A LAWYER IN THE BUSH.
Gavan Blake, attorney and solicitor, sat in his office at Tarrong,
opening his morning’s letters. The office was in a small weatherboard
cottage in the “main street” of Tarrong (at any rate it might fairly
claim to be the main street, as it was the only street that had any
houses in it). The front room, where he sat, was fitted up with a table
and a set of pigeon-holes full of dusty papers, a leather couch, a
small fire-proof safe, and a book-case containing about equal
proportions of law-books and novels. A few maps of Tarrong township and
neighbouring stations hung on the walls. The wooden partition of the
house only ran up to the rafters, and over it could plainly be heard
his housekeeper scrubbing his bedroom. Across the little passage was
his sitting-room, furnished in the style of most bachelors’ rooms, an
important item of furniture being a cupboard where whisky was always to
be found. At the back of the main cottage were servants’ quarters and
kitchen. Behind the house, on a spare allotment, were two or three
loose-boxes for racehorses, a saddle-room and a groom’s room. This was
the whole establishment. A woman came in every day to do up his rooms
from the hotel, where he had his meals. It was an inexpensive mode of
life, but one that conduced to the drinking of a good many
whiskies-and-sodas at the hotel with clients and casual callers, and to
a good deal of card-playing and late hours. The racehorses, too, like
most racehorses, ate up more money than they earned. So that Mr. Gavan
Blake, though a clever man, with a good practice, always seemed to find
himself hard up.
It was so on this particular morning. Every letter that he opened
seemed to have some reference to money. One, from the local
storekeeper, was a pretentious account embracing all sorts of
items—ammunition, stationery, saddlery and station supplies (the latter
being on account of a small station that Blake had taken over for a bad
debt, which seemed likely to turn out an equally bad asset). Station
supplies, even for bad stations, run into a lot of money, and the store
account was approaching a hundred pounds. Then there was a letter from
a horse-trainer in Sydney to whom he had sent a racehorse, and though
this animal had done such brilliant gallops that the trainer had three
times telegraphed him that a race was a certainty—once he went so far
as to say that the horse could stop to throw a somersault and still win
the race—on each occasion it had always come in among the ruck; and
every time forty or fifty pounds of Blake’s money had been lost in
betting. For Blake was a confirmed gambler, a heavy card-player and
backer of horses, and he had the contempt for other people’s skill and
opinions which seems an inevitable ingredient in the character of
brilliant men of a certain type.
He was a man of splendid presence, with strong features and clear
blue-grey eyes—the type of face that is seen on the Bench and among the
Queen’s Counsel in the English Courts. He was quick-witted, eloquent,
and logical of mind. Among the Doyles and Donohoes he was little short
of a king. Wild, uneducated, and suspicious, they believed in him
implicitly. They swore exactly the things that he told them to swear,
spoke or were silent according as he ordered, and trusted him with
secrets which they would not entrust to their own brothers. In that
district he wielded a power greater than the law.
On this particular day, after opening the trainer’s letter asking for
cheque to pay training expenses (£50), and one from a client, saying “I
got your note, and will pay you when I get the wool money,” he came
upon a letter that startled him. It was written in an old-fashioned,
lady’s hand, angular and spidery. It ran—
Kuryong Station,
Monday.
Dear Mr. Blake,
Miss Grant tells me that she owes her life to your bravery in
saving her from the coach accident. It would give me great pleasure
if you would come and stay here next Saturday, as I suppose you
will be passing down this way to the Court at Ballarook. With best
wishes,
Yours truly,
ANNETTE GORDON.
Blake put the letter down and walked about his office for a while in
thought. “Invited to the old station?” he mused. “I must go, of course,
Too good a chance to miss.”
