The Fortunes of Richard Mahony Read online

  At the corner of the street the friends paused for a hasty conference. Mahony was for marching off to take the best legal advice the city had to offer. But Purdy disapproved. Why put himself to so much trouble, when he had old Ocock’s recommendation to his lawyer-son in his coat pocket? What, in the name of Leary-cum-Fitz, was the sense of making an enemy for life of the old man, his next-door neighbour, and a good customer to boot?

  These counsels prevailed, and they turned their steps towards Chancery Lane, where was to be found every variety of legal practitioner from barrister to scrivener. Having matched the house-number and descried the words: “Mr. Henry Ocock, Conveyancer and Attorney, Commissioner of Affidavits,” painted black on two dusty windows, they climbed a wooden stair festooned with cobwebs, to a landing where an injunction to: “Push and Enter!” was rudely inked on a sheet of paper and affixed to a door.

  Obeying, they passed into a dingy little room, the entire furnishing of which consisted of a couple of deal tables, with a chair to each. These were occupied by a young man and a boy, neither of whom rose at their entrance. The lad was cutting notches in a stick and whistling tunefully; the clerk, a young fellow in the early twenties, who had a mop of flaming red hair and small-slit white-lashed eyes, looked at the strangers, but without lifting his head: his eyes performed the necessary motion.

  Mahony desired to know if he had the pleasure of addressing Mr. Henry Ocock. In reply the red-head gave a noiseless laugh, which he immediately quenched by clapping his hand over his mouth, and shutting one eye at his junior said: “No—nor yet the Shar o’ Persia, nor Alphybetical Foster!—What can I do for you, governor?”

  “You can have the goodness to inform Mr. Ocock that I wish to see him!” flashed back Mahony.

  “Singin’ tit-ril-i-tum-tum-dee-ay!—Now then, Mike, me child, toddle!”

  With patent reluctance the boy ceased his whittling, and dawdled across the room to an inner door through which he vanished, having first let his knuckles bump, as if by chance, against the wood of the panel. A second later he reappeared. “Boss’s engaged.” But Mahony surprised a lightning sign between the pair.

  “No, sir, I decline to state my business to anyone but Mr. Ocock himself!” he declared hotly, in response to the red-haired man’s invitation to “get it off his chest.” “If you choose to find out when he will be at liberty, I will wait so long—no longer.”

  As the office-boy had somehow failed to hit his seat on his passage to the outer door, there was nothing left for the clerk to do but himself to undertake the errand. He lounged up from his chair, and, in his case without even the semblance of a knock, squeezed through a foot wide aperture, in such a fashion that the two strangers should not catch a glimpse of what was going on inside. But his voice came to them through the thin partition. “Oh, just a couple o’ stony-broke Paddylanders.” Mahony, who had seized the opportunity to dart an angry glance at Purdy, which should say: “This is what one gets by coming to your second-rate pettifoggers!” now let his eyes rest on his friend and critically detailed the latter’s appearance. The description fitted to a nicety. Purdy did in truth look down on his luck. Unkempt, bearded to the eyes, there he stood clutching his shapeless old cabbage-tree, in mud-stained jumper and threadbare smalls—the very spit of the unsuccessful digger. Well might they be suspected of not owning the necessary to pay their way!

  “All serene, mister! The boss’ull take you on.”

  The sanctum was a trifle larger than the outer room, but almost equally bare; half-a-dozen deed-boxes were piled up in one corner. Stalking in with his chin in the air, Mahony found himself in the presence of a man of his own age, who sat absorbed in the study of a document. At their entry two beady grey eyes lifted to take a brief but thorough survey, and a hand with a pencil in it pointed to the single empty chair. Mahony declined to translate the gesture and remained standing.

  Under the best of circumstances it irked him to be kept waiting. Here, following on the clerk’s saucy familiarity, the wilful delay made his gorge rise. For a few seconds he fumed in silence; then, his patience exhausted, he burst out: “My time, sir, is as precious as your own. With your permission, I will take my business elsewhere.”

