave another. Other people can get 'em by the dozen -- as 'ealthy as can be."

"Well, I shouldn't give up hope of pulling him through -- no matter what the doctors say. You know, Tilly . . . it may seem an odd thing to come from me . . . but I really haven't very much faith in them. I mean -- well, you know, they're all right if you break your leg or have something definite the matter with you, like mumps or scarlet fever -- or if you want a tumour cut out. But otherwise, well, they never seem to allow enough . . . I mean, for common-sense things. Now what I think is, as the child has held out so long, there must be a kind of toughness in him. And there's always just a chance you may still find the right thing."

But when, leaning over the cot, she saw the tiny, wizened creature that lay among its lace and ribbons: ("Hardly bigger than a rabbit, Richard . . . with the face of an old, old man -- no, more like a poor starved little monkey!") when, too, the feather-weight burden was laid on her lap, proving hardly more substantial than a child's doll: then, Mary's own heart fell.

Sitting looking down at the little wrinkled face, her mother eyes full of pity, she asked: "What does Purdy say?"

"'Im.?" Again Tilly raised her shoulders, but this time the gesture bespoke neither resignation nor despair. "Oh, Purd's sorry, of course."

"I should think so, indeed."

"Sorry! Does being sorry help?" And now her words came flying, her aitches scattering to the winds. "The plain truth is, Mary, there's not a man living who can go on 'earing a child cry, cry, cry, day and night and night and day, and keep 'is patience and 'is temper. And Purd's no different to the rest. When it gets too bad, 'e just claps on 'is 'at and flies out of the 'ouse -- to get away from it. Men are like that. Only the rosy side of things for them! And, Purd, 'e must be free. The smallest jerk of the reins and it's all up. As for a sick child . . . and even though it's 'is own -- oh, I've learnt something about men since I married 'im, Mary! Purd's no good to lean on, not an 'apporth o good. 'E's like an air-cushion -- goes in where you lean and puffs out somewhere else. And 'ow can 'e 'elp it? -- when there isn't anything but air in 'im. No, 'e's nothing in the world but fizzle and talk . . . a bag of chaff -- an 'ollow drum."

Mary heard her sadly and in silence. This, too. Oh, the gilt was off poor Tilly's gingerbread in earnest.

But, in listening, she had also cocked an attentive ear, and now she said: "Tilly, there's something about that child's cry . . . there's a tone in it -- a . . ."

"'Ungry . . .!" said Tilly fiercely. "'E's starving -- that's what it is."

"Of course, hungry, too. But I must say it sounds to me more angry. And then look how he beats the air with his little fists. He's not trying to suck them or even get them near his mouth. What I'm wondering is . . . Richard can't, of course, touch the case, now it's in MacMullen's hands. But I'm going home to tell him all about it. He used to have great luck with children in the old days. There's no saying. He might be able to suggest something. In the meantime, my dear, keep a good heart. Nothing is gained by despairing."

"Bless you, Mary! If any one can put spunk into a mortal it's you."

"Starving?" said Mahony on hearing the tale. "I shouldn't wonder if starving itself was not nearer the mark."

"But Richard, such a young child . . . do you really think. . . Though -- I must say when I heard that exasperated sort of cry . . ."

"Exactly. Who's to say where consciousness begins? . . . or ends. For all we know, the child in the womb may have its own dim sentience. Now I don't need to give you my opinion of the wet-nurse system. None the less, if the case were mine, I should urge the mother to leave no stone unturned to find the person who first had it at the breast. A woman of her class will still be nursing."

"Mary! I'll give 'er the 'alf of what I 'ave. I'll make a spectacle of myself -- go on me knees down Sturt Street if need be; but back she comes!" were Tilly's parting words as she stepped into the train.

