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Updated: May 2, 2025
Thaw was setting in and by breakfast- time there was a down-pouring rain. Frank lingered about Cecil in hopes of a message to serve as an excuse for a rush to Sirenwood; but she proved to be going to drive to the working-room, and then to lunch at Mrs. Duncombe's, to meet the Americans and the ladies from Sirenwood, according to a note sent over in early morning at first sight of the wet.
They came face to face in the hall of the Grand Hotel. Duncombe had just returned from his call upon the Marquise. Andrew was leaning upon the arm of a dark, smooth-shaven man, and had apparently just descended from the lift. At the sound of Duncombe's little exclamation they both stopped short.
Such was the state of things in the household of Captain Duncombe at the time of Black Milsom's return from Van Diemen's Land. It was within two nights after that return, that an event occurred, never to be forgotten by any member of Joseph Duncombe's household. The evening was cold, but fine; the moon, still at its full, shone bright and clear upon the neat garden of River View Cottage.
Presently they heard some feet enter the outer shop, and Mrs. Duncombe's voice asking for Mr. Pettitt; while his mother replied that he would wait on her immediately, but that he was just now engaged with the Honourable Mr. De Lancey. "Could she show them anything?" "Oh no, thank you, we'll wait! Don't let us keep you, Mrs. Pettitt, it is only on business."
To think of her there alone almost maddens me." Duncombe rose suddenly from his seat. "Come out into the garden, Andrew," he said. "I feel stifled here." His host rose and took Duncombe's arm. They passed out through the French window on to the gravel path which circled the cedar-shaded lawn. A shower had fallen barely an hour since, and the air was full of fresh delicate fragrance.
He could do no more than look and speak before all the rest; the carriage was ordered for the sisters to go out together, and he lingered in vain for a few words in private, for Sir Harry kept him talking about Captain Duncombe's wonderful colt, till Cecil had driven off one way, and their two hostesses the other; and he could only ride home to tell his mother how he had sped.
Andrew turned his heavily spectacled eyes in Duncombe's direction, but it was obvious that he saw nothing. "You here, Andrew!" "Yes! Why not?" The tone was curt, almost discourteous. Duncombe understood at once. "Let us sit down somewhere, and talk for a few minutes," he said. "I did not expect you. You should have let me know that you were coming." Andrew laughed a little bitterly.
The matter could only be managed by arranging a series of soirees at different houses. Mrs. Duncombe's rooms were far too small; but if some person of more note 'some swell' as she said would make the beginning, there would be no difficulty in bringing others to follow suit. "You must do it, Lady Tyrrell," said Mrs. Duncombe.
Then, that mare of Duncombe's, poor fellow, seemed a personal affair to us all; and Sir Harry, and a few other knowing old hands, went working one up, till betting higher and higher seemed the only way of supporting Duncombe, besides relieving one's feelings. I know it was being no end of a fool; but you haven't felt it, mother!" "And Sir Harry took your bets?"
There, on the top of a pile of legal-looking documents, leases, title-deeds, and the like, was a long envelope, and across it in Duncombe's sprawling writing these few words: "Entrusted to me by Miss Poynton. Sept. 4th." He grasped it in his fingers and tore open the envelope. As he read the single page of closely written writing his eyes seemed almost to protrude. He gave a little gasp.
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