Australia Felix

ject of his journey was to ask Mr. John Turnham’s formal sanction to his marriage. Polly accompanied him a little way on his wal

hrough supper: his want of appetite, for instance, was the subject of a dozen crude insinuations; and this, though everyone present knew that he had eaten a hearty meal not two hours previously; had been kept up till he grew stony and savage, and Polly, trying hard not to mind but red to the rims of her ears, slipped out of the room. Supper over, Mrs. Bearnish announced in a loud voice that the verandah was at the

you, Polly, dir

en white with moonlight, which lay spilled out upon them like milk. Strange old hills! Standing there unchanged, unshaken, from time immemorial, they made the troth that had been plighted under their shield seem pitifully frail. And yet. . . . The vows

that Polly would not feel comfortable ti

ill like John;

ryone belonging t

found it difficult to distinguish one fair, plump, sister Beamish from the other; that they seemed to him as much alike as two firm, pink

her merriment arose from sheer lightness of heart.— She, silly goose that sh

Mr. Smith wrote so seldom to Tilly? Poor Tilly was unhapp

de of life. But it pleased him to see that Polly took

ntercourse; each moment had made the dear girl dearer to hi

isit was to a jeweller’s in Great Collins Street. Here, he pushed aside a tray of showy diamonds — a successful digger was covering the fat, red hands of his bride with them — and cho

and dray, thus enabling him to carry out an old scheme of plying for hire at the city wharf. According to the landlord of the “Hotel Vendome,” to whom Mahony was referred for fuller information, Purdy had

closeted with a more important client. This, Grindle the clerk, whom he met on the stairs, informed him, with an evident relish, and with som

followed him — he was resolved, too, to practise economy from now on. But when he sat down to a dirty cloth and fly-spotted cruet he regretted his compliance. Besides, the news Grindle was able to give him amounted to nothing; the case had not budged since last

nce there was no office-boy present, for him to dazzle with his wit, he appli

you the tip: this move, you know, to Ballarat, that he’s drivin’ at: what’ull you bet me there isn’t a woman in the case? Fact! ‘Pon my word there is. And a devilish fine woman, too!” He shut one eye and laid a finger along his n

is patience. “My connexion with Mr. Ocock is a purely business one. I have no intention o

house and back to the “Criterion,” where he di

rb of St. Kilda, three miles off. A cool breeze went; the hoofs of the horses beat a rataplan on the

al was one of these: a low, stone villa surrounded by verandahs, in the midst of tasteful grounds. The drive up to the door led through a shrubbery, artfully contrived

s evening and did not receive. Mahony insisted on the delivery of his visiting-card. And since the servant still blocked

ell, come along in then!” opened the door of a parlour. This was a large room, well furnished in horsehair a

n Turnham entered the room. He had a quiet tread, but took determined strides at the fl

. He spoke in the brusque tone of one accustomed to run through many applicants in the course of an hour. “I understand tha

iffness: “That is so. I come from Mr. William Beamish’s ‘Family Hotel,’

am bowed;

ing hauteur as he went, “that the day before yesterday I proposed mar

with a kind of ironic snort. “A

re affection for Miss Turnham, and belie

My sister is a mere child — too yo

rs. The two men faced each other on opposite sides of the table. John Turnham had the same dark eyes and hair, the same short, straight nose as his brothe

ceive letters regularly from my sister, but I cannot recall

ne. As for Miss Turnham not mentioning me in her letters, that is easily explai

your reply to my question tells me nothing. May I ask what . . . er . . . under wh

, and flung up from his seat; he sce

a few weeks, and is a young and inexperienced girl into the bargain. You tell me you are a gentleman. Sir! I had as lief you said you were a blacksmith. In this grand country of ours, where progress is t

e had sat down again, feeling rather ashamed of his violence. “Without a leaven o

e if you have learnt a trade and can pay your way. See, I will be frank with you. The position I occupy to-day I owe entirely to my own efforts. I landed in the colony ten years ago, when this marvellous city of ours was little more than a village settlement. I had but five pounds in my pocket. To-day I am a partner in my firm, and intend, if all goes well, to enter parliament. H

n obligation. He retaliated with a light touch of self-depreciation. “An Irishman, sir, i

rcumstances that had led to his leaving England, two years previously,

self threw up a tidy little country practice. . . . I might mention that medicine was my profession. It would have given me intense satisfaction, Mr. Turnham, to see one of those glib journalists in my shoes, or the shoes of s

ssed his legs, and put his thumbs in his armholes. “Let it be.

un with a misty rim. He scamped, too, his six-months’ attempt at digging — he had been no more fit for the work than a child. Worn to skin and bone, his small remaining strength sucked out by dysentery, he had in the end bartered his last pinch of gold-dust for a barrow-load of useful odds and ends; and this had formed the nucleus of his store. Here, fortune had smiled on him; his flag hard

on, then, of remaining pe

least in

must allow me to congratulate you on the good sense you displayed in striking while the iron was hot. Many a one of your medical brethren, sir, would have thought it beneath his dignity to turn shopkeeper. And now, Mr. Mahony,

and cried: “Emma, my love, will you

en. She carried a yearling infant in her arms, and with one hand pressed its pale flaxen poll against

e word was no mere flower of speech. “My love,

amused smile — it was as though she said: to marry this inf

est. And too young t

l decide for

y, pray, do not overfatigue yourself, Emma! That child is too heavy for you,” he objected, as the babe ma

s drinki

domestics if one of the others ca

e could reach it there came a thumping at the door,

forward by the hand. “My son,” he said, not without pride. Mahony would hav

cture! My love, I positively must carry out my intention of having you painted in oils,

ndeed a lovely picture: the gracious, golden-haired woman, whose figure had the amplitude, her gestures the almost sensual languor of the young nursing mother; the

few amiable words with the visitor, then obeyed with an equally good grac

sir, of seeing my wife in evening attire. She will make a furore again; no other woman can hold a candle to her in a ballroom. To-night is the first time since the birth of our second child that she will grace a public entertainment with her presence; and unfortunately her appearance will be a br

“In a climate like this their nat

s I— How long, sir, in your opinion, can a mother continue to nurse her babe without injury to herself? It is surely harmful if unduly protracted? I have observed dark lines about my wife’s eyes, and she is losing her fine complexi

hat it had passed off satisfactorily. It had made a poor enough start: at one moment he had been within an ace of picking up his hat and stalking out. But he found it difficult at the present happy crisis to bear a grudge — even if it had not been a proved idiosyncrasy of

ign Madonna; the trampling babe as the infant Christ; the upturned face of the little John adoring. No place this for the scoffer. Apart from the mere pleasure of the eye, there was ample justification for Turnham’s transpor

less creature he had seen. John Turnham’s fears would never be his — this jealous care of a transient bodily beauty. Polly was neither too rare nor too fair for her woman’s lot; and, please God, the day would com