  At these words, and at the tone in which they were spoken, the lawyer’s head shot up as if he had received a blow under the chin. Again he narrowed his eyes at the couple. And this time he laid the document from him and asked suavely: “What can I do for you?”

  The change in his manner though slight was unmistakable. Mahony had a nice ear for such refinements, and responded to the shade of difference with the promptness of one who had been on the watch for it. His irritation fell; he was ready on the instant to be propitiated. Putting his hat aside he sat down, and having introduced himself, made reference to Ballarat and his acquaintance with the lawyer’s father: “Who directed me to you, sir, for advice on a vexatious affair, in which I have had the misfortune to become involved.”

  With a “Pray be seated!” Ocock rose and cleared a chair for Purdy. Resuming his seat he joined his hands, and wound them in and out. “I think you may take it from me that no case is so unpromising but what we shall be able to find a loophole.”

  Mahony thanked him—with a touch of reserve. “I trust you will still be of that opinion when you have heard the facts.” And went on: “Myself, I do not doubt it. I am not a rich man, but serious though the monetary loss would be to me, I should settle the matter out of court, were I not positive that I had right on my side.” To which Ocock returned a quick: “Oh, quite so. . . .of course.”

  Like his old father, he was a short, heavily built man; but there the likeness ended. He had a high, domed forehead, above a thin, hooked nose. His skin was of an almost Jewish pallor. Fringes of straight, jet-black hair grew down the walls of his cheeks and round his chin, meeting beneath it. The shaven upper lid was long and flat, with no central markings, and helped to form a mouth that had not much more shape or expression than a slit cut by a knife in a sheet of paper. The chin was bare to the size of a crown-piece; and, both while he spoke and while he listened to others speaking, the lawyer caressed this patch with his finger-tips; so that in the course of time it had arrived at a state of high polish—like the shell of an egg.

  The air with which he heard his new client out was of a noncommittal kind; and Mahony, having talked his first heat off, grew chilled by the wet blanket of Ocock’s silence. There was nothing in this of the frank responsiveness with which your ordinary mortal lends his ear. The brain behind the dome was, one might be sure, adding, combining, comparing, and drawing its own conclusions. Why should lawyers, he wondered, treat those who came to them like children, advancing only in so far as it suited them out of the darkness where they housed among strangely worded paragraphs and obscure formulas?—But these musings were cut short. Having fondled his chin for a further moment, Ocock looked up and put a question. And, while he could not but admire the lawyer’s acumen, this did not lessen Mahony’s discomfort. All unguided, it went straight for what he believed to be the one weak spot in his armour. It related to the drayman. Contrary to custom Mahony had, on this occasion, himself recommended the driver. And, as he admitted it, his ears rang again with the plaints of his stranded fellow-countryman, a wheedler from the South Country, off whose tongue the familiar brogue had dripped like honey. His recommendation, he explained, had been made out of charity; he had not forced the agent to engage the man; and it would surely be a gross injustice if he alone were to be held responsible.

  To his relief Ocock did not seem to attach importance to the fact, but went on to ask whether any written agreement had existed between the parties. “No writing? H’m! So. . . .so!” To read his thoughts was an impossibility; but as he proceeded with his catechism it was easy to see how his interest in the case grew. He began to treat it tenderly; warmed to it, as an artist to his work; and Mahony’s spirits rose in consequence.

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nbsp; Having selected a number of minor points that would tell in their favour, Ocock dilated upon the libellous aspersion that had been cast on Mahony’s good faith. “My experience has invariably been this, Mr. Mahony: people who suggest that kind of thing, and accuse others of it, are those who are accustomed to make use of such means themselves. In this case, there may have been no goods at all—the thing may prove to have been a put-up job from beginning to end.”

  But his hearer’s start of surprise was too marked to be overlooked. “Well, let us take the existence of the goods for granted. But might they not, being partly of a perishable nature, have gone bad or otherwise got spoiled on the road, and not have been in a fit condition for you to receive at your end?”

