Boomerang

When the boys, as Goody always called them and we will follow his example, left, he returned to his hotel to think the matter over. So much had occurred in such a short time; momentous events had succeeded each other so rapidly that he felt bewildered and unable to think coherently, so he retired to rest to sleep away the cobwebs in his brain. He awoke somewhat refreshed, and decided to pay a visit to Mrs. Eastwood, and, if possible, to see his daughter. Hal's telegram announcing Wyck's escape, was put in his hands as he was leaving the hotel. "Well," he mused to himself, "I am just as well pleased that he has got away, for it would have brought about a scandal, and my name and May's must have been made public; but there can be no doubt those boys have not only saved my life, but my honour too."

At Eastella he received a cordial welcome, for Mrs. Eastwood and he had been friends for many years. Her sympathetic soul soon noticed that he was in sore trouble, and he was at once invited to her little office where they could talk undisturbed.

"Sit down, Mr. Goodchild, I want to give you a lecture. What have you been doing to my darling May? you who used to be so fond of her, that she has to run away to me; and she comes here so altered. All her light-heartedness is gone; she never goes out; receives no friends; and does nothing but mope inside the house. The only time she brightens up is when she asks for letters or telegrams. In fact she is breaking her heart, and you, though you won't own it, are doing the same."

"You are altogether mistaken, it is not—"

"No, of course it is not your fault; how could it be? No, sir, you need not try to throw dust in my eyes. I have known both of you for so many years, and I think too much of you both to see this going on without attempting to put matters straight.""It's not I she's breaking her heart over. It's Wyckliffe: he's the man who has come between us, and who alone has done all this mischief. You had a gentleman here last night. I don't know what he told you."

"He did not say much. He referred me to you. But what became of him? Like most young fellows, I suppose he went out exploring the city by night, and lost his way."

"No, there you wrong him, madam, for as soon as he heard Wyckliffe was at Port Arthur he came back to me, and then hired a steamer to take him and his friend down there. I saw them off last night, and, see, here is a wire I got this morning. It reads:

'Mr. Goodchild, Hobart.

He has left here. Destination unknown. Suspicions well grounded.—Winter.'"

"I shall feel obliged if you can give me a little explanation, for Mr. Wyckliffe was staying here for several days, and I took a great fancy to him. You connect your daughter's ill-health with him; and finally you produce a telegram saying 'suspicions well-grounded.' I must say I cannot understand it. Help me to do so," said the lady, shifting about in her chair, in the fidgetty, uncomfortable way women have when they are puzzled.

"Well, the fact of the matter is that this fellow Wyckliffe is an English adventurer, and a scoundrel of the blackest dye. He passes as a gentleman, and his intentions from what I can learn are never of a very honourable description. Mr. Winter and his friend Morris are on his tracks for an affair something similar, but as they will both be here to-night, I would rather leave them to explain. I wish now to see my daughter to try and bring her to reason."

"And God grant you may," said Mrs. Eastwood, fervently. "You will find her in the Blue Room on the first floor."

Goody left the office, and hurrying up the stairs paused before a door painted a sky-blue colour. He knocked and a melancholy voice bade him enter. Opening the door, the sight that met his eyes almost unmanned him. Seated, or rather reclining as if she had flung herself there, in an arm-chair was his daughter, clad in a loose dressing-gown, carelessly thrown on. She presented a most forlorn appearance. All her bright, healthy colour had disappeared from her cheeks and her whole appearance was that of one suffering from severe mental worry.

"Is that you, father? I thought it was Mrs. Eastwood. Why have you followed me?" she said, in a low, sad voice.

"My darling girl. I could not stay away any longer; it was killing me," said the old man, in a despairing voice, as he embraced her fondly. "May, darling, tell your old dad your troubles, and let him help you to bear them."