“Might have written herself!” he muttered, as he turned the letter over
to see if by chance Miss Grant had written a line anywhere; then,
laying it on one side, he took up carelessly a square business-like
envelope, addressed to him in a scrawly, illiterate fist. The letter
that he took out of it was a strange jewel to repose in so rude a
casket. It also was from Kuryong—from Ellen Harriott, who had taken the
precaution of addressing it in a feigned hand so that the postmaster
and postmistress at Kiley’s Crossing, who handled all station letters,
would not know that she was corresponding with Blake. The letter was a
great contrast to Mrs. Gordon’s. It was a girl’s love letter, a
gushing, impulsive thing, full of vows and endearments; but the only
part of it with which we are concerned ran in this way:—
And so the heiress has arrived at last—and you saved her life! When you
swam with her, didn’t you feel that you had the weight of a hundred
thousand sovereigns on your back? For oh, Gavan dear, she is nice, but
she is very stolid! And so you saved her—what luck for you! But you
always have luck, don’t you? And don’t you think that my love is the
best bit of luck you have ever had! Everyone says you are making a
fortune—hurry up and make it, for I am so anxious to get away out of
this place, and we can have our trip round the world together.
And now I am waiting for next Saturday. Fancy having you in the house
all day long and in the evening! We must slip away somewhere for just a
little while, so that we can have each other all to ourselves. Hugh is
still worrying about some sheep that he thinks are stolen. He is always
worrying about something or other, and now that she has come I suppose
he will be worse than ever. Now goodnight, dearest...
Blake read the letter, and threw it down carelessly on the table; then,
leaning back in his chair, cut up a pipeful of tobacco. He thought over
his position with Ellen Harriott. There was a secret understanding
between them, a sort of informal affair born of moonlight rides and
country dances. He had never actually asked her to marry him, but he
had kissed her as he had kissed scores of others, and the girl had at
once taken it for granted that they were to be engaged. It had not
seemed such a bad thing for him at the time. He was fond of her in a
ballroom-and-moonlight-ride kind of way, but there it stopped. Still,
it was not a bad match for him. The girl was a lady, with friends all
over the district. He was rather near the border-line of
respectability, and to marry her would have procured him a position
that he had little chance of reaching otherwise. He had let things
drift on, and the girl, with her fanciful ideas, was, of course, only
too ready to fall in with the suggestion of secrecy; it seemed such a
precious secret to her. So now he was engaged while still up to his
neck in debt; but worse remained behind. In his business he had sums of
money for investments and for settlements of cases passing through his
hands; and from time to time he had, when hard pushed, used his
clients’ money to pay his own debts. Beginning with small sums, he had
muddled along, meaning to make all straight out of the first big case
he had; and each time he had a big case the money seemed to be all
spent before he earned it. He was not exactly bankrupt, for he was owed
a great deal of money, enough perhaps to put him straight if he could
get it in; but the mountain folk expected long credit and large
reductions, and it was pretty certain that he would never get even half
of what he was owed. Therefore, he went about his business with a sort
of sword of Damocles hanging over his head—and now the heiress had
come, and he had saved her life!
His musings were cut short by a tap at the door; a long, gawky youth,
with a budding moustache, entered and slouched over to a chair. He was
young Isaacstein, son of the Tarrong storekeeper, a would-be sportsman,
would-be gambler, would-be lady-killer, would-be everything, who only
succeeded in making himself a cheap bar-room loafer; but he was quite
satisfied that he was the right thing.
“What’s doing, Gav?” he said. “Who’s the letter from?”
“Oh, business—business” said Gavan Blake.
“What’s doing with you?”
“Doing! By Gad, I’m broke. The old man won’t give me a copper. What
about Saturday? Are you going to the Court at Ballarook?”
“Yes. I’ve got a couple of cases there. And I’ve just got a letter from
Mrs. Gordon, asking me to stay the night at Kuryong.”
“Ho! My oath! Stop at Kuryong, eh? That’s cause you saved the heiress?
Well, go in and win. You won’t know us when you marry the owner of
Kuryong. What’s she like, Gav? Pretty girl, ain’t she? Has she any
sense?”
“Much as you have,” growled Blake.
“Oh, don’t get nasty. Only I thought you were a bit shook on the
governess there—what about that darnce at the Show ball, eh? I say, you
couldn’t lend us a tenner till Saturday?”
“No, I could not—” And this was the literal truth, for Gavan Blake had
run himself right out of money, and was living on credit—not an
enviable position at any time, and one doubly insupportable to a man of
his temperament. And again his thoughts went back to the girl he had
saved, and he pondered how different things might have been—might,
perhaps, still be.