Henry Ocock was pressing for a second opinion; his wife had been in poor
health since the birth of her last child. Mahony drove to Plevna House
one morning between nine and ten o'clock.
A thankless task lay before him. Mrs. Henry's case had been a fruitful
source of worry to him; and he now saw nothing for it but a straight
talk with Henry himself.
He drove past what had once been the Great Swamp. From a bed of
cattle-ploughed mud interspersed with reedy water-holes; in summer a dry
and dust-swept hollow: from this, the vast natural depression had been
transformed into a graceful lake, some three hundred acres in extent. On
its surface pleasure boats lay at their moorings by jetties and
boatsheds; groups of stiff-necked swans sailed or ducked and straddled; while shady walks followed the banks, where the whiplike branches of the willows, showing shoots of tenderest green, trailed in the water or swayed like loose harp-strings to the breeze.
All the houses that had sprung up round Lake Wendouree had well-stocked
spreading grounds; but Ocock's outdid the rest. The groom opening a pair
of decorative iron gates which were the showpiece of the neighbourhood, Mahony turned in and drove past exotic firs, Moreton Bay fig-trees and araucarias; past cherished English hollies growing side by side with giant cacti. In one corner stood a rockery, where a fountain played and goldfish swam in a basin. The house itself, of brick and two-storeyed, with massive bay-windows, had an ornamental verandah on one side. The drawing-room was a medley of gilt and lustres, mirrors and glass shades; the finest objects from Dandaloo had been brought here, only to be outdone by Henry's own additions. Yes, Ocock lived in grand style nowadays, as befitted one of the most important men in the town. His old father once gone--and Mahony alone knew why the latter's existence acted as a drag--he would no doubt stand for Parliament.
Invited to walk into the breakfast-room, Mahony there found the family
seated at table. It was a charming scene. Behind the urn Mrs. Henry, in
be-ribboned cap and morning wrapper, dandled her infant; while Henry, in
oriental gown and Turkish fez, had laid his newspaper by to ride his
young son on his foot. Mahony refused tea or coffee; but could not avoid
drawing up a chair, touching the peachy cheeks of the children held
aloft for his inspection, and meeting a fire of playful sallies and
kindly inquiries. As he did so, he was sensitively aware that it fell to
him to break up the peace of this household. Only he knew the canker
that had begun to eat at its roots.
The children borne off, Mrs. Henry interrogated her husband's pleasure
with a pretty: "May I?" or "Should I?" lift of the brows; and gathering
that he wished her to retire, laid her small, plump hand in Mahony's, sent a graceful message to "dearest Mary," and swept the folds of her gown from the room. Henry followed her with a well-pleased eye--his opinion was no secret that, in figure and bearing, his wife bore a marked resemblance to her Majesty the Queen--and admonished her not to fail to partake of some light refreshment during the morning, in the shape of a glass of sherry and a biscuit. "Unless, my love, you prefer me to order cook to whip you up an egg-nog.--Mrs. Ocock is, I regret to say, entirely without appetite again," he went on, as the door closed behind his wife. "What she eats is not enough to keep a sparrow going. You must prove your skill, doctor, and oblige us by prescribing a still more powerful tonic or appetiser. The last had no effect whatever." He spoke from the hearthrug, where he had gone to warm his skirts at the wood fire, audibly fingering the while a nest of sovereigns in a waistcoat pocket.
"I feared as much," said Mahony gravely; and therewith took the plunge.
When some twenty minutes later he emerged from the house, he was
unaccompanied, and himself pulled the front door to behind him. He stood
frowning heavily as he snapped the catches of his gloves, and fell foul
of the groom over a buckle of the harness, in a fashion that left the
man open-mouthed. "Blow me, if I don't believe he's got the sack!" thought the man in driving townwards.