The old man's appeal was intensely pathetic in its simplicity, and would under ordinary conditions have touched a harder heart than his daughter's; but she remained deaf to it; her manner was icily cold; the fond embrace was not returned, and though she kissed him, it was done mechanically, and the touch of her lips chilled him and made him shiver with apprehension. Her nature seemed frozen under some strange spell, and the old man stood helpless and bewildered by her side.

"Won't you confide in your old dad, May?" he asked again.

"My dear father, it hurts me to see you crying; but I cannot, I cannot do what you ask.""You mean that you cannot trust your father, May."

"It's not that, father. You do not understand," and she restlessly turned her head away and almost moaned. "I wonder if Mrs. Eastwood is coming up?"

"If you want her, my dear, I will tell her," said the old man, now becoming visibly annoyed.

"Yes, I do, father. I do want her," and she lay back again and covered her face.

Goody left the room without another word in an agitated state and, meeting Mrs. Eastwood on the stairs, told her May wanted her, then he quitted the house and took a cab back to the "Orient" to await the arrival of the boys. He reached the hotel not in the best of humours. He was one of those simple-minded men unused to the analysis of complicated emotions, and by turns his grief had changed to anger, his anger to complaint. Fretfully he muttered to himself that it was too bad that after all these years of unchequered happiness a stranger should step in and destroy everything at one blow; that he should be made to feel he was no longer an element in his daughter's happiness. And his anger increased as his sense of injury grew stronger, until he clenched his fist and thundered to the empty room:

"May, you have turned against me; you have shown me you no longer want me. Well, then, I will shew you I no longer want—"

Here he came to a sudden pause. His voice trembled, his anger wavered, for, by a sudden wave of memory, he caught himself listening again to the voice of his dying wife as she handed over to him the care of the child whose advent they had welcomed so much in the long past. At the magic touch of the dead woman's memory his rage disappeared, his heart softened, and tears coursed down his cheeks, and he vowed not to forsake his daughter yet, and prayed for a way out of his difficulty.

As if in answer to his unspoken wish, he heard footsteps approaching and, with a glad cry of welcome, he grasped the hands of Hal and Reg. They, in their turn, noticed his altered appearance, and asked if anything had happened.

"I called on her to-day, and was given to understand I was not wanted," he said in a sad voice.

"We'll fix that all right, Mr. Goodchild," said Hal in his hearty way. And then he told him all that had happened during their trip to Port Arthur.

"Do you think he was referring to May when he spoke of a young lady joining him?" asked Goody when Hal had finished.

"I do, sir."

"And what conclusion do you draw from that?"

"Only the worst, sir, I am afraid."

"And you have no idea where he has gone now?"

"None, whatever. We called at the telegraph office and asked the shipping agent, but without result."

"I hope the scoundrel will be drowned."

"I hope not," chimed in Reg, emphatically.

"I don't think you need fear that," said Hal with light cynicism. "Fellows of his stamp have nine lives. If he were a useful man in the world then I should despair."

"What do you intend doing now?" asked Goody, anxiously.

"We intend going to Eastella and bringing your daughter to reason," said Hal, with determination."I admire your perseverance, but I am afraid you will be doomed to disappointment, for she always had a will of her own, but I never knew how strong it was until now."

"Never fear, sir. So far we have succeeded and I have no doubt our success will continue."

"And what shall I do?" asked Goody.

"Well, if you have any friends here, I suggest you should go to them for a day or two."

"You don't mean to desert me?" asked the old man, with a perplexity almost comic.

"Not by any means, sir. But we intend to live at Eastella, and for many reasons it would be better for you not to go with us. If we left you alone, I am afraid you would fret and worry, so I thought if you had an old acquaintance who would cheer you up—"

"Now I understand. I have plenty. There's old Brown, for one—he and I were schoolfellows. I know he'll be glad to see me."

"That's right. Let us know where she lives. And now get ready and rely on us to wire to you when it's time to come back and open your arms to take your daughter back to your heart again, from which you will find she has never really been estranged."

That evening all three had left the "Orient"; Hal and Reg for Eastella, and Goody for his old friend's house at Broadmeadows.