The Fortunes of Richard Mahony Read online

  Meanwhile they were advancing: their nags’ hoofs, beating in unison, devoured mile after mile of the road. It was a typical colonial road; it went up hill and down dale, turned aside for no obstacles. At one time it ran down a gully that was almost a ravine, to mount straight up the opposite side among boulders that reached to the belly-bands. At others, it led through a reedy swamp, or a stony watercourse; or it became a bog; or dived through a creek. Where the ground was flat and treeless, it was a rutty, well-worn track between two seas of pale, scant grass.

  More than once, complaining of a mouth like sawdust, Purdy alighted and limped across the verandah of a house-of-accommodation; but they did not actually draw rein till, towards midday, they reached a knot of weatherboard verandahed stores, smithies and public-houses, arranged at the four corners of two cross-roads. Here they made a substantial luncheon; and the odour of fried onions carried far and wide. Mahony paid his three shillings for a bottle of ale; but Purdy washed down the steak with cup after cup of richly sugared tea.

  In the early afternoon they set off again, revived and refreshed. Purdy caught at a bunch of aromatic leaves and burst into a song; and Mahony. . . .Good God! With a cloudless sky overhead, a decent bit of horseflesh between his knees, and the prospect of a three days’ holiday from storekeeping, his name would not have been what it was if he had for long remained captious, downhearted. Insufficient sleep, and an empty stomach—nothing on earth besides! A fig for his black thoughts! The fact of his being obliged to spend a few years in the colony would, in the end, profit him, by widening his experience of the world and his fellow-men. It was possible to lead a sober, Godfearing life, no matter in what rude corner of the globe you were pitchforked.—And in this mood he was even willing to grant the landscape a certain charm. Since leaving Ballan the road had dipped up and down a succession of swelling rises, grass-grown and untimbered. From the top of these ridges the view was a far one: you looked straight across undulating waves of country and intervening forest-land, to where, on the horizon, a long, low sprawling range of hills lay blue—cobalt-blue, and painted in with a sure brush—against the porcelain-blue of the sky. What did the washed-out tints of the foliage matter, when, wherever you turned, you could count on getting these marvellous soft distances, on always finding a range of blue-veiled hills, lovely and intangible as a dream?

  There was not much traffic to the diggings on a Sunday. And having come to a level bit of ground, the riders followed a joint impulse and broke into a canter. As they began to climb again they fell naturally into one of those familiar talks, full of allusion and reminiscence, that are only possible between two of a sex who have lived through part of their green days together.

  It began by Purdy referring to the satisfactory fashion in which he had disposed of his tools, his stretcher-bed, and other effects: he was not travelling to Melbourne empty-handed.

  Mahony rallied him. “You were always a good one at striking a bargain, my boy! What about: ‘Four mivvies for an alley!’—eh, Dickybird?”

  This related to their earliest meeting, and was a standing joke between them. Mahony could recall the incident as clearly as though it had happened yesterday: how the sturdy little apple-cheeked English boy, with the comical English accent, had suddenly bobbed up at his side on the way home from school, and in that laughable sing-song of his, without modulation or emphasis, had offered to “swop” him, as above.

  Purdy laughed and paid him back in kind. “Yes, and the funk you were in for fear Spiny Tatlow ’ud see us, and peach to the rest!”

  “Yes. What young idiots boys are!”

  In thought he added: “And what snobs!” For the breach of convention—he was an upper-form boy at the time—had not been his sole reason for wishing to shake off his junior. Behind him, Mahony, when he reached home, closed the door of one of the largest houses in the most exclusive square in Dublin. Whereas Purdy lived in a small, common house in a side street. Visits there had to be paid surreptitiously.

