That morning, before driving, as usual, to the counting-house, Mr Frankston sought the Royal Hotel, and, upon business of importance, obtained an interview with Mr. Hardy Baldacre ere that ‘talented but unscrupulous’ aspirant had completed his breakfast.
So decided was the assurance imparted by his visitor that, with all possible appreciation of the honour conferred, Miss Frankston felt herself compelled to decline his very flattering offer, that Mr. Baldacre knew instinctively that any further investment of the Morahmee fortress was vain, if not dangerous. He condoled with his early visitor about the state of the season, congratulating himself audibly that his runs were understocked, and that he had no bills to meet like some people; and finally accompanied Mr. Frankston to the door, with a friendly leave-taking, to be succeeded by a bitter oath as he lighted a cigar and paced the well-known balcony.
‘She has told her father. I saw the old boy was down to every move I had made. Knowing old shot, too, in spite of his politeness and humbug. I’d have hacked myself, too, at a short price, if I had had only another week’s innings. They may have heard something, or that fool Neuchamp is coming down and leaving everything to go to the devil. I had a good show, too. I thought I held trumps. Never mind, there are lots of women everywhere. One more or less don’t make much difference. Of course, it was the “tin” that fetched me, but I don’t see that I need care so much about that. I think that I shall make tracks to-morrow.‘
On the morning following that of Mr. Baldacre’s unlucky piece of information Paul Frankston lost no time in applying to headquarters for information. He, ‘with spirit proud and prompt to ire,’ would, a quarter of a century before, probably have smote first and inquired after. ‘But age had tamed the Douglas blood,’ and even if its current still coursed hotly on occasion, the experience of later manhood called loudly for plain proof and full evidence before he adopted the strange tale which had been told at his board.
Suspending all thought of what he might chance if any man were proved to have trifled with his darling’s heart, he simply wrote as follows:
Sydney, 10th April 18—.
Dear Ernest—We have heard a report down here—brought to our table, in fact, by Hardy Baldacre, a man you know a little—that you are engaged and about to be married shortly to a young lady, a cousin of your own, just arrived from England. Also that Miss Neuchamp left Sydney for Rainbar, after a week’s stay, and was seen by him on the way there in a coach.
For reasons which can be hereafter explained, I wish you to send me a specific admission or denial of this statement. I will write you again upon receipt of your reply to this letter. I am, always yours sincerely,
Paul Frankston.
E. Neuchamp, Esq.
On the following evening, after sending this, the most laconic epistle which had ever passed between them, Paul no sooner beheld his daughter’s face than he saw shining in her eyes the light of recovered trust, of renewed hope, of restored belief in happiness.
‘She must have received a letter,’ mused the sagacious parent. ‘Where is it, my darling?’ said he aloud.
‘Where is what?’ she replied, with a sweet air of embarrassment, pride, and mystery commingled.
‘Of course you have had a letter, or heard some news. I took the chance of the little bird’s whisper coming by post. I think I am right.’