As for
him, there still came days when he had not a five-pound note to his
name. It had been a delusion to suppose that, in accepting John's offer,
he was leaving money-troubles behind him. Despite Polly's thrift, their
improved style of life cost more than he had reckoned; the patients,
slow to come, were slower still to discharge their debts. Moreover, he
had not guessed how heavily the quarterly payments of interest would
weigh on him. With as good as no margin, with the fate of every shilling
decided beforehand, the saving up of thirty odd pounds four times a year
was a veritable achievement. He was always in a quake lest he should not
be able to get it together. No one suspected what near shaves he had--
not even Polly. The last time hardly bore thinking about. At the
eleventh hour he had unexpectedly found himself several pounds short. He
did not close an eye all night, and got up in the morning as though for
his own execution. Then, fortune favoured him. A well-to-do butcher, his
hearty: "What'll yours be?" at the nearest public-house waved aside, had
settled his bill off-hand. Mahony could still feel the sudden lift of
the black fog-cloud that had enveloped him--the sense of bodily
exhaustion that had succeeded to the intolerable mental strain.
For the coming quarter-day he was better prepared--if, that was,
nothing out of the way happened. Of late he had been haunted by the fear
of illness. The long hours in the saddle did not suit him.
Pages:
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322