  This was credible; Mahony nodded his assent. He also added, gratuitously, that he had before now been obliged to reclaim on casks of mouldy mess-pork. At which Ocock ceased coddling his chin to point a straight forefinger at him, with a triumphant: “You see!”—But Purdy who, sick and tired of the discussion, had withdrawn to the window to watch the rain zig-zag in runlets down the dusty panes, and hiss and spatter on the sill; Purdy puckered his lips to a sly and soundless whistle.

  The interview at an end, Ocock mentioned, in his frigidly urbane way, that he had recently been informed there was an excellent opening for a firm of solicitors in Ballarat: could Mr. Mahony, as a resident, confirm the report? Mahony regretted his ignorance, but spoke in praise of the Golden City and its assured future.—“This would be most welcome news to your father, sir. I can picture his satisfaction on hearing it.”

  —“Golly, Dick, that’s no mopoke!” was Purdy’s comment as they emerged into the rain-swept street. “A crafty devil, if ever I see’d one.”

  “Henry Ocock seems to me to be a singularly able man,” replied Mahony drily. To his thinking, Purdy had cut a poor figure during the visit: he had said no intelligent word, but had lounged lumpishly in his chair—the very picture of the countryman come up to the metropolis—and, growing tired of this, had gone like a restless child to thrum with his fingers on the panes.

  “Oh, you bet! He’ll slither you through.”

  “What? Do you insinuate there’s any need for slithering. . . .as you call it?” cried Mahony.

  “Why, Dick, old man. . . .And as long as he gets you through, what does it matter?”

  “It matters to me, sir!”

  The rain, a tropical deluge, was over by the time they reached the hollow. The sun shone again, hot and sticky, and people were venturing forth from their shelters to wade through beds of mud, or to cross, on planks, the deep, swift rivers formed by the open drains. There were several such cloud-bursts in the course of the afternoon; and each time the refuse of the city was whirled past on the flood, to be left as an edging to the footpaths when the water went down.

  Mahony spent the rest of the day in getting together a fresh load of goods. For, whether he lost or won his suit, the store had to be re-stocked without delay.

  That evening towards eight o’clock the two men turned out of the Lowther Arcade. The night was cold, dark and wet; and they had wound comforters round their bare throats. They were on their way to the Mechanics’ Hall, to hear a lecture on Mesmerism. Mahony had looked forward to this all through the sorry job of choosing soaps and candles. The subject piqued his curiosity. It was the one drop of mental stimulant he could hope to extract from his visit. The theatre was out of the question: if none of the actors happened to be drunk, a fair proportion of the audience was sure to be.

  Part of his pleasure this evening was due to Purdy having agreed to accompany him. It was always a matter of regret to Mahony that, outside the hobnob of daily life, he and his friend had so few interests in common; that Purdy should rest content with the coarse diversions of the ordinary digger.

  Then, from the black shadows of the Arcade, a woman’s form detached itself, and a hand was laid on Purdy’s arm.

  “Shout us a drink, old pal!”

  Mahony made a quick, repellent movement of the shoulder. But Purdy, some vagrom fancy quickened in him, either by the voice, which was not unrefined, or by the stealthiness of the approach, Purdy turned to look.

  “Come, come, my boy. We’ve no time to lose.”

  Without raising her pleasant voice, the woman levelled a volley of abuse at Mahony, then muttered a word in Purdy’s ear.

  “Just half a jiff, Dick,” said Purdy. “Or go ahead.—I’ll make up on you.”

  For a quarter of an hour Mahony aired his heels in front of a public-house. Then he gave it up, and went on his way. But his pleasure was damped: the inconsiderateness with which Purdy could shake him off, always had a disconcerting effect on him. To face the matter squarely: the friendship between them did not mean as much to Purdy as to him; the sudden impulse that had made the boy relinquish a promising clerkship to emigrate in his wake—into this he had read more than it would hold.—And, as he picked his muddy steps, Mahony agreed with himself that the net result, for him, of Purdy’s coming to the colony, had been to saddle him with a new responsibility. It was his lot for ever to be helping the lad out of tight places. Sometimes it made him feel unnecessarily bearish. For Purdy had the knack, common to sunny, improvident natures, of taking everything that was done for him for granted. His want of delicacy in this respect was distressing. Yet, in spite of it all, it was hard to bear him a grudge for long together. A well-meaning young beggar if ever there was one! That very day how faithfully he had stuck at his side, assisting at dull discussions and duller purchasings, without once obtruding his own concerns.—And here Mahony remembered their talk on the ride to town. Purdy had expressed the wish to settle down and take a wife. A poor friend that would be who did not back him up in this intention.

