“Be re-assured, I am more accustomed to lend money than borrow it; and as to a post-obit, I have a foolish prejudice against such transactions.”
“Don’t call it foolish, L’Estrange; I honour you for it. How I wish I had known you earlier—so few men of the world are like you. Even Randal Leslie, who is so faultless in most things, and never gets into a scrape himself, called my own scruples foolish. However—”
“Stay—Randal Leslie! What! He advised you to borrow on a post-obit, and probably shared the loan with you?”
“Oh, no; not a shilling.”
“Tell me all about it, Frank. Perhaps, as I see that Levy is mixed up in the affair, your information may be useful to myself, and put me on my guard in dealing with that popular gentleman.”
Frank, who somehow or other felt himself quite at home with Harley, and who, with all his respect for Randal Leslie’s talents, had a vague notion that Lord L’Estrange was quite as clever, and, from his years and experience, likely to be a safer and more judicious counsellor, was noways loath to impart the confidence thus pressed for.
He told Harley of his debts, his first dealings with Levy, the unhappy post-obit into which he had been hurried by the distress of Madame di Negra; his father’s anger, his mother’s letter, his own feelings of mingled shame and pride, which made him fear that repentance would but seem self-interest, his desire to sell his commission, and let its sale redeem in part the post-obit; in short, he made what is called a clean breast of it. Randal Leslie was necessarily mixed up with this recital; and the subtle cross-questionings of Harley extracted far more as to that young diplomatist’s agency in all these melancholy concerns than the ingenuous narrator himself was aware of.
“So then,” said Harley, “Mr. Leslie assured you of Madame di Negra’s affection, when you yourself doubted of it?”
“Yes; she took him in, even more than she did me.”
“Simple Mr. Leslie! And the same kind friend?—who is related to you, did you say?”