  All the same these were frequent—and for the best of reasons. Mahony could still see Purdy’s plump, red-cheeked English mother, who was as jolly and happy as her boy, hugging the loaf to her bosom while she cut round after round of bread and butter and jam, for two cormorant throats. And the elder boy, long-limbed and lank, all wrist and ankle, had invariably been the hungrier of the two; for, on the glossy damask of the big house, often not enough food was set to satisfy the growing appetites of himself and his sisters.—“Dickybird, can’t you see us, with our backs to the wall, in that little yard of yours, trying who could take the biggest bite?—or going round the outside: ‘Crust first, and though you burst, By the bones of Davy Jones!’ till only a little island of jam was left?”

  Purdy laughed heartily at these and other incidents fished up by his friend from the well of the years; but he did not take part in the sport himself. He had not Mahony’s gift for recalling detail: to him past was past. He only became alive and eager when the talk turned, as it soon did, on his immediate prospects.

  This time, to his astonishment, Mahony had had no trouble in persuading Purdy to quit the diggings. In addition, here was the boy now declaring openly that what he needed, and must have, was a fixed and steadily paying job. With this decision Mahony was in warm agreement, and promised all the help that lay in his power.

  But Purdy was not done; he hummed and hawed and fidgeted; he took off his hat and looked inside it; he wiped his forehead and the nape of his neck.

  Mahony knew the symptoms. “Come, Dickybird. Spit it out, my boy!”

  “Yes. . . .er. . . .Well, the fact is, Dick, I begin to think it’s time I settled down.”

  Mahony gave a whistle. “Whew! A lady in the case?”

  “That’s the chat. Just oblige yours truly by takin’ a squint at this, will you?”

  He handed his friend a squarely-folded sheet of thinnest blue paper, with a large purple stamp in one corner, and a red seal on the back. Opening it Mahony discovered three crossed pages, written in a delicately pointed, minute, Italian hand.

  He read the letter to the end, deliberately, and with a growing sense of relief: composition, expression and penmanship, all met with his approval. “This is the writing of a person of some refinement, my son.”

  “Well, er. . . .yes,” said Purdy. He seemed about to add a further word, then swallowed it, and went on: “Though, somehow or other, Till’s different to herself, on paper. But she’s the best of girls, Dick. Not one o’ your ethereal, die-away, bread-and-butter misses. There’s something of Till there is, and she’s always on for a lark. I never met such girls for larks as her and ’er sister. The very last time I was there, they took and hung up. . . .me and some other fellers had been stoppin’ up a bit late the night before, and kickin’ up a bit of a shindy, and what did those girls do? They got the barman to come into my room while I was asleep, and hang a bucket o’ water to one of the beams over the bed. Then I’m blamed if they didn’t tie a string from it to my big toe! I gives a kick, down comes the bucket and half drowns me.—Gosh, how those girls did laugh!”

  “Hm!” said Mahony dubiously; while Purdy in his turn chewed the cud of a pleasant memory.—“Well, I for my part should be glad to see you married and settled, with a good wife always beside you.”

  “That’s just the rub,” said Purdy, and vigorously scratched his head. “Till’s a first-class girl as a sweetheart and all that; but when I come to think of puttin’ my head in the noose, from now till doomsday—why then, somehow, I can’t bring myself to pop the question.”

  “There’s going to be no trifling with the girl’s feelings, I hope, sir?”

  “Bosh! But I say, Dick, I wish you’d turn your peepers on ’er and tell me what you make of ’er. She’s Ai ’erself, but she’s got a mother. . . .By Job, Dick, if I thought Tilly ’ud ever get like that. . . .and they’re exactly the same build, too.”

 
It would certainly be well for him to inspect Purdy’s flame, thought Mahony. Especially since the anecdote told did not bear out the good impression left by the letter—went far, indeed, to efface it. Still, he was loath to extend his absence by spending a night at Geelong, where, as it came out, the lady lived; and he replied evasively that it must depend on the speed with which he could put through his business in Melbourne.

  Purdy was silent for a time. Then, with a side-glance at his companion, he volunteered: “I say, Dick, I know some one who’d suit you.”

  “The deuce you do!” said Mahony, and burst out laughing. “Miss Tilly’s sister, no doubt?”

