“Frank Hazeldean, I am pleased indeed to meet you. Why do you indulge in that melancholy doubt as to the time when I may see you again?”
“I have just got leave of absence. I am not well, and I am rather hipped, so I shall go abroad for a few weeks.”
In spite of himself, the sombre, brooding man felt interest and sympathy in the dejection that was evident in Frank’s voice and countenance. “Another dupe to affection,” thought he, as if in apology to himself,—“of course, a dupe; he is honest and artless—at present.” He pressed kindly on the arm which he had involuntarily twined within his own. “I conceive how you now grieve, my young friend,” said he; “but you will congratulate yourself hereafter on what this day seems to you an affliction.”
“My dear Lord—”
“I am much older than you, but not old enough for such formal ceremony. Pray call me L’Estrange.”
“Thank you; and I should indeed like to speak to you as a friend. There is a thought on my mind which haunts me. I dare say it is foolish enough, but I am sure you will not laugh at me. You heard what Madame di Negra said to me last night. I have been trifled with and misled, but I cannot forget so soon how dear to me that woman was. I am not going to bore you with such nonsense; but from what I can understand, her brother is likely to lose all his fortune; and, even if not, he is a sad scoundrel. I cannot bear the thought that she should be so dependent on him, that she may come to want. After all, there must be good in her,—good in her to refuse my hand if she did not love me. A mercenary woman so circumstanced would not have done that.”
“You are quite right. But do not torment yourself with such generous fears. Madame di Negra shall not come to want, shall not be dependent on her infamous brother. The first act of the Duke of Serrano, on regaining his estates, will be a suitable provision for his kinswoman. I will answer for this.”
“You take a load off my mind. I did mean to ask you to intercede with Riccabocca,—that is, the duke (it is so hard to think he can be a duke!)—I, alas! have nothing in my power to bestow upon Madame di Negra. I may, indeed, sell my commission; but then I have a debt which I long to pay off, and the sale of the commission would not suffice even for that; and perhaps my father might be still more angry if I do sell it. Well, good-by. I shall now go away happy,—that is, comparatively. One must bear things like—a man!”
“I should like, however, to see you again before you go abroad. I will call on you. Meanwhile, can you tell me the number of one Baron Levy? He lives in this street, I know.”
“Levy! Oh, have no dealings with him, I advise, I entreat you! He is the most plausible, dangerous rascal; and, for Heaven’s sake! pray be warned by me, and let nothing entangle you into—a POST-OBIT!”