Celia scanned the cablegram which Herbert handed to her:—
“Mr. Bernie Franks died suddenly to-day; sudden failure of the heart’s action. Wire instructions.—Bell and Boyd, solicitors, Capetown.”
“Dear father—dead!” she exclaimed, in an awestruck voice. But she did not show signs of grief; it was impossible that she should sorrow deeply for one whom she could barely remember. It touched her, however, to think that he had died out at the Cape, all alone. She wished she had been with him at the last.
Dr. Forrest came forward and tendered his sympathetic condolence, after which he took his leave.
Geoffrey Milnes also rose to go. His brain was on fire, his mind in a tumult, but he managed to utter a formal sentence of sympathy; in his confusion he almost blundered into congratulating Celia on acquiring her father’s fortune.
“I suppose I shall see you again?” he asked wistfully, as he pressed her hand at parting. “It is probable that I shall sail on Saturday week.”
Celia’s eyes were humid, and her lips quivered; she could not control herself sufficiently to reply.
“So you have decided to go?” said Karne, almost cheerfully. “Ah, well, there is nothing like a little knocking about the world to put grit into a man. It will make you hard as nails, Geoff—and that’s what we have to be in this world, old chap,” he added with a sigh. “Hard as nails, and equally as tough.”
CHAPTER XII
DAVID SALMON PAYS A VISIT OF CONDOLENCE
It was strange how quickly the news of the death of Bernie Franks became known the next morning. It was the one topic of conversation in Durlston that day, and the front door bell at the Towers scarcely rested. There was a short but important paragraph in the London paper about it, which may have accounted for the numerous telegrams Celia received from people with whom neither she nor her half-brother had the slightest acquaintance, but who, according to their messages, had been on the most intimate terms with her father.