  “No, no—not her. Jinn’s all right, but she’s not your sort. But they’ve got a girl living with ’em—a sort o’ poor relation, or something—and she’s a horse of quite another colour.— I say, old man, serious now, have you never thought o’ gettin’ spliced?”

  Again Mahony laughed. At his companion’s words there descended to him, once more, from some shadowy distance, some pure height, the rose-tinted vision of the wife-to-be which haunts every man’s youth. And, in ludicrous juxtaposition, he saw the women, the only women he had encountered since coming to the colony: the hard-working, careworn wives of diggers; the harridans, sluts and prostitutes who made up the balance.

  He declined to be drawn. “Is it old Moll Flannigan or one of her darlints you’d be wishing me luck to, ye spalpeen?”

  “Man, don’t I say I’ve found the wife for you?” Purdy was not jesting, and did not join in the fresh salvo of laughter with which Mahony greeted his words. “Oh, blow it, Dick, you’re too fastidious—too damned particular! Say what you like, there’s good in all of ’em—even in old Mother Flannigan ’erself—and ’specially when she’s got a drop inside ’er. Fuddle old Moll a bit, and she’d give you the very shift off her back.—Don’t I thank the Lord, that’s all, I’m not built like you! Why, the woman isn’t born I can’t get on with. All’s fish that comes to my net.—Oh, to be young, Dick, and to love the girls! To see their little waists, and their shoulders, and the dimples in their cheeks! See ’em put up their hands to their bonnets, and how their little feet peep out when the wind blows their petticoats against their legs!” and Purdy rose in his stirrups and stretched himself, in an excess of well-being.

  “You young reprobate!”

  “Bah!—you! You’ve got water in your veins.”

  “Nothing of the sort! Set me among decent women and there’s no company I enjoy more,” declared Mahony.

  “Fish-blood, fish-blood!—Dick, it’s my belief you were born old.”

  Mahony was still young enough to be nettled by doubts cast on his vitality. Purdy laughed in his sleeve. Aloud he said: “Well, look here, old man, I’ll lay you a wager. I bet you you’re not game, when you see that tulip I’ve been tellin’ you about, to take her in your arms and kiss her. A fiver on it!”

  “Done!” cried Mahony. “And I’ll have it in one note, if you please!”

  “Bravo!” cried Purdy. “Bravo, Dick!” And having gained his end, and being on a good piece of road between post-and-rail fences, he set spurs to his horse and cantered off, singing as he went:

  She wheels a wheelbarrow,

  Through streets wide and narrow,

  Crying cockles, and mussels,

  Alive, alive-oh!

  But the sun was growing large in the western sky; on the ground to the left, their failing shadows slanted out lengthwise; those cast by the horses’ bodies were mounted on high spindle-legs. The two men ceased their trifling, and nudged by the fall of day began to ride at a more business-like pace, pushing forward through the deep basin of Bacchus’s marsh, and on for miles over wide, treeless plains, to where the road was joined by the main highway from the north, coming down from Mount Alexander and the Bendigo. Another hour, and from a gentle eminence the buildings of Melbourne were visible, the mastheads of the many vessels riding at anchor in Hobson’s Bay. Here, too, the briny scent of the sea, carrying up over grassy flats, met their nostrils, and set Mahony hungrily sniffing. The brief twilight came and went, and it was already night when they urged their weary beasts over the Moonee ponds, a winding chain of brackish water-holes. The horses shambled along the broad, hilly tracks of North Melbourne; warily picked their steps through the city itself. Dingy oil-lamps, set here and there at the corners of roads so broad that you could hardly see across them, shed but a meagre light, and the further the riders advanced, the more difficult became their passage: the streets, in process of laying, were heaped with stones and intersected by trenches. Finally, dismounting, they thrust their arms through their bridles, and laboriously covered the last half-mile of the journey on foot. Having lodged the horses at a livery-stable, they repaired to a hotel in Little Collins Street. Here Purdy knew the proprietor, and they were fortunate enough to secure a small room for the use of themselves alone.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Melbourne is built on two hills and the valley that lies between. It was over a year since Mahony or Purdy had been last in the capital, and next morning, on stepping out of the “Adam and Eve,” they walked up the eastern slope to look about them. From the summit of the hill their view stretched to the waters of the Bay, and its forest of masts. The nearer foreground was made up of mud flats, through which a sluggish, coffee-coloured river wound its way to the sea. On the horizon to the north, the Dandenong Ranges rose storm-blue and distinct, and seemed momently to be drawing nearer; for a cold wind was blowing, which promised rain. The friends caught their glimpses of the landscape between dense clouds of white dust, which blotted everything out for minutes at a time, and filled eyes, nose, ears with a gritty powder.

