How to begin, how reduce to a few plain words his subtle tangle of
thought and feeling, was the problem.
He did not find his wife on her usual seat in the arbour. In searching
for her, upstairs and down, he came to a rapid decision. He would lay
chief stress on his poor state of health.
"I feel I'm killing myself. I can't go on."
"But Richard dear!" ejaculated Mary, and paused in her sewing, her
needle uplifted, a bead balanced on its tip. Richard had run her to
earth in the spare bedroom, to which at this time she often repaired. For he objected to the piece of work she had on hand--that of covering yards of black cashmere with minute jet beads--vowing that she would ruin her eyesight over it. So, having set her heart on a fashionable polonaise, she was careful to keep out of his way.
"I'm not a young man any longer, wife. When one's past forty . . ."
"Poor mother used to say forty-five was a man's prime of life."
"Not for me. And not here in this God-forsaken hole!"
"Oh dear me! I do wonder why you have such a down on Ballarat. I'm sure
there must be many worse places in the world to live in", and lowering
her needle, Mary brought the bead to its appointed spot. "Of course you
have a lot to do, I know, and being such a poor sleeper doesn't improve
matters." But she was considering her pattern sideways as she spoke, thinking more of it than of what she said. Every one had to work hard out here; compared with some she could name, Richard's job of driving round in a springy buggy seemed ease itself. "Besides I told you at the time you were wrong not to take a holiday in winter, when you had the chance. You need a thorough change every year to set you up. You came back from the last as fresh as a daisy."
"The only change that will benefit me is one for good and all," said
Mahony with extreme gloom. He had thrown up the bed-curtain and
stretched himself on the bed, where he lay with his hands clasped under
his neck.
Tutored by experience, Mary did not contradict him.
"And it's the kind I've finally made up my mind to take."
"Richard! How you do run on!" and Mary, still gently incredulous but a
thought wider awake, let her work sink to her lap. "What is the use of
talking like that?"
"Believe it or not, my dear, as you choose. You'll see--that's all."
At her further exclamations of doubt and amazement, Mahony's patience
slipped its leash. "Surely to goodness my health comes first . . . before any confounded practice?"
"Ssh! Baby's asleep.--And don't get cross, Richard. You can hardly
expect me not to be surprised when you spring a thing of this sort on
me. You've never even dropped a hint of it before."
"Because I knew very well what it would be. You dead against it, of
course!"
"Now I call that unjust. You've barely let me get a word in edgeways."
"Oh, I know by heart everything you're going to say. It's nonsense . . . folly . . . madness . . . and so on: all the phrases you women fish up from your vocabulary when you want to stave off a change--hinder any alteration of the STATUS QUO. But I'll tell you this, wife. You'll bury me here, if I don't get away soon. I'm not much more than skin and bone as it is. And I confess, if I've got to be buried I'd rather lie elsewhere--have good English earth atop of me."
Had Mary been a man, she might have retorted that this was a very
woman's way of shifting ground. She bit her lip and did not answer
immediately. Then: "You know I can't bear to hear you talk like that, even in fun. Besides, you always say much more than you mean, dear."
"Very well then, if you prefer it, wait and see! You'll be sorry some
day."
"Do you mean to tell me, Richard, you're in earnest, when you talk of
selling off your practice and going to England?"
"I can buy another there, can't I?"