And sure enough, not a week later a letter arrived to say that, by dint of fierce appeals to her motherhood and unlimited promises ("What it's going to cost me, Purd will never know!"), the woman had been induced to return. A further week brought a second communication to the breakfast-table, scrawled in a shaky hand and scrappily put together, but containing the glad news that the child had actually gained a few ounces in weight, and, better still, had ceased its heartrending wail. Tilly's joy and gratitude were of such a nature that Mary did not dare to deliver the message she sent Richard, as it stood. She just translated the gist of it into sober English.

And a good job, too, that she had watered it down. For Richard proved to be in one of his worst, early-morning moods; and was loud in scorn of even the little she passed on.

He ended by thoroughly vexing her. "Never did I know such a man! Things have come to such a pass that people can't even feel grateful to you, without offending you. Your one desire is to hold them at arm's length. You ought to have been born a mole."

In speaking she had hastily reinserted Tilly's letter in its envelope. A second letter was lying by her plate. This she read with wrinkled brows, an occasional surreptitious glance at Richard, and more than one smothered: "Tch!" She also hesitated for some time before deciding to hand it, past three pairs of inquisitive young eyes, over the table.

"Here! I wonder what you'll say to this? It's not my fault this time, remember."

Mahony incuriously laid aside his newspaper, took the sheet, frowned at the writing, and tilted it to the correct angle for his eyes, which were "not what they used to be."

The letter ran:

My dear Mrs. Mahony,

My dear wife has been ordered a sea-voyage for the benefit of her health, and before sailing, wishes, as ladies will, to visit the Melbourne emporiums and make some additions to her wardrobe. It is impossible for me to accompany her, though I shall hope to bid her "au revoir" before she sails, a fortnight hence. May I trespass upon your goodness, and request you to be Agnes's cicerone and escort, while in Melbourne for the above object? I need not dwell on her preference for you in this role, over every one else.

Give my due regards to your husband,

and, believe me,

very truly yours,

Henry Ocock.

"In plain English, I presume, it's to be your duty to keep her off the bottle."

"Richard! . . . ssh! How can you?" expostulated Mary, with a warning headshake; which was justified by Cuffy at once chiming in: "Do ladies have bottles too, Mamma, as well as babies?" (Cuffy had been deeply interested in the sad story of Aunt Tilly's little one and its struggle for life.) "Now, you chicks, Lallie untie Lucie's bib and all three run out and play. -- Not before the children, Richard! That boy drinks in every word. You'll have him repeating what you say in front of Agnes. For I suppose what Mr. Henry really means is that we are to invite her here?"

"The hint is as plain as the nose on your face."

"Yes, I'm afraid it is," and Mary sighed. "I wonder what we should do. I'm very fond of Agnes; but I've got the children to think of. I shouldn't like them to get an inkling . . . On the other hand, we can't afford to offend an influential person like Mr. Henry."

"I know what I can't afford -- and that's to have this house turned into a dumping-ground for all the halt and maimed of your acquaintance. The news of its size is rapidly spreading. And if people once get the idea they can use it as they used 'Ultima Thule,' God help us! There'll be nothing for it but to move . . . into a four-roomed hut."

"Oh, Richard, if you would only tell me how we really stand, instead of making such a mystery of it. For we can't go on living without a soul ever entering our doors."

"We may be glad if we manage to live at all."

"There you go! One exaggeration after the other."

"Well, well! I suppose if Ocock has set his mind on us dry-nursing his wife again, we've got to truckle to him. Only don't ask me to meet him over the head of it. I've no intention of being patronised by men of his type, now that I've come down in the world."

"Patronised? When I think how ready people were to take us up again when we first came out! But you can't expect them to go on asking and inviting for ever, and always being snubbed by a refusal."

Agnes. Sitting opposite her old friend in the wagonette that bore them from the station, watching the ugly tic that convulsed one side of her face, Mary thought sorrowfully of a day, many a year ago, when, standing at the door of her little house, she had seen approach a radiant vision in riding-habit, curls and feathers. What a lovely creature Agnes had been! . . . how full of kindliness and charm . . . and all to end in this: a poor little corpulent, shapeless, red-faced woman, close on fifty now, but with the timid uncertain bearing of a cowed child. Never should she have married Mr. Henry. With another man for a husband, everything might have turned out differently.