  Tiring of this they turned and descended Great Collins Street—a spacious thoroughfare that dipped into the hollow and rose again, and was so long that on its western height pedestrians looked no bigger than ants. In the heart of the city men were everywhere at work, laying gas and drain-pipes, macadamising, paving, kerbing: no longer would the old wives’ tale be credited of the infant drowned in the deeps of Swanston Street, or of the bullock which sank, inch by inch, before its owner’s eyes in the Elizabeth Street bog. Massive erections of freestone were going up alongside here a primitive, canvas-fronted dwelling, there one formed wholly of galvanised iron. Fashionable shops, two storeys high, stood next tiny, dilapidated weatherboards. In the roadway, handsome chaises, landaus, four-in-hands made room for bullock-teams, eight and ten strong; for tumbrils carrying water or refuse—or worse; for droves of cattle, mobs of wild colts bound for auction, flocks of sheep on their way to be boiled down for tallow. Stock-riders and bull-punchers rubbed shoulders with elegants in skirted coats and shepherd’s plaid trousers, who adroitly skipped heaps of stones and mortar, or crept along the narrow edging of kerb.

  The visitors from up-country paused to listen to a brass band that played outside a horse-auction mart; to watch the shooting in a rifle-gallery. The many decently attired females they met also called for notice. Not a year ago, and no reputable woman walked abroad oftener than she could help: now, even at this hour, the streets were starred with them. Purdy, open-mouthed, his eyes a-dance, turned his head this way and that, pointed and exclaimed. But then he had slept like a log, and felt in his own words “as fit as a fiddle.” Whereas Mahony had sat his horse the whole night through, had never ceased to balance himself in an imaginary saddle. And when at daybreak he had fallen into a deeper sleep, he was either reviewing outrageous females on Purdy’s behalf, or accepting wagers to kiss them.

  Hence, diverting as were the sights of the city, he did not come to them with the naïve receptivity of Purdy. It was, besides, hard to detach his thoughts from the disagreeable affair that had brought him to Melbourne. And as soon as banks and offices began to take down their shutters, he hurried off to his interview with the carrying-agent.

  The latter’s place of business was behind Great Collin
s Street; in a lane reached by a turnpike. Found with some trouble, it proved to be a rude shanty wedged in between a Chinese laundry and a Chinese eating-house. The entrance was through a yard in which stood a collection of rabbit-hutches, while further back gaped a dirty closet. At the sound of their steps the man they sought emerged, and Mahony could not repress an exclamation of surprise. When, a little over a twelvemonth ago, he had first had dealings with him, this Bolliver had been an alert and respectable man of business. Now he was evidently on the downgrade; and the cause of the deterioration was advertised in his bloodshot eyeballs and veinous cheeks. Early as was the hour, he had already been indulging: his breath puffed sour. Mahony prepared to state the object of his visit in no uncertain terms. But his preliminaries were cut short by a volley of abuse. The man accused him point-blank of having been privy to the rascally drayman’s fraud and of having hoped, by lying low, to evade his liability. Mahony lost his temper, and vowed that he would have Bolliver up for defamation of character. To which the latter retorted that the first innings in a court of law would be his: he had already put the matter in the hands of his attorney. This was the last straw. Purdy had to intervene and get Mahony away. They left the agent shaking his fist after them and cursing the bloody day on which he’d ever been fool enough to do a deal with a bloody gentleman.