“By Jove! Sheila, you’re a trump!” was Mr. Blount’s very natural exclamation, as he arose and walked up and down the room, after mastering the contents of the momentous epistle. “This clears up the mystery of their silence. No wonder they didn’t write, Bruce thinking that I was willing to let judgment go by default. Mrs. Bruce and Imogen believing Heaven knows what? That I must be a shady character, at any rate, no gentleman, or I would have answered one or other of their letters—sent in the goodness of their hearts. So this is the explanation!”
The temporary relief accorded to the recipient of Sheila’s letter encouraged him to hunt through the pile of newspapers for the unassuming Bunjil, Little River, and Boggy Creek Herald, which, presently descrying, he fastened upon the headlines, “Disastrous flood.” “Great destruction of property.” “Lamentable death by drowning.”
“We regret deeply to be compelled to chronicle the melancholy and fatal accident by which Mr. John Doyle, a valued employé of the Postal Department, lost his life last week.
“The mail from the township to the Tallawatta Post-Office, by no means inconsiderable or unimportant, is carried on horseback, though we have repeatedly pointed out its inadequacy as a mode of transport. Our remonstrance has unfortunately been emphasised by the drowning of the mail-carrier, and the total loss of the letters and papers. Mr. Doyle was a fine young man, of steady habits, a good horseman and expert swimmer. It is surmised that in attempting to free the pack-horse, since discovered entangled in a sunken tree root, he was kicked by the struggling animal and stunned; the post-mortem examination before the inquest, made by Dr. Dawson, M.D., who came over from Beechworth for the purpose, disclosed a deep cut on the temple and the mark of a horseshoe. The coroner, with a jury of six, brought in a verdict of ‘Accidental death by drowning.’ At the funeral, nearly a hundred persons attended, showing the respect in which the deceased was held by the neighbours. Father O’Flynn of the Presbytery at Hovell conducted the service. This occurrence has cast quite a gloom over our township and the surrounding district.”
So much for poor Johnny Doyle, a game, active, hardworking son of the soil; sober and well conducted, the chief support of his widowed mother, with a brood of half-a-dozen young children.
There was some argument after the funeral upon the mystery of permitted evil, and the dispensation which allowed the sacrifice of poor Johnny, whose life was a benefit in his humble sphere, to all connected with him, while as to certain worthless members of the body politic, freely referred to by name, the invariable verdict upon an apparently charmed life was, “You couldn’t kill ’em with an axe.”
Though temporarily immersed in thought, Mr. Blount quickly came to the conclusion that, as his former letters had been prevented by fate from achieving their purpose, it would be the obvious course to write to the same persons at once, furnishing the same explanation. He devoted the evening to that duty solely, and after conveying to Mr. Bruce his regrets for the unavoidable delay which had occurred, and lamenting the injurious construction which might be put upon his silence, made an appeal to his sense of honour that he should be granted a hearing, and be permitted to explain personally the apparent inconsistency of his conduct.
To Mrs. Bruce he wrote with more freedom of expression, deploring the unkind fate which had denied him an opportunity of clearing away the aspersions on his character. As to his non-appearance, he had been called away by business of the greatest urgency, affecting not only his own but other people’s interests. His future prospects had been deeply involved. Nothing short of prompt action could have saved the situation. Now, he was rejoiced to be able to assure her and Miss Imogen, that a fortune of no inconsiderable amount was actually within his grasp.
He forwarded a copy of the Hobart Intelligencer, a respectable journal, in which she would find a confirmation of his statement. Also, a detailed account of the rise and progress of the property, though more rose-coloured than he would care to assert. The value of the property, a mining expert of eminence had said, could hardly be over-estimated. It was his intention, without more delay than the consolidation of the directorate and other essential arrangements required, to return to New South Wales, and present himself before them at Marondah, no matter what the outcome might be. The result he felt would colour his future existence for happiness or misery, yet he was determined to undergo the ordeal. A final decision, however disastrous, would be more endurable than the condition of doubt and uncertainty under which he had existed for the last few weeks. Accompanying these letters was a packet containing letters of introduction to the Governors of more than one colony. They were from personages of high standing, even of great political influence. Not couched in the formal phraseology which the writers of such communications hold to be sufficient for the purpose, they spoke of the bearer as a young man of great promise, who had unusual opportunities of rising in the diplomatic or other official branches of the Civil Service, but had, somewhat inconsiderately, preferred to explore new and untried roads to fortune. The writers had no doubt but that he would distinguish himself in some form or other before his novitiate was ended.
A short but impassioned appeal had been enclosed in this letter to Mrs. Bruce. Her womanly compassion would, he trusted, impel her to deliver it to Imogen, whose sympathetic feelings, if not a warmer emotion, which he hardly dared to classify, he felt instinctively to be in his favour.