The first of a series of painful incidents occurred when, the cab having drawn up at the gate, the question of paying the driver's fare arose. Formerly, the two of them would have had a playful quarrel over it, each disputing the privilege with the other. Now, Agnes only said: "If you will be so good, love? . . . my purse so hard to get at," in a tone that made Mary open her eyes. It soon came out that she had been shipped to Melbourne literally without a penny in her pocket. Wherever they went, Mary had to be purse-bearer, Agnes following meekly and shamelessly at her heels. An intolerable position for any man to put his wife in! It was true she had carte blanche at the big drapery stores; but all she bought -- down to the last handkerchief -- was entered on a bill for Mr. Henry's scrutiny. Did she wish to make a present -- and she was just as generous as of old -- she had so to contrive it (and she certainly showed a lamentable want of dignity, the skill of a practised hand, in arranging matters with the shopman) that, for instance, one entry on the bill should be a handsome mantle, which she never bought. The result was a sweet little ivory-handled parasol for "darling Mary;" a box of magnificent toys and books for the children, of whom she made much.

From her own she was completely divorced, both boy and girl having been put to boarding-school at a tender age. But Agnes was fond of children; and, of a morning, while Mary was shaking up the beds or baking pastry, she would sit on the balcony watching the three at play; occasionally running her fingers through the twins' fair curls, which were so like the goldilocks of the child she had lost.

She never referred to her own family; had evidently long ceased to have any motherly feelings for them. She just lived on dully and stupidly, without pride, without shame -- so long, that was, as she was not startled or made afraid. The company of the children held no alarms for her; but early in the visit Mary found it necessary to warn Richard: "Now whatever you do, dear, don't be short and snappy before her. It throws her into a perfect twitter."

And Richard, who, for all his violence of expression, would not have harmed a fly, was thereafter gentleness itself in Mrs. Henry's presence, attending to her wants at table, listening courteously to her few diffident opinions, till the little woman's eyes filled with tears and she ceased to spill her tea or mess her front with her egg. "The doctor . . . so nice, love . . . so very, very kind!"

"She has evidently been bullied half out of her wits."

Throughout the fortnight she stayed with them, Mary was the faithfullest of guardians, putting her own concerns entirely on one side to dog her friend's footsteps. And yet, for all her vigilance, she could sometimes have sworn that Agnes's breath was tainted; while on the only two occasions on which she let her out of her sight . . . well! what then happened made her look with more lenience on Mr. Henry's precautions. Once, Lucie had a touch of croup in the night and could not be left, so that Agnes must needs go alone to her dressmaker; and once came an invitation to a luncheon-party in which Mary was not included. Each time a wagonette was provided for Mrs. Henry from door to door, and paid to wait and bring her home; while Richard even condescended to give the driver a gentle hint and a substantial tip. And yet, both times, when she returned and tried to get out of the cab . . . oh dear! there was nothing for it but to say in a loud voice, for the servants' benefit: "I'm so sorry you don't feel well, dear. Lean on me!" to get the door of the spare room shut on her and whip her into bed.

"Jus' like a real baby!" thought Cuffy, who had not forgotten the remark about the bottle. Running into the spare room in search of his mother, he had found Aunt Agnes sitting on the side of the bed, with only her chemise on and a very red face, while Mamma, looking funny, rummaged in a trunk. Going to bed in the daytime? Why? Had she been naughty? And was Mamma cross with her, too? She was with him. She said: "Go away at once!" and "Naughty boy!" before he was hardly inside. But Aunt Agnes was funny altogether. Cook and Eliza thought so, too. They laughed and whispered things he didn't ought to hear. But he did once. And that night at the supper-table curiosity got the better of him, and he asked out loud: "Where's Auntie Agnes too tight, Mamma?"

"Too tight? Now whatever do you mean by that?"