  As he sidled into one of the front benches of a half-empty hall—the mesmerist, a corpse-like man in black, already surveyed its thinness from the platform with an air of pained surprise—Mahony decided that Purdy should have his chance. The heavy rains of the day, and the consequent probable flooding of the Ponds and the Marsh, would serve as an excuse for a change of route. He would go and have a look at Purdy’s sweetheart; would ride back to the diggings by way of Geelong.

  CHAPTER SIX

  In a whitewashed parlour of “Beamish’s Family Hotel” some few miles north of Geelong, three young women, in voluminous skirts and with their hair looped low over their ears, sat at work. Books lay open on the table before two of them; the third was making a bookmark. Two were fair, plump, rosy, and well over twenty; the third, pale-skinned and dark, was still a very young girl. She it was who stitched magenta hieroglyphics on a strip of perforated cardboard.

  “Do lemme see, Poll,” said the eldest of the trio, and laid down her pen. “You ’ave bin quick about it, my dear.”

  Polly, the brunette, freed her needle of silk and twirled the bookmark by its ribbon ends. Spinning, the mystic characters united to form the words: “Kiss me quick.”

  Her companions tittered. “If ma didn’t know for certain ’twas meant for your brother John, she’d never ’ave let you make it,” said the second blonde, whose name was Jinny.

  “Girls, what a lark it ’ud be to send it up to Purdy Smith, by Ned!” said the first speaker.

  Polly blushed. “Fy, Tilly! That wouldn’t be ladylike.”

  Tilly’s big bosom rose and fell in a sigh. “What’s a lark never is.”

  Jinny giggled, agreeably scandalised: “What things you do say, Till! Don’t let ma ’ear you, that’s all.”

  “Ma be blowed!—’Ow does this look now, Polly?” And across the wax-cloth Tilly pushed a copy-book, in which she had laboriously inscribed a prim maxim the requisite number of times.

  Polly laid down her work and knitted her brows over the page. “Well. . . .it’s better than the last one, Tilly,” she said gently, averse to hurting her pupil’s feelings. “But still not qu
ite good enough. The f’s, look, should be more like this.” And taking a steel pen she made several long-tailed f’s, in a tiny, pointed hand.

  Tilly yielded an ungrudging admiration. “’Ow well you do it, Poll! But I hate writing. If only ma weren’t so set on it!”

  “You’ll never be able to write yourself to a certain person, ’oos name I won’t mention, if you don’t ’urry up and learn,” said Jinny, looking sage.

  “What’s the odds! We’ve always got Poll to write for us,” gave back Tilly, and lazily stretched out a large, plump hand to recover the copy-book. “A certain person’ll never know—or not till it’s too late.”

  “Here, Polly dear,” said Jinny, and held out a book. “I know it now.”

  Again Polly put down her embroidery. She took the book. “Plough!” said she.

  “Plough?” echoed Jinny vaguely, and turned a pair of soft, cow-like brown eyes on the blowflies sitting sticky and sleepy round the walls of the room. “Wait a jiff. . . .lemme think! Plough? Oh, yes, I know. P-l . . .”

  “P-l-o,” prompted Polly, the speller coming to a full stop.

  “P-l-o-!” shot out Jinny, in triumph.

  “Not quite right,” said Polly. “It’s g-h, Jinny: p-l-o-u-g-h.”

  “Oh, that’s what I meant. I knew it right enough.”

  “Well, now, trough!”

  “Trough?” repeated Jinny, in the same slow, vacant way. “Trough? Wait, lemme think a minute. T-r-o. . . .”

  Polly’s lips all but formed the “u,” to prevent the “f” she felt impending. “I’m afraid you’ll have to take it again, Jinny dear,” she said reluctantly, as nothing further was forthcoming.