An Outback Marriage by Banjo Paterson (the mitten read aloud TXT) 📕

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 barroom 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.

XI A Walk in the Moonlight

The Court at Ballarook was over, and Gavan Blake turned his horses’ heads in a direction he had never taken before⁠—along the road to Kuryong. As he drove along, his thoughts were anything but pleasant. Behind him always stalked the grim spectre of detection and arrest; and, even should a lucky windfall help to pay his debts, he could not save the money either to buy a practice in Sydney or to maintain himself while he was building one up. He thought of the pitiful smallness of his chances at Tarrong, and then of Ellen Harriott. What should he do about her? Well, sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof. He would play for his own hand throughout. With which reflection he drove into the Kuryong yard.

When he drove up, the family had gathered round the fire in the quaint, old-fashioned, low-ceiled sitting-room; for the evenings were still chilly. The children were gravely and quietly sharpening terrific-looking knives on small stones; the old lady had some needlework; while Mary and Ellen and Poss and Binjie talked about horses, that being practically the only subject open to the two boys.

After a time Mrs. Gordon said, “Won’t you sing something?” and Mary sat down to the piano and sang to them. Such singing no one there had ever heard before. Her deep contralto voice was powerful, flexible, and obviously well-trained; besides which she had the great natural gift of putting “feeling” into her singing. The children sat spellbound. The station-hands and house-servants, who had been playing the concertina and yarning on the wood-heap at the back of the kitchen, stole down to the corner of the house to listen; in the stillness that wonderful voice floated out into the night. So it chanced that Gavan Blake, arriving, heard the singing, stole softly to the door, and looked in, listening for a while, before anyone saw him.

The picture he saw was forever photographed on his mind. He saw the quiet comfort and luxury⁠—for after Tarrong it was luxury to him⁠—of the station drawing-room; caught the scent of the flowers and the glorious tones of that beautiful voice; and, as he watched the sweet face of the singer, and listened to the words of the song, a sudden fierce determination rose in his mind. He would devote all his energies to winning Mary Grant for his wife; combative and self-confident as he was by nature, he felt no dismay at the difficulties in his way. He had been on a borderline long enough. Here was his chance to rise at a bound, and he determined to succeed if success were humanly possible.

As the song came to an end, he walked into the drawing-room and shook hands all round, Mary being particularly warm in her welcome.

“You are very late,” said the old lady. “Was there much of a Court at Ballarook?”

“Only the usual troubles. You know what those courts are. By the way, Miss Grant, I came over the famous crossing-place where we got turned out, and nearly had another swim for it. Martin Donohoe and his wife haven’t yet finished talking about how wet you looked.”

“I’m sure I haven’t finished thinking about it. I don’t suppose you had to swim with anyone on your back this time?”

“No such luck, I’m sorry to say.”

“It was very lucky, indeed⁠—that you were there,” put in Miss Harriott. “You are really quite the district hero, Mr. Blake. You will have to save somebody next, Hugh.”

“My word,” said Poss, “I’ve seen Hugh swim in to fetch a sheep, let alone a lady. You remember, Hugh, the time those old ewes got swept down and one of ’em was caught on the head of a tree, and you went in⁠—”

“Oh, never mind about that,” said Hugh. “Did Pat Donohoe lose anything out of the coach?”

“Only a side of bacon and a bottle of whisky. The whisky was for old Ned the ’possum trapper, and they say that Ned walked fourteen miles down the river in hopes that it might have come ashore. Ned reckons he has never done any tracking, but if he could track anything it would be whisky.”

“What about going out after ’possums down the garden?” said Binjie. “Now, you youngsters, where are your ’possum dogs? I think they ought to get some in the garden.”

Everyone seemed to welcome the idea. There had been a sort of stiffness